“I suppose you’ll do, we don’t really have time for you to change.” He grabs my elbow and drags me from the doorway, pulling the door shut with his other hand. I jerk my elbow from his grasp and smooth my dress down, scowling right back at him.
“We’re running late, and I have zero patience for your theatrics tonight. So, if you have any self-preservation at all, you’ll keep your mouth shut and do exactly as you’re told,” he hisses into my ear, his head sweeping past mine so close I feel his hair tickle my cheek as he pulls back from the door.
“Careful. If I started behaving, you might actually get bored. And we both know you couldn’t handle—” but he doesn’t let me finish before tucking my arm around his and striding down the hall with purpose. I have to run, struggling a little in my heelsto keep up with him. His charcoal dress coat is adorned with delicate golden swirls on the collar and sleeves, fastened by gleaming golden buttons shaped like roses that catch the light and only make his outfit look more ostentatious.
I know I shouldn’t bait him. My mother’s temper always rears its ugly head when he’s around. Much of this seems justified since he often appears dissatisfied with me as his betrothed. I can’t tell whether it’s because I annoy him or because he finds my scar repulsive. Either way, we’re bound together by an Oath neither of us made or appreciate.
We reach the grand staircase, but he doesn’t slow his brisk pace as we descend the stairs, making me stumble halfway down, the cursed heels catching on the stair runner. He quickly pivots, his other hand sweeps out around my waist, pulling me into his broad chest. I let out a very unladylike squeak as he catches me, feeling his chest rise in an exasperated sigh.
“For Gods’ sake Alaya,” he barks as he puts me back onto my feet. “Can you be any less like a Princess if you tried? We’re flirting with the King’s wrath, and I have no intention of being the one to pay his price.” He drags me down the last few steps.
My heart skips a little at the insult and threat, and every nerve in my body hums with a violent, jagged need to lash out. Yet with a meek nod, pressing my lips tight to stop the retort itching to escape, I follow him down the hall I crept in earlier, and we quickly arrive at the huge double wooden doors that lead into the Great Hall.
The King’s wrath isn’t unknown to me. It’s physical history, written in the scar on my face.
Chapter Two
Alaya
As the huge doors are pushed inward by two blank-faced members of the Royal Household, the ancient wood groans in protest. I feel Prince Kiernan’s arm tense beneath my hand as the atmosphere within the Great Hall assaults us.
The space is cavernous, easily large enough to accommodate hundreds of Fae, though no more than fifty are here tonight. The ceiling soars high above, supported by stone pillars that disappear into the shadows, and golden chandeliers sway slightly, their Faelight casting a warm ethereal glow across the vast room. Below, a long, rough-hewn table draped with a black-and-golden runner stretches towards a raised platform where a smaller table dominates the space. Golden plates and cutlery are lined with precision at each setting, and tall glittering vases of golden roses line the centre.
The air is thick with the rich scent of roasted meat, fresh-baked bread, and the sweet tang of Fae Wine. The conversations are low-pitched and hushed, almost whispers, lacking the expected vibrancy. Those in attendance are higher members of the Thorn Court, the King’s most trusted and powerful Fae Nobility, joined by their wives and husbands. A noble laughs too loudly at something, then cuts himself off abruptly.
Something catches my eye in the shadowy corners not touched by Faelight and I realise with a jolt why theatmosphere seems so thick and cloying. In every corner shrouded in gloom stands the silent and imposing form of a Thorn Guard—the King’s elite army—their hulking frames impossibly still and blank stares making them look like statues. I look up at Prince Kiernan’s face—his jaw is clenched so tight his cheek twitches, green eyes boring intently ahead. He’s seen them too. They are not the typical guests at a mundane evening meal.
