I plaster a bright, practiced smile on my lips—the one usually reserved for Father. “You mean snowballs? We throw those every day! My aim isimpeccable.” The women look thoroughly scandalized, but Zev only chuckles, low and deep.
Suddenly, he stiffens, his gaze fixed somewhere over my head. “Excuse us,” he says abruptly, a crease between his brows. “It’s time for our dance.” With a reassuring smile, he leads me towardthe center of the gleaming dance floor as the music transitions into a soft, intimate melody.
But my anxious heart ignores the gentle strains and beats to its own lightning-fast rhythm.
Zev studies me, his gray eyes soft, like silvery moonlight cutting through haze.
“Just like we practiced, wife.”
Before I can respond, his large hands bracket my waist and lift me until my feet rest atop his. A surprised gasp escapes me, and I instinctively wrap my arms around his neck.
We sway with the music. Zev holds me close, the entire length of his body pressed against mine, his large hands stretched across my lower back. His gray eyes smolder as he watches me.
The rest of the hall vanishes like smoke.
It’s just me and him.
Like it has been for weeks. Somehow, it feels much longer than that.
“I meant to tell you earlier,” he murmurs, his deep, gravelly voice pitched even lower. “Skies help me, you’re the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re lying.” I’ve seen the gorgeous Arbinji noblewomen flitting gracefully around the ballroom with bare shoulders and backs, faces ethereal and glowing. I don’t compare to them.
Zev’s voice drops impossibly lower, his warm breath caressing my ear. “I would never. There’s nothing I hate more than a liar.” His hand travels up the length of my spine, fingers tracing tantalizing lines on the back of my neck. My chest is pressed against his as he moves us in time with the music.
A pleasant shiver ripples through me, my mouth suddenly dry. “Did you pick our outfits?” I blurt out, playing with the collar of his tunic. The turquoise embroidery glints beneath thechandelier light. “I thought I’d be wearing the color of frozen mud.”
He hums, flashing me a playful grin. “I might have had some input. Do you like them?” He brushes an errant curl from my face, his thumb lingering on my cheek. Tides, there’s so much softness in his eyes, I don’t know what to do with it. He’s dragging me into uncharted depths along with him, a persistent, dangerous undercurrent that’ll swallow me whole if I’m not careful.
“I like the blue.” My voice is stiff, unconvincing. I wrench my gaze away, but not quickly enough to miss the confusion shadowing his eyes.
“Mayah, what’s—” he starts, but the song ends, and the thundering applause swallows any other words he might have said.
Zev cuts me a concerned glance as we move toward the long banquet table where King Varad lounges, surrounded by nobles draped in finery and thinly veiled disdain. My heart slams against my ribs, each beat a warning drum, but Zev’s hand—broad and unyielding at the small of my back—steadies me against the weight of their eyes.
Nearly every inch of the long table is weighed down with food—platters of roasted meat glistening with sauce, mounds of roasted vegetables I can’t name, baskets overflowing with bread. It’s an obscene display, more food than I’ve ever seen in one place.
In Tundrayn, we had feasts, but they were measured. Never in excess. Nothing wasted.
The sight churns my stomach.
Zev’s brow remains creased with concern as he guides me forward to stand before the king.
Varad rises with grace. His eyes—sharp and calculating—soften when they settle on Zev. There’s actual warmththere, perhaps even pride, hidden between layers of iron-hard authority. Bitterness churns in my gut—Father has never once gazed at me with such affection.
But Zev doesn’t return the sentiment. He dips his head in a formal nod, jaw tight, avoiding the king’s gaze entirely.
We’re scarcely there a moment before my husband leads us to a small round table reserved for the two of us.
“What’s wrong?” Zev asks as soon as we’re seated, the words finally spilling over.
I jerk my head toward the banquet tables laden with food. “What happens to the leftovers?”
Understanding dawns on my husband’s face. His lips press into a thin line. “They’re thrown away.”
Disgust crawls up my throat. “In Tundrayn, nonwielding children often go to bed hungry,” I whisper past the tightness in my throat. “It’s been worse lately. The Tides give less and less. Fishermen return with empty nets.”
A servant sets down the first course before us—wilted greens garnished with chopped nuts. I stare at the plate, appetite nonexistent.
