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The female leans over the table. “Your son put a baby inside me when he should’ve pulled out, so I get the last name now.”
“Shut your trap, Mariasna,” Kostya says.
People start whispering.
My brother is making his way over.
Oh, this is better than I hoped for. “Who is Mariasna?” I press Kostya, appearing wounded by his betrayal.
“Nobody, Your Majesty.”
“He’s lying.” A male stands up, and my brother, as well as his guards, rush toward him. “My sister speaks the truth. She carries his baby.”
“Wait,” I say to the guards, and walk toward the male who spoke. Blond, tall, looks like his sister sitting across from him.
Kostya leaps up and grabs my wrist. “They’re liars!”
I tug but can’t escape his clutches. I tug harder, but his fingers dig in. I try using my magic, but he cancels mine with his. “Guards,” I shout at the same time as his mother rises, her magic sparkling around her body.
My brother’s trying to get to me, but can’t. The guards can’t either. Oh no.
All the windows swing open at once, the curtains coil on themselves like snakes, the table lifts along with all the utensils, and the loud cheering of the people on the streets penetrates the acoustic barrier surrounding the palace.
“He’s here,” I say as I stare out the windows.
I tug my hand, and when Kostya won’t let go, I tell him, “He’ll kill you if you hurt me. Escape with your life while you can, and if you don’t sign over the Belten estate and its wealth to that female over there, I will exile you from this court and make sure no other fae lands take you.”
Kostya and his mother rush out of the room.
I gather my gown, kick off my sandals, and start sprinting toward the palace exit, my brother’s shouts following behind me.
Doors open before I get to them, clearing the path for me, and before I can make it out of the palace, the gate swings open, and I see him.
D’Artaron.
He stands at the open gates, with an army. They’re all wearing emerald uniforms.
He wears an emerald uniform.
It is the uniform of my court, of his birth court, of our court.
They say queens shouldn’t run.
Queens shouldn’t run barefoot over the gravel, but I can’t suppress my joy at seeing him. As I sprint over the path, I feel my wings stiffen and propel me forward even faster until I reach him. I throw myself at him and bury my nose in the crook of his neck.
I inhale a lungful and hold my breath as I lock my arms around his neck. He holds me upright and doesn’t move. Over the people’s hooting and cheers, all I hear is D’Artaron’s deep voice saying, “I’ve missed you.” He squishes me as he holds me tightly. When he starts to put me down, I wrap my legs around his waist and lock in my heels.
Queens most definitely don’t do that. I’m not allowed to show affection or emotion in front of others. That’s a shame, because people don’t emotionally connect with status or with the crown. They connect during these raw moments that display emotion and character.
I’m happy, and I want the court to know it. That’s all. And showing the passion for life, for D’Artaron’s return, is what I want to do.
Carrying me, D’Artaron walks toward the palace, and I get the pleasure of watching the sea of soldiers and, beyond them, the people cheer him on. He’s been on everyone’s mind as much as he’s been on mine.
As he climbs the stairs, I can feel his shaft growing. Unfortunately, he does too, and he taps my arm and puts me on the steps, where I fix my gown, though not my hair. There’s no way I can fix the twenty-some pins that fell out as I ran.
“Chloe,” D’Artaron says in a tone I don’t recognize. He rarely calls me by my name, and certainly not in this tone, with this cadence. I’m not sure what he has in mind, so I brace myself.
“Yes, Commander?”
