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I look at Dezi, and he shrugs. “That wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve eaten that was not a person. Is it safe, Prince?”

“Fishy, but it should be okay. I wouldn’t serve it to guests as it’s more of a Fae delicacy, and not everyone from outside Faerie likes it.” He pauses and then grins mischievously. “Fun fact, this dish inspired a lot of experimental foods humans ate in the 1970s. Fae who passed as humans brought it into their menus and were shocked to find they were integrated as what they called ‘Jello casseroles’. Weird, huh?”

With a sigh, I taste a tiny piece. It’s sweet, but the aftertaste is disgusting. My vision blurs briefly, and I see a vision of blood splashed across a banquet table. When I blink, the table’s pristine again. I swallow, feeling the room swirl, and use my magic to push back at whatever is trying to get its claws into me.

Very clever, assholes, but you’re not getting me that easily—whoever you are.

Twelve

REVELIN

Khol leans in just enough that I catch a whiff of his cologne—expensive, sharp, always threatening to bite. “They’re not even trying to hide the theatrics,” he says, barely moving his lips. “Look at the head table. The bitch in the center—she’s been staring at Sassypants since we came in.”

I follow his gaze, which means tracing the invisible line of violence between us and the Council. The wolf-masked councilor isn’t wearing her animal face tonight—she’s traded it for a band of platinum studded with black opals that drink the light from the chandelier. Her eyes are colorless, cold, and so clear they could double as razors. She’s locked on Fiadh, chin propped up on a single elegant finger, as if this is the only entertainment worth her time.

And it probably is, since she’s hoping we’ll accept their offer.

To her right, Shailagh and the Duchess of Reaping look like the world’s bitchiest chess team. They communicate through a flick of a ring, a shift of a wrist, and tiny smug smiles. Whole paragraphs of murder and ambition pass between them without a word, and it’s even impressive to me. Fae are often expressive through visual cues as well as auditory, but those two have silence mastered—it’s inspiring, to be honest.

The Vizier glares at me from behind a phalanx of crystal glasses, his mouth twisted in a smirk so ugly it’s practically a threat. If hatred could distill itself, this bastard would already bottle and sell mine. Every time I glance at Fiadh, his eyes narrow. He wants us on board—tonight, permanently—and I can respect the work ethic, if not the aesthetic.

My father has advisors who are so laser-focused on his aims, so it’s nothing new, but I don’t enjoy it being aimed at my mate.

Fiadh is pretending not to notice any of it, which is an art form in itself. She pokes at the second course as if she expects it to explode. The salad is a showpiece more than food. Silver leaves that curl and shiver on the fork, translucent berries that pop with a visible shimmer when pierced—everything is toxic and gorgeous, and even the dressing looks weaponized. Luckily for us, her Fae-blood won’t allow this to harm her as it might others.

She takes a bite, chews, and makes a face like she just licked a battery. “I don’t get it,” she whispers. “Are we supposed to eat this, or just admire it until it attacks?”

Tiernan sits at attention, back stiff and eyes moving constantly. He doesn’t touch the salad because he knows not to eat Fae greenery he can’t name. “They’re waiting for something,” he murmurs, low and cold. “No one’s eaten more than a bite, not even the staff. Look at the pace of service—deliberate, controlled. They want to see what we do first.”

I take my cue, swirling the wine in my glass. It’s a deep indigo that morphs with every tilt into gold. Daybreak varietals are all sunshine and sugar, but this one looks like it was aged in a volcano. I catch a whiff—there’s a bite of iron underneath the floral. I smirk, holding the glass up to the light so the Vizier can see me catch the trap.

His eyes widen, and I wiggle my finger to summon my magic. Once the sparkling, sunshine-colored power leaves my finger, it heads straight for the wine, neutralizing the dangerous addition with a shot of air that turns to rust. Gesturing for a server, I ask for an empty glass, and when it comes, I filter the wine through my napkin to catch the ferrous particles.

“Oopsie,” I say, just loud enough for the table. “I guess someone was sharpening something too close to the serving trays. Good thing I know exactly how to fix that problem.”

Fiadh doesn’t flinch, but I can see her hackles rising as she growls low to me. “Are you going to let that stand? It might not have killed you, but…”’

“Hell no,” I reply. “I will not start shit with this many enemies unidentified. I see one at the leftmost table, three seats down—the leader of House Nightshade, whose heirs currently hold the Midnight Throne. The old man with the cane hasn’t taken his eyes off you; he may even be old enough to remember your mother.”

She glances, quick and subtle. The man is skeletal, with rings so heavy they weigh his fingers into a permanent claw. Every time he taps the cane, I can feel the echo shiver up my spine. His stare is wet, hungry, and entirely without fear.

This motherfucker definitely has suspicions about my mate—or he’s aiming for me since I’m a Daybreak heir.

Further down, there are glaring twins—Shadowthorn, by the look of their tattoos—sitting side by side in perfect symmetry. They move in unison, knives and forks gliding through the air like mirrored assassins. Their faces are blank, but the eyes are locked on Fiadh, blinking in a pattern that’s probably its own language. I’m fairly certain I’ve seen these two before, in my court, which is why I remember their heritage. Then again, Oliver has lots of dangerous fucks around the castle, and I’m not there often, so I could be mis-remembering. Lots of wanna-be badasses around covered in tatts they didn’t earn—on both sides of the Veil.

Fiadh curls her lip as she looks at them. “I prefer my twin, for sure. Those two seem like they probably burned ants with spy glasses as kids. You know, the ones who wanted to see things die as they plucked legs off? I’d rather swim through broken glass naked than be around shitheads like that.”

I let myself laugh, low and dirty. “I love how you classify people, Sassy. Your disgust for the masses is quite amusing, even when it’s assholes who seem to think you’re on the menu.”

Khol’s next to speak, his voice a blade. “They’re not afraid of us, but they’re terrified of you and Rev. Between their suspicion that you aren’t who you say and his regal shit most of the small-time players know they can’t come for us directly.”

Dezi, who’s been silent until now, leans in and lets his fangs show. “It’s all about bloodlines and power in this room. It’s very much like vampire clans and covens gathering in large numbers. I find this quite familiar—which is good for all of you—because I have navigated it many times over the years without being killed.”

“Remind me never to throw a dinner in Faerie,” Fiadh mutters, stabbing another silver leaf. “The guest list is murder.”

I sip my wine and watch the stage, knowing damn well this is only the overture.

The Council wants to see us sweat, but we’re not going to let them have the satisfaction.