I wondered what my father was up to in Leihani. If he’d been informed that I was marrying a prince—or if he thought me dead. I couldn’t help thinking the latter was more likely.
I grew a bit heartsick when I thought of the weddings in Leihani. Simple, happy, relaxed. An undemanding crowd. Just two people, in love.
I wondered if my mother, a stranger to her environment during her own wedding, suffered anxiety over her ceremony.
And then, there was suddenly not enough time anymore to sit around worrying.
The remainder of the day whooshed by in a flash.
Stitched into my dress, I’d never seen my waist so narrow. Kohl over my eyes, rouge on my cheeks; my hair sat coiffed into an intricate labyrinth over my head, and the weight of it along with several thousand pins was like being buried at the bottom of the ocean.
The ceremony was to take place in the southwest yard outside the Laurier Palace, overlooking the Juile Sea.
I watched wedding guests for what seemed like hours from the window of the room I’d been given to wait in. The City of Towers was saturated with people: distant relatives of the royal family, nobles whose estates lay in the far reaches of the kingdom, allied kings and queens, the families of advisors and ministry professionals. They’d spent the last few weeks talking to me about my future, my duties as princess, my priorities as far as they were concerned, the wedding itself, and always, without fail, my wedding night.
Luckily, Diara stayed with me.
As Selena promised, Diara didn’t remember anything she’d said. I wondered if a hint of it was there—maybe she remembered but thought she’d dreamt it—or if it had been wiped completely from her mind. I suppose I’d never know. But I was glad to have her company.
She paced the floor, seeming almost more nervous than I was.
Almost.
Whatever she felt couldn't possibly have matched the anxious maelstrom that had formed in my stomach. It whirred and churned, a tornado of water deep as Nahli’s volcano.
When a liveried footman popped his head in the door, I thought I might vomit. “It’s time, Lady Maren.”
My breath shallow, I slid off my seat by the window.
Diara turned to me, fixing a rogue hair over my brow, clucking under her breath. “You’ll knock him dead.”
I only smiled at her because yes—I planned to.
Musicians began playing the moment I stepped outside the door of the little side cottage we’d occupied, my feet finding the flagstones between grass. Strings and woodwinds floated to my ears, the scent of rose petals lifting from under my feet, the faint taste of salt blooming across my tongue.
An aisle stretched before me, carved by wrought iron chairs painted white and chipping, and a thousand Calderians swiveled in their seats, their eyes heavy on mine.
Breathe.
It would’ve been easier if the man waiting on the other side had been in love with me. But he wasn’t, and my breath became a moth in my lungs, flitting around so fast I couldn’t catch it.
And I wasn’t in love with him either. I wasn’t sure I even believed in love. Was it anything more than how Selena had described it? A flood of oxytocin? A drug to the brain?
My legs heavy, I stepped into the aisle, and a thousand people stood.
I wished they wouldn’t.
One step over the other, I carried myself to the end and stepped on the wooden dais that had been constructed the day before, piled high with roses of every color. The sun loomed over the water, sleepy but curious. Lanterns and candles scattered around us.
Kye and me.
Mihauna, he was beautiful.
He’d forgone the midnight-blue colors of the royal family for layers of black. I wondered if the color choice was standard in Calderian groom fashion, or if, like the other choices he’d been rumored to make, he’d opted for the brooding hue as a slight to his father. A small act of rebellion before being shipped off towar. Across from the pale color of my dress, we looked like death and bone together. His jacket was clean cut and open, the simple black shirt underneath fitted to the dips and curves of his chest and abdomen, the snug taper of his pants alluding to muscular thighs.
Dark stubble lined his jaw, his sleeves rolled up to show the tattoo of his mother's family crest. His hair shone chocolate brown in the setting sun, mussed and moody as though it might’ve been combed and styled an hour ago but the wind had had its way with it, stroking its fingers through the strands until they’d come undone.
I wondered what his hair felt like—and instantly yanked the thought from my head, filling the void with something venomous and potent instead.
