The female moves like a cat. Her lithe body swaying nearly imperceptibly beneath the dark crimson gown she wears. Her long hair is a dense black that would be lost to shadow on a dark night, the olive hue of her skin deepening the pools of her storm-blue eyes. Her lips are perfectly pink, a natural blush adorning the apples of her high cheeks. Even amongthe feyn, she’s striking.
She steps forward, and I nearly take a step back. Only with great effort do I school my features and force myself to step up to meet her under the flickering light of the chandelier hanging overhead.
“Shivaria, this is Nurai,” the general says, settling his hand against my lower back.
She smiles a small and unconvincing smile, eyeing me from head to toe. All my trepidation melts into a thin sheet of annoyance when she meets my eyes, her features unmoved. I know the look, it’s one I endured for years, plastered upon Leanna’s lovely features every day. Clearly the female finds nothing remarkable.
“Nurai, this is Shivaria,” Xeyvian says, “Mi’ajna.”
It is the sharp intake of breath from Awri that draws my attention. Once again, she looks me over as if she’s never seen me before, and I wonder if it will always be this way between us. I can tell it’s the first time she’s heard the sentiment spoken aloud and I wonder why Kishek had not already told her. After all, her mate was in the room when Xeyvian made the same declaration to Siserie.
“Ajna?” Even Nurai, who doesn’t know me at all, sounds surprised, her face contorting as she inspects me more thoroughly.
It’s a slower perusal, as if the female might find something she overlooked. Anything that might explain to her why the male by my side would claim me in such a way.
She finds nothing, I can see it in her eyes when she pins me with a withering stare. My spine tingles, icy shards of her gift creeping down the length of it as my heart thunders in my chest and the air is driven from my lungs.
My brow dips and I can’t help considering what she’s capable of. The chill weaving through my veins is unlike any touch of the feyn gift I’ve felt before. It grows and deepens, searching, until my demon is stirred.
Just when I think the female before me might force my demon into the waking world, Nurai’s head tilts to the side, her brow pinching with displeasure.
“Interesting,” she says under her breath as the ice within me begins tothaw.
I glance at Riesh and the lines creasing his forehead in confusion, but his eyes are not on me, they are firmly glued to Nurai. I puff out a relieved breath when a handful of feyn enter the room with steaming trays piled high with an array of foods. The table seems oddly wide until it looks like it might overflow with the staggering assortment placed neatly at the center.
Xeyvian pulls out one of two chairs at the head of the table, offering it to me, and I push down the awkward feeling of accepting the seat by his side. With a great deal of effort, I manage to keep my eyes on my plate, not wanting to witness another speculative onceover from Awri or the general’s friend.
I am dead wrong when I think that the meal might offer some small amount of reprieve from conversation. Nurai takes her time plating her food of choice, preferring instead to engage in inquisition.
“Where are you from, Shivaria?” the female asks, scooping a modest serving of greens off a silver tray.
“The south,” I reply simply, deliberately selecting foods that will take the most time to chew.
Her eyes gleam, as she cuts into a soft cheese and asks, “How far south?”
I’m relieved when Xeyvian replies, “Shivaria traveled from La’tari.”
My stomach twists when I consider what feelings she might have about the declaration. A human companion. A La’tarian. Not that the female needs more than the glaring faults of my physical form to discredit my worth.
“You have the look of the feyn,” she says bluntly, “Do you know your lineage?”
I bristle at the question. Maybe she’s just making conversation, but I can’t help but think that she might find me more worthy of the male by my side if I could claim some relation to their species. No matter how distant that connection might be.
“Yes. On my mother’s side,” I lie, decidedly sticking with the story Leanna crafted for me.
“Really?” she says under a raised brow.
I expect the female to be surprised, curious, inquisitive. Of course she will want to know how someone like me, ungifted and human, ended up on the general’s arm. I am prepared to spill the story of my upbringing exactly as I practiced it countless times, to weave the tale to perfection. But the look she gives me dries my mouth. The edge of her lip cocks up in disbelief.
Hisht. I should have asked the general about the female’s gift, unlikely as it is that he would have revealed it to me. I’ve let myself become far too comfortable around them, far too trusting of the general and his choice of company. I shouldn’t be here.
My cheeks heat and the general’s hand squeezes my leg when I clutch the knife laying at the side of my plate. I’m entirely unsure if the squeeze is due to the stream of emotions surely emanating from me or the fact that I’ve armed myself. I take a deep breath and smile, releasing the weapon and pointedly settling myself against the back of my chair.
Nurai’s eye’s glimmer at me from across the table, and I think the female perceived more from that moment than I am comfortable with. I nearly sigh in relief when she abandons her pursuit of knowing me, and instead, turns her attention to Awri.
“How is your mate?” she asks. “Xeyvian informed me that he is unwell.”
“He is recovering, slowly,” Awri replies.
