Faun went still. Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “We’re not turning back.”
Faun precededme out of my bedchamber. I came out fully corseted and bound in a gown that forced my spine tall, my hair done up in plaits so elaborate I couldn’t begin to understand how two hands had made them. Threaded amongst the plaits were pale golden flowers, their hue nearly matching my hair.
Dorian turned as the door opened. His gaze swept over me—and held. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood still in the torchlight, dressed in the finest clothes I’d ever seen him wear: a black velvet doublet, leather boots, a cloak stitched with Sylvanwild filigree at the edges.
His black hair framed his face, brushing the line of his jaw. He looked every bit the man who’d held a sword to my chest that first night, and the one who’d stood beside Rhiannon in the throne room, eyes distant with hate.
Standing here with him in this hallway, in this dress, with my hair done up so finely and heeled shoes on my feet, I knew Faun had done the job right. Even so much shorter than Dorian, I felt different. For the first time, I felt like I stood above him.
“Before you go,” he said, “I need a word.”
As if a word would do anything.
We stood before one another a moment, until I finally turned to Faun. “Wait for me ahead.”
She cast one glance at Dorian and nodded, the hem of her simple green dress trailing as she slipped down the hall.
When Dorian and I were alone, he took a step closer. His darkness imposed like a wreath. “I’m sure you know by now the importance of taking a consort,” he said, his tone carefully neutral.
“I do.”
“And?”
One eyebrow rose. “And what?”
He lowered his chin. “You need someone beside you,” he said evenly. “Not because you’re weak—but because they’ll come for your crown from every direction, and you’ve barely taken the throne.”
“I have Faun.”
His lip curled. “The servant fae will be your consort?”
“No one will be my consort.” Anger flared in me, sharp and ready. “And at least she doesn’t want to kill me.”
“I don’t—” He lowered his face, fingers rubbing athis eyes. Finally he straightened, gaze meeting mine. His eyes were soft with feeling, like that night. “I don’t want to kill you.”
“How can I believe that? Or anything you say?”
He seemed to consider his words, then his impatience leaked over his face, creating wrinkles between his brows. He breathed out a sharp sigh. “Because you have to, Eury. You need to be smart about this.”
The arrogance of him. I stepped forward. “How many changelings have you killed?”
He stared down at me, his jaw working. I imagined that for every second he stared, he thought of a life he’d taken. One, two, three, four, five?—
“And do you still hate them?” I asked into the silence. “Changelings?”
He paused. Then, low, “Yes.”
That hurt. It hurt more than Rhiannon’s arrow in my shoulder. It hurt more than a broken nose, more than razorleaf poison closing off my throat.
His hand went out, fingers brushing my wrist as I made to turn away. “But notyou.” I wrenched away, and he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “You don’t have to name me anything,” he said. “But use me. I’m here. I’ll stand in front of every blade meant for you.”
And perhaps he would thrust one into my back.
Never trust a man, especially not one outside these walls.
Isa the nurse had said that on the night of her death—her death at the hands of Dorian, Rhiannon, the spiritstag. All of these fucking fae.
Her blood was on Dorian’s hands. My mother’s. Theo’s. Elisabet’s. And he still hadn’t atoned. Still hadn’t gotten on his knees and begged my forgiveness. Hell, he’d called my mother’s death amercy.
