“Is it actually your anniversary?” Astrid asks.
“Yep, eight years today since this mangy beast came into my life.”
Astrid knows the story. It was just after Jessa lost her family—she’d gotten the news while at one of the Ulvene bases in Kaldris, at the far north-west of Arturea, and had left the camp. Simply walked off into a snow blizzard, alone, completely caught up in her grief. She was on the brink of freezing to death when a lump in the snow shook itself off and Quincy appeared, telling her to get on his back, then sprintedwith Jessa to the base before the hypothermia set in. That was the thing about familiars—they always found their witch when the witch needed them most, just like Bastet had with her.
“A toast, then. To my favorite witch and my second-favorite familiar.”
Jessa clinks her glass to Astrid’s. “I rank higher than your mum, then?”
“She’s been demoted since she didn’t even have the good grace to show up this evening.” The king rises from his seat, and Astrid groans. “And now it’s time for the speech and she’s still not here.”
Jessa’s forehead creases. “Yeah, something’s going on. Quincy, that nose of yours picking anything up?”
NOT IN HERE—TOO FULL OF BODIES AND UNLEASHED HORMONES.
“Will you take a look around the grounds? Astrid, we best get up there before the king bores a hole in your head with his icy death stare.”
Jessa waits for Astrid to walk ahead of her, Fionn joining them as they weave to the front of the ballroom and to the Vatran royals waiting for them. The crowd parts for her, sniggering and hissing as she passes, like children in a park. She is surrounded by enemies, and she feels more vulnerable, especially with Quincy gone and her mother absent. She peeks behind her and sees Jessa running her whip through her hands, glaring at the courtiers, and they all have the good sense to shut their mouths.
The king’s arms are spread wide, a tight smile pasted on his face as he welcomes Astrid to the dais. Zryan is no longer present, and she casts her eyes about the room, finding him standing on the other side of the hall with the tall blond man from earlier and two Dreki—a slender man with a shaven head and a muscular woman with gleaming yellow eyes. Why isn’t he up here? Astrid forces herself to focus on the king instead, and she notices the flash of annoyance he throws at his son.
“Princess Astrid, welcome to Vatra.” He must have some kind of Acoustic, because his voice booms. “And to all gathered here, welcome. Tonight, we mark the beginning of the countdown to the duel, a contest between heirs who have offered themselves as sacrifices for the sake of their countries, to protect their people from the ravages of war.”Offered themselves?She almost snorts. “Over the next six weeks, we shall honor both my son, Prince Zryan, and the Arturean heir, Princess Astrid, with celebrations befitting their courage and their patriotism. May Arach blessthem both. But enough talk for now.” The king clasps his hands and she breathes a sigh of relief. She thought a man with his ego would drone on for much longer. “It’s time for us to feast, drink, and dance. And speaking of dancing—in the spirit of tradition, I have decided to revive an old custom—the opening of the dance floor by the heirs themselves. So, Prince Zryan, Princess Astrid, if you will.” He smirks. “Dance.”
She can’t have heard him right. She stands there, frozen in place, waiting for the punch line. The crowd below her is making space for them, and Astrid simply watches, unable to move. She feels like a Blood Wielder has control of her body and is forcing all the blood from her limbs, from her head, right to her heart, which is currently hammering at her rib cage like it’s trying to escape. Is this what cardiac arrest feels like? Perhaps this is how she’ll die.
The heirs haven’t opened a welcome feast for the past eleven duels. Did Zryan know about this? Judging by the furious cut of his mouth and the fact that he also hasn’t stirred, she guesses not. Oh Goddess, what should she do? Is the prince going to refuse? She’s not sure what’s worse—having to dance with him or having him reject her in front of the entire court. She should move, walk to the floor, be brave. If she can’t face a dance, how is she supposed to face a dragon?
She looks at Zryan again. Shit, will he try and kill her? She glances at Jessa, whose face is splotched with color—she’s staring at the prince and must have had the same thought. They aren’t blood bound. She’s fair game and everyone knows it. Is this why the king has done it? Brought back the dance?
She’s seriously considering swallowing a vial of her own poison when the prince disappears. Literally disappears into nothing right in front of her. Gasps erupt from the guests, their eyes wide with excitement, every single one of them turning to the dais as Zryan materializes beside her. Astrid’s knees almost give out.
He’s a Teleporter. A Hel-damnedTeleporter. That’s how he beat her back yesterday. She knew he was a Prime, but, Goddess, Astrid hadn’t even considered that Teleporting could be his Blooded power, given there has only ever been one other recorded in the history of the continent. There goes her advantage of speed—even she can’t outrun a Teleporter.
He raises an arm, and she recoils before realizing he’s offering to escort her to the dance floor, not trying to murder her. She lets him take her hand, his calloused palm massive compared to hers. She chances a look at his face, but his gaze is on the black ink smudged along her middle and index fingers. His storm-gray eyes rise to meet hers, and she notices his long dark lashes. No man has a right to eyelashes like that, it’s… unfair. His being this inordinately beautiful is unfair, even when he’s mad. And right now he is mad as all Hel.
The king claps his hands, and Astrid blinks. “A round of applause for the prince and the princess.” The crowd bursts into booming ovation, delighted at the show on offer, and Zryan’s nostrils flare.
“Shall we, Princess?” She’s surprised he can get the words out with how hard he must be grinding his teeth.
He guides her to the center of the floor, his grip on her surprisingly gentle, his pace leisurely, controlled. Astrid follows him numbly, frantically trying to remember how to, or indeed if she can, dance. He stops and turns, his eyes locking on hers as he pulls her flush against his body. A gasp slips out of her. Her heart ratchets up a few more beats per minute, so loud in her ears she swears he must be able to hear it, too.
He slides an arm around her waist, stalling when he finds the bare skin of her lower back. She wonders if he finds touching her repulsive, and then her mind goes somewhere altogether worse: What if heisgoing to kill her? Right here, right now in front of everyone? Dread unfurls in her belly. The belt at her hips feels heavier, as though urging her to reach for it and pluck out a vial.
After a taut beat, he splays his fingers along her spine and a heady mix of relief and heat passes through her at his touch. Her eyes flutter closed as the music starts, the opening notes velvet soft and ripe with longing, and her body starts to move of its own accord. When she opens her eyes, the prince’s face has changed. There’s a brief smoothing of sharp edges as he watches her, before his face hardens again. That annoyed look is back. He bends low and she suppresses a shiver as his lips graze the shell of her ear.
“Try to relax,” he whispers. “It’s like dancing with a plank of wood.”
Astrid rears her head back. The fear, the nerves evaporate, replacedwith indignation at this prince’s audacity. Of everything she expected him to say, that was not it. “It’s hard to relax when I’m pinned up against a giant of a man who’s eyeing me like my head would look good mounted on his bedroom wall,” she hisses.
“That’s not true.” He spins her around, leading expertly, and she’s supremely grateful that this brute can dance. “I was thinking the dining hall.”
She stumbles, but he catches her, maneuvering her so that her mistake won’t be noticed by those watching. “So that’s what you plan to do after you kill me? Better than being dragon fodder, I suppose.”
“Or fox fodder,” he parries. He noticed Quincy, then. Good.
“Quincy wouldn’t touch you. You look chewy.”You look chewy?Did she just say that to the prince of Vatra?
“You’ve thought about how I’d taste, Princess?” His face is deadpan, his words even, and to everyone here, he probably looks like he’s commenting on how lovely the goat cheese salad was.
