“Chewy isn’t a taste—it’s a texture.”
“Regardless, you’ve thought about me in your mouth.”
Astrid decides not to dignify this with a response, especially as now she is wondering what he’d taste like—which is absolutely deranged. It’s just her luck that the man who is to be her executioner should also be so devastatingly, offensively gorgeous. She notices the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Is he trying not to smile? The cocky, arrogant lout. He sweeps her into a slash of moonslight coming through the open roof, both Maja and her smaller daughter moon, Mija, visible in the clear sky.
“Are the dragons not attending this evening?” she dares to ask.
He raises a brow. “You’ve not had your fill after yesterday’s display? You’ve a stronger stomach than I gave you credit for.”
Oh, she’s had her fill of dragons to last a lifetime: she’s trying to glean if she needs to prepare herself for another show. “I was just curious. I like what you’ve done with the roof, by the way, though it’s not entirely practical. What happens when it rains?”
He tips her back, leans in close, the heat of his body enveloping her. It’s suddenly hard to get air down.
“If it rains, Princess, you get wet.”
When he pops her back up, she can feel her neck flushing. Hopefully she can pass it off as exertion from the dancing, but that twitch at the corner of the prince’s mouth tells her he knows she’s flustered.
“Please tell me this is nearly over,” she grumbles.
“Are you that revolted by me?”
“I’m already planning the scouring spell I’ll use to wipe any trace of your stench from me.” Her breath hitches as he pulls her tight against him, undermining what she just said, as every hard line of him molds to her far too pliable body.
“That sounds extreme. Surely a bath would help with that, unless you have an aversion to water? You do seem to be preoccupied with getting wet.”
“I’d say you’re the one preoccupied with how wet I am,” she snaps, and immediately regrets the words. He quirks a brow at her, smirk growing, and before she can think through what she’s doing, she stamps on his toes as hard as she can. He winces, but he doesn’t break his rhythm. Instead, he lifts her off her feet, spinning her like an oversize doll. A few titters sound from around them. Astrid completely forgot they had an audience.
“Put. Me. Down,” she growls, horrified at the ease with which he’s lifting her. Goddess, he’s barely even trying.
“Why, are you going to stamp on me again?”
“That’s the plan, yes.”
He snorts. It’s a small laugh, but she hears it. And she wants to kill him for it. He lowers her back to the floor.
“As you wish it. I don’t want your—how did you describe it?—stench all over me.”
“Surely you can just shed your lizard skin when you get back to your room. Curl up in bed and regenerate before you have to pretend to be human again tomorrow.” She flashes him a wide smile as she says it.
He stops abruptly, eyes caught on her mouth, and her smile falters. His hands flex at her waist, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Only when the music cuts out does he seem to return to himself. Slowly, he removes his hands from her body and takes a deliberate step back. The sensation of static electricity lingers where his skin met hers, and goose bumps erupt along her arms.
“Princess” is all he says, voice rough, before spinning on his heel and stalking off.
She forces her legs to move, one in front of the other, off the dance floor; and immediately Jessa is there, standing close but not touching her. Not wanting her to appear weak.
She’s not sure what happened. Why he behaved like that. As though he remembered who it was he was dancing with. Who he was touching. And was repelled by her. She can’t process what she’s feeling, how her body is reacting, she can’t processhim. What she does know is he isn’t what she expected. But then, she never thought of him as a real person until now. He’s always been more myth than man to her. A fatal inevitability.
“What in the name of Nyx just happened?” Jessa hisses.
She’s not sure how to answer.
“Astrid, talk to me, I—”
Whatever Jessa’s about to say is swallowed up by an almighty crack. Jessa grabs her while Fionn steps in front of her, pulling the crossbow from their back. The ballroom doors are thrown open, crashing against the walls, and there, silhouetted in the doorway, is her mother. Fionn lowers their bow and throws a sharp look at Jessa, who shakes her head, confused.
Astrid’s mother stalks in, gripping a young woman by the nape of her neck, Bjorn and Veronica flanking her, as if the woman might be dangerous. Her wrists are bound by rope and her feet scramble for purchase, her bare brown legs struggling to hold up her body. A mop of bronze-red hair, ends like burnished gold, stands out against the drab, dusty shorts and vest she’s wearing. The witch queen drags the woman toward the Vatran royals. Astrid stands there, as still and stupid as stone.
Gwen halts before the king and throws the prisoner at the foot of the dais.
