A yearning that has started to build in me, too. One that confuses me so much I rush to shut it down.
“Glad to hear I didn’t show up to my coronation looking like shit.”
He grimaces but steps closer, until his breath heats me. Until I can smell his amber musk so deeply that it twists inside me and ignites my veins. “Sorry. But when I saw you yesterday, you looked like you hadn’t slept in a month.”
His hand comes up to my face, and for a moment, I think he’s going to cup my cheek, tilt my face toward his. Instead, his fingertips lightly brush the spot under each eye, where I know under my makeup I’m boasting circles as dark as a bruise.
I want to be insulted, but he’s right. I have barely been sleeping. I’m too afraid that I’ll somehow end up back in that shadowy realm, trapped with Killian, unable to escape him.
Maybe it’s time to ask for help, to tell someone other than Anassa the truth. I know I can trust him.
But as I open my mouth to explain, the door behind us swings open again, knocking against the stone of the wall and bouncing back.
We both swivel to look at the new arrival: Siegrid. She gives us an assessing gaze, then smiles.
I step away from Stark, not wanting her to read into whatever this is.
“It’s time for the traditional toasts,” Siegrid says. “I don’t think they’ll get started until our monarch returns to her table, however…”
She somehow imbues the wordmonarchwith respect and irritation and weariness all at once. I almost admire the way she manages to make the words sound like an insult without technically saying anything negative about me.
So much for my heart-to-heart with Stark. I feel a sinking disappointment in my chest, but I know Siegrid’s right. “Far be it from me to keep the nobles from their next glass of emberwine,” I quip, moving toward the door before looking back at Stark. “You coming?”
Siegrid bustles me back onto the dais. A server darts forward to hand me a glass of sparkling emberwine as soon as I’ve reached my spot at the head of the table.
The glass is made of shining crystal, intricately engraved with twisting vines and, at its center, the Sturmfrost crest. I study it, wondering how old it is, if one of my ancestors might have held this very same glass at a coronation of her own.
Siegrid begins the traditional coronation toasts. I catch a few words of her clearly rehearsed speech; “the true royal line” and “tradition embracing necessary change as we move our country forward” and other carefully worded phrases.
“…with the full support of the Bonded warriors and myself, the Sovereign Alpha, behind her…”
If only I believed I had thefullsupport of the Bonded warriors. Hopefully, after tonight, my friends’ families—and the others like them—will start to come around.
I look out at the sea of faces, each table standing with their glasses held aloft, waiting for Siegrid to finish her remarks.
Turning back toward Siegrid, I see Stark slip into place by her side, and my exhaustion recedes just for a moment.
“To Queen Meryn!”
The words repeat and echo throughout the ballroom. I lift my own glass, smiling and nodding like I heard a word of what was said. Sitting back down, I place the cup carefully to the side. I don’t need anything to dull my nerves tonight.
Conversation resumes around the room, and the hundreds of conniving eyes thankfully shift away from me. I sigh again, and then a hand slips over my eyes.
“Who’s your favorite packmate,” comes Izabel’s voice. I manage a half-hearted chuckle as she lets me go, grabs herself a chair and scooches in next to me. Siegrid looks on disapprovingly from her end of the table, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Tomison is with Iz, and he takes the chair next to her. “Great party, Queenie.”
I laugh. “Thanks,Tomtom. You two having fun?”
Izabel pulls a face. “Not really. As your events planner, I’m duty bound to say this has gone perfectly and everything is just right.”
Tomison chuckles. “But as your friends: This party is creepy.”
“Oh, you didn’t like the display of the ten roasted peacocks? The tiny cakes that looked suspiciously like breasts weren’t to your taste? Or is it the nobles using their drunkenness as an excuse to do… that?”
I gesture to the ballroom floor, where several older, inebriated nobles have cornered young commoners and Bonded, forcing them to dance.Technically, they’re keeping their hands to themselves, but it’s revolting to watch all the same.
Izabel sighs. “See? How did they even manage to get into that state? You’dthink my position as planner would get me a few more perks. I can’t even get the servers to bring me a glass of emberwine. What gives?”
