“They don’t need to know that,” she assures me. “And before you go freaking out, Frills, remember what I told you. You’re a target and you need protection. This…” She gestures to the other Wing members and then to the room itself. “Is a good way to protect you until the king can announce what’s really going on. Don’t let your pride get you killed,Syphon.”
The way my kith designation falls from her lips is both a warning and a threat. An unnecessary one at that because I’m all too aware of exactly what’s at stake here.
“If it makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to tell them you’re his mate. Just don’t correct them when they assume it,” Jori offers, compassion warming his bronze features.
“And Aeson agreed to this?” I ask, a kaleidoscope of butterflies coming to life in my stomach as I wait for the Healer to respond.
“It was his idea,” Tove assures me.
My gut lurches at her answer, and once again, instead of those words making me feel better, they throw me even more off kilter. They do confirm my theory, however, that what happened the other day with Aeson must have been an act.
The question is, for who?
Not his Wing; they clearly know what’s up, and if the commander’s Wing is in the loop, then Lorn’s Wing probably is too. If the performance was just for me, they wouldn’t be telling me all of this, so it must have been for the Oric.
Lorn warned Tahir to keep her mouth shut, but he must have known she wouldn’t. If that’s true though, they’ll be expecting her to blab about the whole Syphon thing and not just about the way Aeson reacted to me, and that contradicts what Tove was just saying.
Puzzlement pools through me as I try to work out all of the angles and see the game the scions are playing, but none of the pieces match up exactly right, leaving me even more bewildered.
Ogdan claps his hands and then rubs them together in eager anticipation. The sound jolts me from my haphazard thoughts and shoves me front and center back into the shit show that’s about to go down. My heart speeds up and my chest tightens as the others drop their dignified, no-fucks-given, Royal Wing masks in place.
Ogdan sweeps a hand toward the door and gives me a brazen look that I swear is taunting me withtheeasy way, or the hard way?
“After you, Frills,” he tells me gregariously, but all it does is make me want to deck him in the face. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
Chapter 17
HELP. THE WORD, THE OFFERING, the act itself, can be a surprisingly divisive thing. There have been times in my life where I treated the notion like a venomous threat, and others where I saw it for the lifeline it was. It took me a long time to accept that needing help wasn’t a reflection of weakness or some sort of failing on my part. Knowing that you can’t do everything alone, that no one is meant to, takes strength and fortitude.
I’ve learned many valuable lessons at the hand of someone else’s support or assistance, but today isn’t going to be one of those days. Maybe it’s the sniping I can hear jostling back and forth in the other room, or the shit-eating grin on Tove’s face, the one she keeps trying to tame only for it to creep back in place like an irritating rash that just won’t go away. Or perhaps it’s because I’m about to officially step back into a world I’m not prepared for and pretend to stake a claim on a dragon I have zero interest in claiming.
Fucking? Sure, why not.
Claiming? Not for all the magic in Drameric.
However, as annoying as the Seeder is, she’s right. If Enslee were here, she’d be giving me the same lecture about how I can’t let my pride or my aversion to The Horde screw things up. If this is my way in, if this is how I find what we need, I’ll play along. Regardless of all the ways it’s going to chip away at my self-respect and more than likely my sanity.
“Here we go,” Chastain mumbles just as he walks through the doorway in front of me.
I fill my lungs with one last fortifying breath, and then it’s my turn. My face is blank of all emotion, my shoulders square, and my bearing as regal as I can manage wearing nothing but a silk robe, a charm to hide my scars, and a hefty chip on my shoulder.
The room immediately falls silent as the members of Aeson’s Wing stride out from the bathroom, and I can practically feel people straining to look past the guards to get a peek at whoever is behind them.
The sleeves of my robe drag on the ground, a train of midnight blue silk extending several paces behind me as I step out from between the four guards and finally let the room see me. No one gasps or reels back, but I sense shock and confusion pulse through the room all the same. I stand like some statue built for worship and stare at the newcomers and their pious offerings just as intently.
Standing amidst dozens of floating racks of garments are four drakes, a kyba, a griffon shifter, and—I scent in the direction of the man to make sure I’m right—a human…which is a surprising addition. No one bows, but they do drop their eyes and chins for a moment in deference before their curious gazes are once again drinking me in. The sitting area of the suite has been rearranged to make room for the visitors and their wares. One plush chair is sitting front and center, and I figure that’s where I’m meant to perch while they do whatever they’re here to do.
No one says a word as I make myself comfortable, careful to pull part of my train over my ankle with the charm on it. As soon as I look up, two drakes step forward. They both stop suddenly and glare over at the other.
“Seniority says I go first, Seza,” the drake on the left snaps, the boxy periwinkle dress she has on glimmering in the late morning light.
“Perhaps, but my client list is much longer, Bettany, which means I’m entitled to first pitch,” Seza answers, the pleats layering her floor-length gown fluttering with each irritated breath.
If I had to guess, she’s the one who created the outfit Tahir was wearing the other night.
Both females try to step forward again, and the racks floating behind them crash together with a clang. Instead of doing anything about the squabbling, I quickly look over the dresses they have. Not finding anything I think might work for me, I move on to the racks of clothes that belong to the other stylists and designers in hopes of spotting something practical.
It’s a sea of geometric-shaped tops and bottoms, ruffles galore, glimmering fabrics that gleam and preen for attention, capes, a whole rack that looks like a garden upchucked all over it, and several more floating displays packed to the brim with even more impractical…dresses.
