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I feel like I’m abusing her every time I grunt and huff, but this is ridiculous.
That I’m being stitched into a dress I didn’t pick is bad enough, but everyone acts like they’re in on a joke I’ll only get when it’s already too late. It’s probably true, and I’m doing the best I can not to comment, but for fuck’s sake. How am I supposed to hold back on the poor people who don’t have a choice but to follow their orders when I know at some point, those will be to get rid of me? It’s lunacy, and my magic is rebelling hard as I coax it in my mind.
The bodice is cut to show off Petty and Betty as if I’m trying to catch a suitor. I’d complain, but in contrast, the skirt swirls around my legs like a living shadow. Crescent moons and starbursts crawl up the fabric in silver so bright it makes my eyes water when I look at them. That part is cool as hell, and I actually like it. It not only makes me feel pretty, but also powerful in a way that my previous dresses did not.
They even worked with sigils—supposedly for protection, but I’ve allowed my thrumming magic to weave into them as it wished, so I know they cannot control me somehow. The thread tingles against my skin, thrumming at the pulse points on my shoulders and hips. It’s not unpleasant, but no one enjoys being cloaked in powers that are not their own. Why these people believe I’ll let that stand is beyond me—especially now that I know who and what I am means I have much more in my internal well than I’ve ever accessed.
How I work with and control that, I have no fucking clue, but I’m going to figure it out.
I risk a glance in the mirror and immediately regret it. The reflection is a proper Midnight Fae princess, which is more than I can handle right now. So, I pretend it’s just me being someone’s dress-up doll again, if only to save my sanity for a while longer.
“Jesus fuck,” I mutter, pinching the neckline where it’s cut a millimeter from indecency. “It’s like you want me assaulted before dessert.”
The seamstress nearly drops her needle. “It’s a tradition for a guest of your stature to wear the finest dresses as if they are part of the Court. Her Majesty and the princesses wear this style at every event. If you’d prefer a shawl—”
“I’d prefer chain-mail, but I guess we can’t all have what we want.” I glare at my reflection, feeling the heat rise on my cheeks. “I’m not looking to add to my family, but with my nipples almost on display, that message will not be conveyed properly.”
A derisive snort gets my attention.
“I give it thirty minutes before you rip those frilly sleeves off,” Khol says, lounging on the window ledge like a lazy vulture. His dark leather is studded with silver buckles, each one a sly middle finger to the Court’s dress code. He looks like the bastard child of a Victorian highwayman and a glam rock drummer.
I hate how much I love it, and how being male means he gets bad ass attire and I get fucking boob shelves.
Dezi glides in next, all high collars and tailored lines that scream ‘Old Money Vampire’. He’s been given a coat so black it’s almost liquid, and the fabric shimmers when he moves. He looks at me, his red eyes glinting, and says, “You look like you’re about to demand a human sacrifice, witchling.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I shoot back. “Is this really necessary?”
Revelin strolls in next, already the picture of royal perfection. His tux is midnight-blue, subtly iridescent in the right light, and they added a tie pin shaped like a guitar pick, set with a chunk of raw opal. His hair is loose, falling in careless, colorful waves around his face. Even dressed for this fucking funeral, he oozes rock star. He steps close, tugging me gently into a spin.
“Holy shit, Sassy. You’re a knockout.” The sincerity in his voice makes me feel a lot better. “I’m going to have to keep you away from the court males, or we’ll be in big trouble.”
I punch his arm lightly, which is all the warning he gets about riling up the others. “Keep it up and I’ll trip you into the wine fountain, Prince.”
He grins, catching my hand in his. “Please do. It’s the only way to make these things memorable.” His thumb traces my palm, and I feel the comfort of his touch threading through my frayed nerves.
“Stop flirting,” Tiernan says, rolling his eyes as he emerges from the dressing room.
He’s been stuffed into something that’s half ceremonial armor, half tuxedo—a marvel of magical tailoring, really. The suit’s dark steel plates gleam over the tailored jacket, and instead of a tie, he’s got a clasp at his throat that looks like a leopard’s tooth. “You’re going to make everyone get excited, and that will not lead to us being on time, as instructed.”
Dezi looks at him, his fangs showing in a little smirk. “People are always nervous about visiting royalty and their entourage, Tier. They’re waiting for hell to break loose, especially when it’s one of their shaky allies’ heirs.”
In Faerie, even the truth comes lacquered with a hundred layers of danger that you cannot see until it’s too late.
Khol swings off the ledge and tosses me a look. “You want to bail, Sassy? Now’s the time.”
“I’m not scared of a dinner party,” I lie.
Dezi wags a finger. “But you fear what you’ll find out at one. Don’t forget, the Fae invented drama before humanity crawled out of the mud.”
“Thanks, I feel much better,“ I retort drily. “I was hoping for more of your incredibly supportive factoids from your crusty life span to make me worry more.”
Revelin steps between us. “Tonight isn’t about making a splash. It’s about getting through the evening without winding up on anyone’s ‘Most Wanted’ list. Observe, blend, and if anything feels off, we stick together.”
I nod, letting the words sink in. His calm declaration helps me get back to focusing, rather than snarking. “What if we have to split up?”
Khol’s lips curl. “If they separate us, we break things until we’re together again. They will not catch us off-guard twice.”
“I still don’t like that we’re walking in without weapons,” Tiernan grumbles as he straightens his sleeves.
