Slaide noticed Prince Tristan ignoring most of the conversations around him, and he couldn’t fault him for it. He was maturing into a handsome young man, and that was not lost on the ladies who practically crawled over him, vying for hisattention.He may be a prince,Slaide thought,but he is still a boy.
“Slaide, what happened to your ward? I thought she was supposed to be attending at your side?” the King’s Hand, Cyrus Goodwin, questioned.
“Yes,indeed, boy. Where is that pet of yours?” Magnus added, smiling into his drink. He knew damn well.
Slaide shifted uncomfortably. “She couldn’t make it this evening. She suffered a head injury during last night’s ambush.”Keep it short and sweet. No need for details, no need for emotions.
“Ah, what a shame,” Cyrus said.
“Yes, quite unfortunate, that,” Magnus grumbled, sloshing his wine, “seeing as she’s your responsibility, and you were nowhere to be found.”
“She was a rare looking woman, that one.” This time it was Lord Marsh who spoke. He was sporting an orange fox mask, where the King and his Hand wore none. Only the lords, ladies, and attendees without greater status would be wearing them this evening.
Slaide wasn’t expected to, but being able to hide his face was a perk he wasn’t going to let pass him by. Most people knew who he was by stature alone anyway, so it was merely just for fun.If you could call it that. He swirled his glass of whiskey, disinterested in the frivolous conversations around him. He tipped it back, draining every last burning drop of amber liquid.
As he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jacket, Slaide noticed the men around him had gone silent. Their eyes cast upward, toward the top of the staircase behind him.
“Who is that?” The man Slaide had marked as Lord Ambrose was practically drooling.
Slaide turned to see what the fuss was about and found himself staring into a daring pair of brown eyes flecked with gemstone hues of emerald and citrine.
Hazel eyes.
She wore a simple yet elegant black mask. Her hooded eyes were kohl-lined and dusted with a smoky-grey powder. His eyes made their way to her lips, plump and painted a deep, glossy red.
As his gaze trailed further down, he found her unruly chestnut hair had been tamed into loose, cascading waves, pinned to one side by an emerald brooch with silver embellishments. There, on a delicate silver chain, rested that pendant she was so obsessed with.
Her black dress was stunning, if not daring. She bore no sleeves nor straps, instead leaving her shoulders and decolletage bare, her curves accentuated by a sweetheart neckline that was split down the middle, creating a deep V down past her ribs, ending just above her stomach. A full skirt embroidered with leaves of silver gave the illusion she was gliding across the floor.
She was escorted by a man Slaide immediately recognized as Pimley, despite his mask and attire. Just behind them, he spotted Phaedra, trailing in the shadows. The two of them must have helped her get ready. And good gods, they’d nailed it.
Hazel released Pimley’s arm at the top of the staircase and curtsied politely in thanks.
She turned, facing the gathering crowd, and began her descent alone. She was making a statement, Slaide realized. She came here because she chose to, alone. And she would descend these stairs, alone. Point taken.
All eyes were on her as she reached the main floor where she turned to face the King and curtsied once more. Slaide’s feelings for her betrayed him, and he swallowed dryly.
“I don’t know whothatis,” Tristan said, pushing away the two women hanging onto his arms, “But Imustdance with her.”
Slaide stiffened.This is not happening. Not him.
Magnus clapped Slaide on the shoulder, laughing heartily as they both watched his son walk up to the woman Slaide had let slip through his grasp. “That boy has tenacity,” Magnus noted.
“He hasballs,you mean. And he’s acting as though he just discovered them.” Slaide shrugged off Magnus’s meaty paw, earning him a chagrined, sideways glance.
Prince Tristan met Hazel where she stood, bowing deeply and kissing her hand. She curtsied again, and a blush creeped into her skin. She looped her arm into the prince’s, and they rejoined the group.
Hazel curtsied again in the presence of the King, bowing her head. “Your Majesty,” she said by way of greeting. Slaide wondered if Magnus could tell who she was, or if he was as daft as the look on his face suggested.
“Father, start up the entertainment!” Tristan turned and commanded his father. “A woman this beautiful should be shown off on the dance floor.”
King Magnus pulled one of the servants aside, telling him something Slaide couldn’t hear over the din. He watched as the servant scurried off in the direction of the main stage. When he looked back at the group of men, they were dispersing, with Magnus retreating to the ballroom’s seat of honor upon the dais. He turned, catching Slaide’s eye, and beckoned for him to follow. Slaide groaned his annoyance but obeyed orders.
He took a seat on the dais beside the King, feeling royally uncomfortable in the spotlight. This was a most unnatural place for him to be. He had always been more at home, more secure, in the shadows.Let’s get this over with.
Magnus stood and addressed the gathered crowd with a short speech, ending with two solid claps of his hands to start up the music.
Slaide watched as Tristan dragged Hazel to the dance floor. He glared as Tristan held her hand within his own and placed the other on her waist. Something snarled within him, an angered wolf coming out of its den. He shook his head.No, you don’t get to claim her, you fool. She’s not yours.
