A throat clears in the doorway, and I turn. Timothy stands there, dressed in dark slacks and a midnight blue sweater, holding the small velvet box that contains my tiara in his hands. His face is unreadable, but his eyes–those clear green eyes–hold mine without flinching.
“If you need anything,” Graves says, edging toward the door, “let me know.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling unsure about being left alone with the King.
Once we are, he says, “As you can see, I’ve reconsidered my decision from yesterday. I’d like you to come with me.”
I blink, heart stuttering. “Why?”
The bathroom door opens at that moment, and Damon, now wearing a pair of black sweats, fills the doorway. The men exchange a look.
“Because I was reminded of one of my core beliefs.” He steps into the room. “The Baron King doesn’t give a fuck about what anyone else thinks.”
“The King?” I ask. “You’ll be wearing the mask?”
“Some things do not allow for compromise.” He shrugs one shoulder, the movement almost casual, but I see the tension in his jaw. “People may wonder where Maddox is, but the gossip this year will just have to be about the King making an appearance with his sexy new wife.”
My breath catches.
“Are you sure?” I ask, needing to hear him say it plainly. Needing it to be real. “You’re not afraid I’ll have another panic attack?”
“Whatever happens, I’m certain we can handle it.”
We.
I nod, choosing to believe him–because if he isn’t afraid, then maybe I don’t have to be either.
The Mercer gates loom ahead,wrought iron flanked by stone pillars topped with glowing lanterns. Low walls line the drive, turning the sprawling property into something out of a dark fairy tale. The mansion itself is massive–three full stories of pale limestone and arched windows, every pane alight with warm gold that spills across the snow like spilled honey. Compared to the House of Night or even Strong Manor, this place makes them look like dollhouses.
Timothy’s hand rests steady at the small of my back as we step out of the car. The cold bites my bare shoulders but the blood-red velvet gown Graves brought me clings like a second skin. The off-the-shoulder neckline frames my collarbones and the peacock tiara glitters above my upswept hair. The bodice is fitted through the waist then flows into a long, sweeping train that brushes the stone walkway behind me. Black lace sleeves, delicate, almost transparent, extend from the shoulders to my wrists, embroidered with subtle silver threads that catch the light like frost. My lips are painted deep crimson to match the garnets hidden beneath the fabric. I feel exposed, but powerful.
Terrified.
He’s wearing the bronze mask with the short horns, which I now realize is what he wears most often in public. It’s intimidating, covering the upper half of his face, leaving only his mouth and jaw visible. The rest of him is perfection: tailored black tuxedo, crisp white shirt, onyx cufflinks and the faint scent of his cologne in thewinter air. He looks untouchable, and I feel something in my chest when he touches me. Something unfamiliar, but desired.
Safe.
We climb the wide stone steps together. The double, carved mahogany doors swing open before we reach them. Warm air rushes out, carrying the sound of string music and laughter.
Timothy leans down as we cross the threshold, breath brushing my ear. “You’re going to be fine,” he murmurs. “If anything happens, the slightest discomfort, you come to me at once.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I promise. No panic attacks tonight.”
He stops me just inside the grand foyer. Marble floors gleam under a crystal chandelier the size of a small car. A sweeping staircase curves upward, its garland-wrapped banister twinkling with white lights. His gloved hand slides from my back to my hip, turning me gently so he can look at me fully. His eyes, visible through the mask’s slits, sweep over me.
“You look stunning,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. “Every man in that room is going to wish you belonged to them.”
The words send a flutter through my belly. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can feel it where his palm rests against my waist.
A butler takes our cloaks. Timothy accepts a flute of champagne from a passing tray and hands it to me. “Maybe this will help your nerves,” he says with the faintest curve of his mouth.
I take a sip, the bubbles cold, and let the fizz steady me.
The ballroom opens ahead of us, vast and golden. Twenty professionally decorated Christmas trees stand like sentinels along the walls, each one themed, some silver and sapphire, others crimson and gold, one entirely made of gold roses and crystal. Evergreen garland swags every archway; candles flicker in massive iron candelabras; a string quartet plays something soft and haunting in the corner. The room smells like pine, spices and expensive perfume.
Timothy guides me through the crowd with that same steady hand on my back. He never leaves my side, never letting me drift more than a step away. People turn as we pass. Whispers rippleoutward. Some faces I recognize from the Black Wedding or the vigil, others are strangers who clearly know exactly who he is. Who we are.
He leans close again, voice a warm murmur against my ear. “That’s the Van der Meer portrait, Rembrandt, seventeenth century.” He nods toward an alcove. “And that cabinet is Thomas Chippendale, original commission for the Mercer family in 1760. Louis and Tabitha are connected to South Side and the Lords; as you know, their son Tristian is one of Killian’s seconds now. They have twin daughters, Izzy and Lizzy,” he tilts his head discreetly, “over by the fireplace.”
