She lifts her face from her hands, and her lips stretch into one of the brightest smiles I’ve seen her wear. “Impossible.”
My pulse quickens as the warmth of that grin washes over me. Stones, she’s cute when she’s drunk. And I can’t even deny it this time.
I hold her gaze and let myself look at her as Briony Rose, the girl from my dreams, one last time. After this, we’ll change and it will be impossible to go back. After this, we’ll enter the dining room and she’ll be Princess Rosaline Briar, the girl I was bred to hurt. And I’ll shed the quiet safety that comes with being Thorne Blackwood, son of Edwyn Blackwood, inheritor of Blackwood Estate and Bakery, and one of the most respected gentlemen in Faerwyvae.
And I’ll don my secret name, the identity I was born with.
Vintarys Lemuria, son of Morgana, last member of the banshee clan, and enemy of the Briars.
With a slow exhale, I harden my heart and remember who I am. What I was named for. The task I was born to do.
“Come,” I say to Briony with stoic calm, my face devoid of emotion. “Let us return to your family. It’s time for your cake.”
15
BRIONY
Every step that draws me closer to the dining room brings a painful new level of sobriety. Almost as painful is my awareness of Thorne. He walks behind me, pushing my cake on a rolling cart. I offered to fetch a servant to do such a trivial task, but he insisted on delivering my cake himself and seeing that I return safely to the dining room. I’m glad he’s chosen to trail behind and not walk beside me, for if he could see my face, he’d catch the color rising in my cheeks. I said some idiotic things to him just now, things I wish I could take back.
Thank you for being my dance partner.
I wonder if you’ll still be the handsomest man I’ve met.
I slap a hand to my forehead, wishing I could beat the memory right out of my mind. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I mutter before I recall that Thorne has a front-row seat to my every move right now. With a grimace, I cast a look over my shoulder, expecting to find the man smirking at me. Instead, his eyes are unfocused, expression hard. His forearms are taut, visible beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves as he pushes the cart with a strange intensity. A stack of porcelain dessert plates softly rattles next to the cake and the sharp knife that rests at its base.
I return my gaze forward, confused over his shift in mood. He was almost kind in the kitchen. While I’d rather not remember how he caught me from my embarrassing fall, I’m grateful for the sobering tonic he made me. That, of course, brings to mind the way I cried and the idiotic things I said to him.
I shake my head and force the memories away. Unless Thorne brings it up or has the nerve to tease me about it, I’ll pretend it didn’t happen.
We come to the end of the hall where it intersects with another, and I glance down both directions. When I first left the dining room, I simply wanted to walk, to breathe, to give myself a moment alone, away from my family and their hopes and the sickening pressure of my too-soon marriage. The bottle of Moondrop helped distract me, but it also kept me from paying attention to where I was going. I remember turning a corner and then finding the kitchen at the end of that corridor, but which way did I turn?
The sound of the cart approaches and Thorne stops at my side. “Are you not ready to go back?” Though the question suggests some level of concern, his tone is cold and reserved.
“No,” I say, echoing his formality, “I simply don’t remember which direction the dining room is.
He points to the left. “Go on ahead. I’ll enter in a few minutes.”
I frown in confusion, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, his gaze is fixated in the direction he indicated, his jaw set, his shoulders thrown back with quiet confidence.
“You could…come with me,” I say.
“It would be improper for us to be seen entering the dining hall together.”
I suppose he’s right. A pinch of disappointment strikes my chest. For someone so annoying, I’m alarmed at how I continue to seek comfort in his presence.
It’s the dreams, I remind myself.The real him is no friend to me.
Without another word, I turn down the hall. Sounds of music, conversation, and laughter meet my ears, telling me I am indeed going the right way. I catch sight of the correct pair of double doors, one still left ajar from when I fled, and am halfway to them when I hear Thorne utter my name.
“Miss Rose.”
I halt and face him. He remains at the intersection where I left him, his expression as impassive as ever. I tilt my head in question.
Holding my gaze, he utters an emotionless, “You’re welcome.”
Heat flushes my cheeks, but I don’t know what he’s referring to. I don’t get the sense that he’s taunting me.
Then my own words echo through my mind.
