"Where did you get them?" she asked softly, eyes lifting from the slippers to meet his gaze.
Something unreadable passed over his face, gone before she could truly investigate it. His jaw ticked, eyes dropping to her toes, peeking from beneath her flowing skirts. "They were my mother’s."
"Your mother’s? I-I cannot take them—" Luella pressed her small hands against Graves’s, which held the slippers.
"You will," Graves said. "I want you to—have them." The words were said low and with effort, as if vulnerability caused him a great deal of pain.
Luella’s eyes darted to the throne, where Queen Samil watched their exchange with a delicate hand pressed over hermouth and sparkling eyes. Sora watched, as well, though her expression was filled with overt displeasure.
As her attention fell back to the Fallen Prince before her, she nearly jumped back as Graves took to his knee. Right there, in the throne room—witheveryonewatching.
The chatter and pleasant laughter tapered off.
"Graves," Luella whispered harshly. Her body froze.
His head bowed before her, the longer strands of his dark hair at the top falling over his forehead, hiding his eyes from her. His lips curved with a faint smile; she nearly missed it.
His bare hands skimmed over her ankle, shifting up the hem of her gown to reveal her bare feet. Her wings trembled uncontrollably from his touch.
As he gently—so, so gently—took her right foot and lifted it, a slipper in his hand, she realized his intentions.
She was too frightened and embarrassed to look at the Fallen in the room, so she stared at the top of his head, the curve of his shoulders, and the outline of his wings. "They’re all watching."
Graves slid her right foot into the slipper, placing it back down on the floor before lifting her left. "Let them," he replied. His breath tickled her ankle and calf.
Sea-scented air swept through the throne room.
"But you’re the Prince," she stressed. "You cannotkneelbefore me."
If the Fallen hated her before, they would detest her now.
"Watch me." Graves glanced up at her as he fit the slipper on her foot, thumb brushing her ankle. He rose, hands drifting over her thighs and hips, until they settled on her waist. He tugged her sharply into his front. "If they know my loyalty is not to the crown of the Fallen, I don’t fucking care."
Luella gasped. His words had been so low she’d struggled to hear. But the fae had weaker senses than most.
"Who is it to, then?"
She already knew.
"You don’t need to ask me that," he said.
He took her hand, the other holding her waist, then they danced. Her feet obeyed before her body could catch up—still reeling after what he’d just done, the statement he’d just made in front of everyone. It was only halfway through their dance that she could formulate words. By that time, the Fallen had resumed their talks and dancing, but the air held a stilted, charged note now.
Her magic sang a glorious song in her breast at the claim he’d laid upon her. She hated it. She felt it well within her, pressing against her flesh as if to seek out the spots where he touched her.
"Do you know what you’re doing?" Luella asked him.
He stared into her eyes. "For the first godsdamned time—yes."
After their dance, he deposited her on the lounge. Her mind was spinning. Her shoulder bumped Az’s, and she was broken from her stupor.
The demon’s amber eyes were hot as he took her in. "Was that okay with you, angel?"
"I—" Luella shook her head. "I don’t know."
She lifted her chin. Vale sat on the lounge across from her, the physical embodiment of embers and ash. She swallowed and looked away.
The Prince of the Fallen Isles had just publicly knelt before her and forsaken his crown in her name.
