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“Perfection.”
Claudette uncoils the elaborate handmade veil and tries to cover the deep V of the bodice. “Isn’t it too revealing?”
“Eh, not too much.”
“You’re a queen, not a harlot.”
I lean in and whisper, “I hope to be D’Artaron’s harlot on the night of the wedding, so I think it’s perfect.”
“Chloe, please.”
“What’s with the red shoes?” Lolta asks.
“I don’t know, but I love those too.”
“Red is the color of the Winter Court, Your Majesty.”
“Yes, and it’s also the color of passion and love. I’m wearing the outfit just the way it is.”
40
D’ARTARON
After practicing chastity for over a century, everything about it gets easier. One no longer craves, needs, or even thinks about the opposite sex. During the summers I spent serving the Summer king, I had the pleasure of being desired by some of the most beautiful females in the world. And yet, when they approached me, I always found it easy to refuse.
It helped that the rumors about my chastity spread, so the females knew I would reject their efforts. Gently but firmly. What I didn’t realize was that my way of life would become a topic of folktales told at night to younger females by their older siblings or other relatives. The tales said that the commander was chaste because he was waiting for them.
It makes me wonder if many of those songs about me were fabricated by the Summer king or even his sister to lure people into the court. It worked. They came. They tried. But I had my vow and my oath, and I wasn’t going to break it.
After a few decades, I was certain I would never marry.
I was certain that I would serve in the Summer Court as the commander of the Summer fae armies for the rest of my life. A long life, to be sure, but a life well lived in service of the Summer king.
But then I attended a winter wedding. To me, it was a party, like any other party, but it turned out to be a wedding unlike any other. I met Chloe, a female who, because of circumstances arranged by others, fell into a loveless marriage with a male who (if he were alive) would never have loved her, would never have desired her, would never have completed her in any way.
Living a life without passion and love is a bland, lonely existence. I learned that from Chloe. At first, she tempted me without even trying. When she realized that I was interested, she grew bolder, tempting me in spontaneous, innocent ways. She was not brought up to be a seductress, a siren like Fleur, so all her efforts with me came from a place of genuine desire.
Perhaps that’s what I love most about her. She lets me see the softness of her heart and surrenders it to me, trusting I won’t hurt her. And I did hurt her when I left. It is my hope that, with time, she will come to forgive me for that.
Meanwhile, I will do what I do best. Protect her and our kingdom.
I have the fates to thank for placing Chloe in my path. Giving her the courage to be my temptress even when she wasn’t trying, because otherwise, I wouldn’t be standing before the steps of the throne, in the throne hall, waiting for the doors to open and for my bride to walk through them.
A bead of sweat trails down from my hairline. Summer is arriving. When I think of the summer, I reach for the mind of the Summer king. “Knock, knock,” I call telepathically.
He turns from speaking to his sister, Fleur, whose undead boyfriend hasn’t shown up yet because of the sunlight. Thankfully. Given that they have a baby together, and I’m grateful that Fleur is now a mother, I should probably try to like him more. But I do not appreciate the fates having given away someone as powerful as Fleur to the Unseelie court. Not at all.
“D’Artaron, thinking violent thoughts about my brother-in-law won’t make him go away,” the Summer king says in my head as he walks toward me. When he reaches me, out loud he says, “He can’t come to the ceremony.”
“I shall have a crisis,” I deadpan.
The king smirks. “But he’s coming to the reception.”
“Maybe we can poison him then,” I suggest.
He sighs. “I’ll miss all your violent thinking, D’Artaron. Amartis is nowhere near as creative as you are.”
“Thank you…” I pause, realizing I can no longer call him my king or even the Summer king. “Et’enne.”
