Owin grinned. “There you go. Good girl.”
She shot him a sharp look, but the praise warmed her all the same.
The revel swelled to chaos—torches throwing sparks into the night, ale spilling from lifted cups, feet stomping hard against the stone. Owin twirled her, pulled her close, his touch easy but sure. She realized, to her surprise, she liked the way he touched her—without command, without demand.
Someone clapped Owin on the shoulder as they passed. “Who’s the girl?”
“A traveler,” Owin answered smoothly.
“Traveler from where?”
Owin gave an exaggerated shrug. “North.”
The man barked a laugh and stumbled off, losing interest. Owin only smirked, pulling Ilys back into the circle.
They danced until her head spun and the music seemed endless. Finally, Owin steered her aside, breathless with laughter. He poured more ale into her cup, topping his own, and leaned close to be heard above the noise.
“Are you nervous,” he slurred softly, “because it’s against the law?”
Ilys blinked. “What?”
“This.” He leaned in and pressed a soft, drunken kiss to her lips.
She froze. Her heart lurched. “Why would that be against the law?” she asked, awe-struck, dread prickling beneath her skin.Did he know she was a Veilwalker?
“Because you’re married.” Owin laughed in her ear, breath hot with ale.
Her expression steadied, the panic ebbing. He didn’t know, not truly.
He pulled back, wagging a finger at her. “I don’t really believe you’re married. When Kara asked about your ring, you were strange. All of you is strange.”
Before she could answer, his hands molded over her hips, drawing her closer. She had forgotten how much she loved to be touched. She was like a kitten preening for attention, starved for intimacy.
“I think you lied,” Owin murmured, a grin tugging at his mouth, “because women don’t travel alone.”
Her throat worked. “And if you’re right?”
His smile turned wicked. “If I’m right, then you should stay with me tonight, instead of my crotchety sister.”
He bent and pressed a soft kiss to her collarbone, his laughter rumbling low against her skin. The warmth of Owin’s breath lingered against her skin, but then, over his shoulder, she saw it.
Black. An ebony gilded cloak moving where no cloak should be, stark amidst the swirl of color and sweat. Her blood went cold.
Ilys pulled back from Owin sharply, his laughter still spilling against the din of the revel. Her gaze fixed on the figure weaving through the throng, the dark hood dipping just out of sight. She shoved past him, ignoring his startled protest, and pressed into the crush of bodies. Her heart slammed against her ribs.It couldn’t be. Here?
The cloak slipped through the revelers with uncanny ease, swallowed and revealed again by the crowd’s shifting dance. Ilys strained after it, every muscle taut with urgency. Her satchel snagged on the corner of a table. The strap wrenched her shoulder back with a violent tug.
“Damn it—” She yanked at it, fingers scrabbling against the leather. The strap caught on a wooden mug, upending it, ale spilling down her side.
By the time she tore herself free, the figure had ducked behind a man hefting a cask on his shoulder, vanishing deeper into the press of people.
“Ilys!” Owin’s voice rang out above the revel. “Ilys, where are you going?”
The sound of her name froze her mid-step. Its timing was a curse.
The black cloak ahead of her turned. For the briefest moment, the crowd parted, and the torchlight struck the man’s face.
Lord Veylen.