I involuntarily squeeze his arm where my hand rests, and he dips his gaze. His hand comes up to touch mine, gentle and protective. I watch as his features rearrange themselves as if transformed, his usual indifference and arrogant confidence slipping into place. He slips my hand from his arm and drops his hand down to the base of my back, sending a flutter of tingles up my spine where his fingers catch my bare skin. He pushes me to step into the hall at his side, and we make our way towards the raised platform at the end. The crowd turns and parts, murmuring greetings to the Prince as we pass, though I am wholly ignored. He throws out a quick smile or a curt nod, but he is determinedly focused on getting us where we are going as quickly as possible.
As we reach and step up onto the raised platform, King Malaxor fixes us with his steely gaze, his brow furrowed, eyes narrowed and piercing, his lips pressed together in a thin, tight line.
“You are late,” he seethes.
Prince Kiernan pulls out my chair and motions me to sit. As I try to manoeuvre myself in the tight-fitting dress, an irritated hiss sounds at my ear. The chair squeaks against the stone floor and rams against the back of my legs, making me sit abruptly. Inearly tip off the side before righting myself as he pulls out the chair between mine and King Malaxor’s and seats himself.
King Malaxor sits to my right, his presence suffocating even in silence. His mid-length, straight black hair frames his face and flows over his shoulders; his features are pale, sharp, and severe, contributing to a cruel and cold expression. His eyes are an intense dark brown, almost black. A striking black crown of thorns, with long, sharp spikes that rise menacingly from the circlet, sits rigidly upon his head. The power that radiates from him at this distance chokes the air like a thick fog.
The King motions to the gathered Fae with a lazy flick of his hand towards the main table, and the Great Hall fills with the sound of wood scraping against stone, the rustling of fabric, the clinking of cutlery and glasses and a soft murmur of conversation as they sit and start their meals.
“What are the Thorn Guards doing in the Great Hall?” Prince Kiernan asks his father as he grabs a golden-rimmed glass goblet of sweet Fae Wine and takes a long gulp. The wait staff start dishing up food onto our plates: steaming vegetables, beans in a thick sauce and thin slivers of meat. Meat sources are now a rarity in Kaladia, so although the portions are small, even as part of the Thorn Court, it is a rare treat.
“I will discuss their necessity here at a later time.” King Malaxor dismisses him with a quick, sharp glance in my direction before turning back to his son. “As the future King and Queen, being late, you both undermine my authority in front of the highest Nobles of the Court for what? A quick fuck in the halls like dogs in heat, no doubt? They see their heir who does not respect their time or their fealty. You were due here ten minutes ago and kept your King and your Court waiting. That is ten minutes of doubt you’ve sown in their minds. Fix it, Kiernan. And do not let it happen again.”
We eat in silence; only the high rasp of cutlery against plates and the low background chatter of the Court enjoying their meals break the tension. Prince Kiernan glowers down at his food as he shovels it to his mouth, his hands trembling. Heat rises to my cheeks at the King’s embarrassing and wildly inaccurate comment, then it simmers down into my belly as resentment, leaving an acidic taste in my throat. Despite my earlier hunger, the food feels like ash in my mouth, and I eat very little.
When Prince Kiernan finishes, he rises, adjusts and smooths his jacket, and swaggers down towards the main table where people have started breaking off into groups for intense chats, his charming smile plastered to his face. He approaches Drayden Fipps, a very powerful Growth Fae who manages the farming operations, accompanied by his tall and willowy pink-haired wife. They shake hands, and he leans in to kiss the wife’s cheek, the Prince no doubt using his considerable charm to ease the tension.
I’m so caught up watching him—my jaw tight, my fingers gripping the stem of my goblet until my knuckles pale—that when the King speaks to me, I almost leap out of my seat and my heart races.
“You’re quite beautiful tonight, Alaya,” he drawls, eyes fixed on my cleavage.
His scrutiny sends shivers throughout my body, his words like shards of ice to my skin.
I am a fortress. I will not fall.
I shoot him the most demure and respectful smile I can muster.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I reply sweetly, the smile barely tipping the corners of my mouth.
