“Just open it.” Thorne’s posture has turned stiff, his tone clipped. Whether he’s angry or embarrassed, I can’t tell. “Do you want me to leave?”
I should say yes. I know I should. But I’d be lying if I did.
Perhaps it’s just that I don’t want to be alone right now. Whatever the case, I don’t want him to exit that door.
Feigning indifference, I retrieve the box from the ground and say, “You can at least stay while I open it. That way I can ensure it isn’t a bomb—” My teasing words stick in my throat as I remove the box’s lid and glimpse its contents.
I’m frozen in place as I stare down at the pink silk tucked inside tissue. I brush aside the delicate paper and find a pair of dancing slippers, adorned with long silk laces, each shoe decorated with a single rosette. “What…what is this?”
“A gift.”
“But why? When…when did you get these?” My heart hammers when Thorne’s gaze meets mine, the frantic rhythm heavy and unfamiliar. I take in the way he stands so stiffly, still half turned away from me, head angled over his shoulder as he watches me sidelong.
His throat bobs before he answers. “I bought them when we went shopping at Bartleby’s. They were supposed to be your wedding gift.”
My stomach sinks, and I feel my expression fall with it. “A wedding gift,” I say, tone flat.
“I thought they would cheer you up from whatever upset you’ve been dealing with tonight.” He looks away from me and runs a hand through his hair. My eyes follow the wayward strands that fall around his face, baring the rounded curve of his ears, his nape, before settling above his bare, ink-covered shoulders. He brings the hand over his jaw, rubbing it absently. “Clearly it didn’t work. I…I should go.”
Again, my feet move instinctively after him as he takes a step toward my door. “I like them,” I blurt out. “I really, really like them.”
He halts and glances over his shoulder at me. His lips pull into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
I know my own is unconvincing as I try to mirror his grin. “It’s just…you brought up my wedding.” My lungs tighten all over again, and I force the rest of the words from my mouth. “That’s the very subject that has me feeling out of sorts.”
He turns fully around, then slowly closes the distance between us. “Come on,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. He gently tugs the gift from my hands and sets it on the ground. Then he grasps my palm and pulls me into the main room of my suite. It’s so dark, I can hardly see a thing as we cross the floor. Only when he brushes aside a curtain does the moonlight illuminate our surroundings. He’s brought us to a door leading to a balcony I’ve never explored.
“Where are you taking me?”
He turns the handle and pulls me onto the balcony. His lips curl, his smile more genuine now. “We’re going to see the stars.”
37
BRIONY
With his hand still clasped around mine, he faces me and extends the other in an inviting gesture. I arch a brow, glancing between the open hand, the balcony we stand upon, and the sky above us. As he suddenly shifts into his unseelie form, I start to understand what he meant bytaking me to see the stars. My eyes widen, taking in the expanse of wings that have sprouted from his back, the horns that now curl from his head. “You want me to fly with you?”
“Yes,” he says.
“To see the stars.”
“Yes.”
My gaze drifts to the muscled planes of his bare chest, and my stomach tumbles. “Why?”
“I figured you could use a new dreamscape.”
I pull my hand from his and fold my arms. “I can see the stars just fine from here.”
“Yes, but not like you can see them from up there.” Mischief plays around his mouth, but not the taunting kind. There’s a softness to it that almost makes me want to accept his offer. But to do that, I’ll have to step into his arms, let him hold me, let him fly me who knows how damn high. Some strange thrill flips inside me, but it’s muted by trepidation.
He speaks again. “It will be worth it. Trust me.”
I scoff, an automatic response. “Trust you?”
His countenance falters, the softness I glimpsed a second ago now edged with uncertainty. He steps back and leans his backside against the balcony’s balustrade, hands perched upon the railing. His wings fold in and settle against his back, but he doesn’t shift back to his seelie form entirely. “You’re right,” he says with a sigh. “That was poorly worded. You have no reason to trust me.”
Guilt sinks my heart. I argued with him more out of habit than sincerity. I’m more flustered than anything, and this time he doesn’t seem aware of it. This doesn’t feel like one of our games or our taunting flirtations. This is something else.
