I put them off as best I can. “I don’t know for sure who it’s from. It just appeared in my room.”
Izabel gives me a knowing look. “One of these days you’re going tohaveto tell us!”
Thankfully, she leaves it at that.
When my hair and make-up are done, there are more exclamations.
“The contrast between your hair and the emerald is just perfect,” Izabel says. “You look more like a goddess than ever.”
“Otherworldly,” Venna interjects.
“Yes!” Izabel says. “You’re a mythical being, Meryn. No one will be able to take their eyes off of you.”
“I don’t know why you’re so happy about it,” Nevah drawls. “I’m not keen on the competition, myself.” She looks at me, mouth twisting into a wry smile. “Nothing personal, Meryn, but I’ll be keeping my distance.”
“Er… thanks, I guess?” I say, burning with embarrassment.
Tomison chuckles. “It’s kinda cute how the big bad street fighter gets all flustered when people tell her she’s pretty.”
I shoot him a glare and so does Izabel. He just grins.
“You guys look amazing, too, by the way,” I say.
The twins are wearing matching backless gowns, but in different colors—Izabel in silver, Venna in black. They’re incredibly skimpy, with plunging necklines and clinging, translucent skirts. Nevah’s blood-red gown has a wide v-shaped opening in the front that exposes her long, slender legs clear to the upper thigh, and a neckline that goes so low it exposes herbelly button. Tomison’s suit is perfectly fitted to accentuate his lean frame, the jacket embroidered heavily with silver.
“We do look amazing, don’t we?” he says, gaze lingering on Izabel’s naked back as she turns to make a last-minute adjustment to my hair.
“I should head back to Kryptos so I can go with my pack,” Venna says.
“Yeah, I believe it’s time to get moving,” says Nevah, nodding to the exit. The other Strategos are already gathering near the door.
When all of us are ready, we join with the other packs in the lounge and make our way through the castle to the royal wing in a long procession. Most of the other Rawbonds haven’t been to this part of the castle before. Theyoohandahhhover the elaborate tapestries and gilded statues that line the wide corridors.
I haven’t seen much of the royal wing outside Killian’s chambers, either—and always at night, in the dark—but still, it’s not exactly new to me. I have to make an effort to appear surprised by the ostentatiousness of it all.
It gets easier as we near the famous central ballroom where the king holds all his most important parties.
I hear orchestral music first, then the corridors swell into a cavernous entryway bracketed by enormous marble staircases with gilded railings. The ballroom doors at the far end are open, towering golden direwolf statues standing sentry on either side.
There are people everywhere, dressed in outrageous finery, some dancing, some milling around with glasses of champagne, talking and toasting. Yet more sit at the many tables arranged around the room. The nobles around the room are clearly marked by their extravagant outfits, which are more modest and more expensive-looking than what the Bonded wear.
The contrast between their clothes and ours has always been noticeable but I’m so much more aware of it now that they’re here in front of us and not up in the stands of the arena. I glance around at the other Rawbonds in their barely there clothing and wonder if any of them have the same queasiness about this.
The Bonded are just beautiful, violent dolls for the actual elites.
The music swells as we reach the door.
My gaze is drawn upward to the glitter of a thousand crystals hanging above—a massive chandelier poised over the center of the sprawling dancefloor. Beyond it, the panels of the domed ceiling are painted with elaborate frescoes depicting ancient battles between humans and Siphons—direwolves and their riders frozen in elegant poses of attack.
We pause at the threshold, lined up to wait for our cue. Each Rawbond pack enters in formation, the herald announcing their individual names one by one.
My gaze sweeps the ballroom, taking in the soaring marble columns and automatically noting the various exits. There are wide glass doors at either side of the room leading to spacious balconies. Tall windows look out onto the moonlit royal courtyards below.
Stark is at the edge of the dance floor, dressed in a suit so black it stands out amongst all the glittering dresses. The suit is perfectly tailored, lending a cutting elegance to his warrior’s body, emphasizing the broad shoulders and narrow hips, hugging his long, muscular legs like a second skin.
No gold or silver embroidery for him. No gaudy jewelry, either. Just that deep black suit sucking up the light in the room—like a deliberate defiance against the glamor and pageantry that surround him.
A beautifully cut suit can’t hide the wildness that seeps from him like an aura of aggression. It’s in the neck tattoos peekingabove his perfectly knotted cravat, the dark symbols covering the large hands that hold a glass of champagne.
