He's annoyingly handsome, as usual, in a structured black military-style coat with fitted sleeves and subtle golden fringe at the shoulders, worn open over a heavily embroidered black and gold vest. A reddish-gold sun is pinned to the coat in honor of the celebration. Dark trousers, black boots, and a minimalistic crown complete the ensemble.
After officially greeting him, the guards rearrange themselves again, forming two lines with a center corridor that leads directly to where I stand.
My chest tightens at the display, at the way their alert gazes track toward me after the king passes them. Reave doesn't seem to notice them at all; he has eyes only for me as he approaches and offers his hand.
We step away from the soldiers, and for a moment, it feels like we're set apart from the rest of the world, perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking an ocean of possibilities, vast and uncharted.
I think of my dream—of looking down upon the field of flowers going up in flames—and the knot in my chest pulls tighter.
Reave gives a small wave as the first people on the pavilion notice him, but his attention remains devoted mostly to me.
“You look stunning,” he says, tilting his face toward mine even as he continues to wave to his admirers.
I try to match his easy tone, looking down at my gown and pretending to be unimpressed by it all. “Crimson and gold? The colors of Mouren. Very subtle.”
He shrugs. “They suit you.”
“Why not just wrap me in a flag and parade me around?”
His eyes lift to the banners fluttering from a nearby parapet. “I can grab one for you, if you'd like to change.”
“No thank you,” I say, dryly. “Getting into this dress was quite the feat; I'm not taking it off until absolutely necessary.”
“I could help with that part, if it makes a difference,” he offers with a sly grin.
I probably should have seen this response coming.
I turn away to avoid letting him see any hint of my blush or amusement. The crowd below is growing restless, waiting for the king to join them, so that's where I redirect my attention. “Let's just get the evening over with,” I say.
“By all means.”
I expect him to offer his arm—a formal, stiff gesture. Instead, he takes my hand again, this time lacing his fingersthrough mine. It’s hardly the most intimate thing I’ve ever done, and yet…
So many eyes on us already, but all I can think about for far too long are the tiny points of contact between his skin and mine.
We descend together into the sea of guests below, my nerves humming quietly, my hand warm in his.
The first hour passes in a blur of faces and names that I do my best to remember. Reave moves through his guests the way a slow-moving river winds through a forest—steady, inevitable, seemingly aware of every space he needs to fill without even having to look for it. He introduces me to council members and merchant lords and distant noble relatives, and I smile and incline my head and say what I hope are the appropriate things while his hand frequently finds the small of my back, guiding with a steady pressure that I tell myself is purely performative.
The feast tables are something out of a fairytale, laden with roasted meats glazed in honey, loaves of bread I want to cram wholly into my mouth, towers of fruit and sugared nuts that sparkle in the setting sun's light. We taste something from almost every table. Reave picks things deliberately, carefully watching my face when I try them. When I make an involuntary sound at a dish of spiced lamb—because nothing has any right to taste as good as it does—he looks quietly, insufferably pleased with himself.
I don't give him the satisfaction of admitting that I'm enjoying myself. Because I shouldn't be enjoying this as much as I am…thiswasteful, hedonistic party.
But it's hard not to get caught up in it. In the colors, the scents, the sheer number of people bowing and curtsying to us. In the musicians playing one soft, bright tune afteranother, even though their songs are frequently drowned out by the increasingly loud laughter and conversation from the guests.
Every so often, I hear Briar's familiar laughter rising above the noise; she seems to be turning into the life of the party, as per usual—but she never goes long without tossing a more serious look in my direction, checking on me.
I reassure her with a slight nod every time.
I'm fine.
I'm focused.
I'm fine.
I've made it one hour; I can make it a dozen more, if I have to. Even with Reave's hand pressing more and more possessively against my skin. Even with him frequently leaning close to murmur the names of people before we reach them, his breath falling warm against my ear. Even then, I'm fine. I'm focused.
I'm fine.
