“Fuck unladylike. You’re getting on.”
Not wanting to argue any more with him today—and more than that, not wanting to walk the rest of the way to the manor—I grudgingly accept. As I approach the horse, I try not to focus on the slim cut of my trousers or the way Thorne’s eyes briefly dip to my hips. Despite my best efforts, my cheeks blaze by the time I take his palm. He hauls me up, first by the hand, then with a firm grip around my waist, and settles me before him. I stifle a gasp. The front of him is pressed against me, chest to shoulders, stomach to back, pelvis to backside. And without my skirt, there is very little fabric between us.
Thorne takes the reins in one hand and steadies my hip with the other. His palm splays evenly over my side, making me think I’m the only one of us aware of our proximity.
For several minutes, we ride without talking, our pace slow.
Thorne breaks the silence first, and I’m startled at how close his voice is to my ear, how I can feel the rumble of his words deep in his chest as it reverberates against my back. “What about your curse?” he asks, tone neutral if not a little careful. “The one…with me? Your parents will never trust you so long as they believe I can control you.”
I frown. “You don’t think it will break alongside the sleeping spell?”
“No. The nextborn curses were delivered separately from the sleeping spell.”
Anxiety cuts through me. Regaining my parents’ trust hinged upon my assumption that my bound-by-iron curse would break too. I angle my head to meet his eyes over my shoulder. “Then…then after we fulfill our bargain, we’ll make a new one. You’ll promise never to command me again.”
He meets my eyes but says nothing.
Panic laces through me. “Thorne, tell me you agree.”
“All right,” he says, and even though his human blood allows him to lie, I believe him. At least I want to. “We will.”
My alarm abates. I’m about to face forward again when his hand leaves my hip to land softly on my jaw. Gently, he angles my face even more, bringing us eye to eye. My pulse thrums.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry for what I did to you, Briony. I’m sorry for taking away the one thing you cared about the most. I promise to do whatever I can to get your family back for you.”
I swallow hard. Making a promise to a fae is dangerous business, even for someone like Thorne who can lie. Fae promises often take the form of binding vows, as unbreakable as a formal bargain. “Thank you,” I say once I manage to find my words.
He lifts his hand from my cheek to my forehead, where a wayward lock of hair has crisscrossed my face. With slow, intentional movements, he sweeps it off my face and tucks it behind my ear.
As soon as his hand slides back down to hold my waist, I shift my gaze forward again and lean against him. My heart hammers a rapid beat, but its stuttering rhythm makes me think mine isn’t the only one I feel thrashing against the cage of its ribs.
32
BRIONY
That night, I stand before my open wardrobe in my borrowed bedroom, confronted by silk, lace, and the richest of wools, yet my eyes glaze over, seeing nothing. I’m supposed to be selecting my outfit for tomorrow’s game. A letter arrived with my dinner—which I took alone in my suite—stating:Game Five. Gallery after breakfast.
The last thing I want to do is play another one of Monty’s games. It doesn’t matter that he deemed me the winner of today’s, sealed with a kiss on the back of my hand after we reunited with the rest of our party at the stables. I don’t feel like I’ve won at all. It feels more patronizing than anything. And that’s without considering everything that happened with Thorne. His annoyingly valiant rescue. His wings encircling me in a protective cocoon. Our argument. Our too-close ride on the shared saddle. His apology.
Stars, that apology.
I wasn’t expecting that.
It rings through my head, even hours after sundown, mingling with the other things he said before that, about how we should end or alter our bargain.
Let’s call it off.
Even though I explained myself and we came to a tense understanding of one another, those words have continued to plague me all evening, rising to my mind despite every distraction I try to find. Not even my phonograph, which blares my favorite song for the fifth time tonight, manages to drown out his voice in my head.
You don’t have to do anything to earn their love. You are enough exactly as you are.
With a frustrated groan, I slam closed my wardrobe doors only to fling them open again. Right. I need to select tomorrow’s outfit. I assess my clothing once more, forcing myself to trulylookthis time. It’s all I can do to rebel against Thorne’s wishes. I’m not entirely sure why I want to rebel, only that I do. Perhaps I want to prove him wrong. Prove that I’m as convicted as I said I was. Prove that I truly believe my family is worth saving with this sacrifice.
My confidence flares, and I rifle through the wardrobe, eyeing each article of clothing. While Monty’s letter suggested our next game is simply a rendezvous in the manor’s gallery, I know better than to expect anything to be simple with him. If his previous tendencies are anything to go by, then I must assumeI’llbe on display, competing with the art lining the walls. And since I’m still quite sore about losing thedress pretty for megame, I’m determined to impress him with my state of attire.
My gaze slides down to the far end of the wardrobe, where a pink gown takes up nearly a third of the space all on its own. It’s the ballgown Agatha had magicked into my bag when I left the convent. While no one at Nocturnus Palace knew how to enchant it back into such a small carrying case, I had Boris pack it for me in a separate garment bag when we left anyway. Even after my shopping trip with Thorne, the ballgown remains my most extravagant piece of clothing.
I remove the gown and hang it over the front of the wardrobe so I can study it fully. Stepping back, I assess the lovely pink fabric threaded with gold, the ruffled bodice, the bustled skirt decorated with silk roses. It’s far too ostentatious to wear so early in the morning, but it is daring. Spontaneous. Monty likes that. And it’s very different from the dress he saidwasn’t for him. Pale pink to the other gown’s deep indigo blue. Wide and flowing instead of curve hugging.
