The spread is enticing. There is fresh bread still warm from the oven, vibrant vegetables, and fragrant stews bubbling in large pots. My stomach rumbles in response, the hunger I’ve been pushing aside suddenly demanding attention.
But even as I take a seat, my mind keeps circling back to the conversation we just had. The weight of the promises made, the love I admitted to, hangs over us like a delicate thread, fragile yet unbreakable. I can’t help but steal glances at the others, the way their expressions shift as we settle into our seats, the familiar camaraderie settling in alongside the tension.
It’s different now. I see it. Feel it. The way they look at me isn’t something I can pretend not to notice anymore.
My gaze drifts first to Oberon, who is seated across from me, his shoulders broad beneath the fitted fabric, the movement of his arms pulling slightly at the seams as he reaches for his glass. He moves with a dangerous kind of control, every motion precise and restrained, but the moment his gaze flicks to mine, the edge softens enough to steal my breath.
Sylvian sits to my side, composed as ever, but I’m suddenly far too aware of how close he is. Of the strength in his hands as they rest against the table, long fingers relaxed but capable, steady in a way that makes me feel anchored just being near him. When he shifts slightly, the fabric across his chest pulls, and I have to look away before I stare.
Ashton is impossible not to notice. He leans back just slightly in his chair, all easy confidence and quiet amusement, his attention flicking to me more often than not. There’s something in his expression, a hint of a wicked smile, that makes warmth curl low in my stomach before I can stop it.
And Cassius… I forget how to breathe for just a moment. He’s quieter than the others, more contained, but that only makes everything about him feel more deliberate. The way his hands move, precise and controlled. The way his posture stays perfectly composed, even as his gaze lingers just long enough to make my pulse stutter.
My face warms, and I drop my gaze to the table, trying to collect myself. They’re all just so strong. Beautiful. Impossible to ignore.
And somehow… they chose me.
This situation is complicated. Confusing. Completely outside anything I understand. And yet… I do.
“Lady Alette,” Lord Ferngull says, drawing my attention. “You look absolutely stunning this evening. You’ve elevated the entire room simply by stepping into it.”
My cheeks flush instantly. He says it too easily, too carefully, like every word was chosen in advance. It doesn’t make me feel good the way the kings’ compliments do.
“As flattering as that is,” Ashton says, “I think she’s been adequately informed of that fact.”
A few of the servants nearby go very still.
Lord Ferngull’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes flick briefly to Ashton, assessing. Then back to me.
“Humility,” he says softly, “is often most charming when it’s undeserved.”
“You’ve said enough,” Oberon says, voice calm but edged.
The air tightens. Just slightly.
Lord Ferngull’s smile deepens, as if he enjoys the resistance. “Of course,” he says easily. “Merely acknowledging what’s in front of me.”
“Are there no others that will be joining us?” Ashton asks, changing the subject.
Lord Ferngull shrugs. “There were more when the labyrinth first surrounded us, but you saw how dangerous this place is. It took us a while to learn how to survive here, and by then, we’d lost far too many fae lives.”
I barely have a second to consider his words before Lord Ferngull gestures lightly, and a servant steps forward with something small resting on a velvet cloth.
“A token,” he says, his tone softening as his attention returns fully to me. “For our honored guest.”
The servant lifts a delicate bracelet, fine silver threaded with faintly glowing stones that catch the candlelight. It’s beautiful.
“Please,” Lord Ferngull continues, leaning forward slightly. “Allow me.”
He reaches for it.
“No.” The word is immediate. Sharp. Oberon doesn’t even hesitate.
Sylvian’s hand rests lightly against the back of my chair, an unspoken signal. “We appreciate the gesture,” he says evenly. “But she won’t be accepting it. It wouldn’t be proper.”
Lord Ferngull hesitates, the bracelet glinting faintly between his fingers. Something subtle surfaces beneath his composure. Not anger.
Interest.
