Page 38 of A Thief Among Fae

“I’ll make sure you get them back.” He studies me. “What did you tell him of our plans?”

“Nothing. I don’t trust him. Not that I trust you, either.”

He spins me, and when he laughs, my breath catches in surprise. I stumble, but he rights me with gentle ease. “Wise decision,” he says.

“You’re good at this.” I wince. That sounded moronic.

“I’m a quick study.”

We part as I encircle the leaders of other couples. When we rejoin, I forget the next step.

“You seemed proficient a minute ago,” he states.

I restrain my urge to shove him and sabotage his proficiency. “Have you ever had a dance partner who didn’t slap you by the end?”

The hint of a dimple flashes. “Whether you slap me or not, you would be the first.”

“Your first. . . dance partner? But you’re a prince.”

He shrugs, but it’s graceful as if part of the dance.

I huff a surprised laugh. “You must be just as intolerable to the fae as you are to me.”

We part again, but he continues when we reunite. “Or I avoid dancing because books make better conversation than people.” He glances at me. “Most people.”

I roll my eyes.

The music accelerates, the jig progressing toward its tumultuous end. “Brace yourself,” he says as our steps and kicks quicken. Then his arm wraps around my back.

He dips me. His face eclipses the sun and sky. Soft, messy curls dangle free from his hood. Curiosity swirls in his darkened eyes, so close to mine that it’s all I see. I stare up at him, the music deafening as time slows until it’s meaningless.

A high fae prince. A walking, smirking trove of secrets. A vow. An undoing.

Looking up at him feels like standing atop a cliff over water. The moment before your feet leave the ground. The second before the air sings in your ears. It’s a liminal penumbra between backing away and embracing the free fall.

Our vow pulses against my wrist. I’ve sworn to go with him and seize my dream of freedom. . . or die trying.

His lips curve in a knowing smile, as if sensing my sudden apprehension. Then he pulls me up and draws me to his chest. I know it’s the last move of the dance; I’ve done it before with men back home. But his warmth mingling with mine feels different.

All conversation dims to hushed whispers.

His hood fell back after the dip.

The shocked expressions, some wide-eyed with curiosity, others narrowing in disdain, curdle my stomach.

“Cover your ears. It makes it harder for them to glamour,” a mother warns her two daughters. Guards emerge from the crowd, keeping their distance per the treaty, but all the same. . . They’re surrounding us.

Desmond pulls the hood up. His expression is indifferent, his voice remarkably steady as he says, “Let’s go.”

This time, I don’t argue.

Chapter 11

Guards pursue us through the crowded streets, their wariness palpable. “Why aren’t they confronting us?” I murmur to Desmond.

He opens the door of a shop for me, not sparing the guards a glance. “They’re afraid.”

I sneak a look and see more than one hand resting on a sword pommel. They’ve realized the Hollowlands’ fae prince has been walking amongst them. One stray punch or strike of a blade is all it would take to shatter the delicate treaty that ended the War of Burning.