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Like it belongs to a version of me I haven’t even met yet.

A witch who dazzles, who boldly takes what she wants.

Lettie rifles through the velvet-lined box and retrieves a gilded laurel leaf hair comb and a velvet choker, dark as the ink Rory and Quill used to pen their note.

We waste no time stripping me of my day dress and shimmying the gown up and over my hips, my arms gliding through the sleeves.

“Somehow this dress was tailored perfectly for you,” Lettie muses, lacing up the corset. She’s careful with her threading, gentle with her tugging. “It’s almost as if a certain king provided your measurements to his brother.”

That does sound like something Riven would do.

The lace at my collarbone trembles slightly with each breath. Maybe it’s my nerves. Maybe it’s the idea of Riven going out of his way to retrieve my measurements to assist Rory and Quill with such a decadent surprise. Or maybe it’s because, as I look into the full-length mirror and smooth my hands over this stunning gown, I don’t just look the part of a potential bride.

I feel it.

And I’m terrified that I want it.

Fresh flowers and garlands perfume the air as I descend the staircase.

I glance over the railing, taking in the cramped main hall. Hundreds of creatures mill about, gossiping and preening, their laughter reverberating against the stone walls.

The moment I reach the second-to-last landing, I’m yanked into a dark alcove.

I can’t see him, but his scent—fresh as a forest with a hint of eucalyptus and juniper—is enough to knock any fear out of my bones.

Riven presses me against the wall, nuzzling his face into my neck. “I’ve been meaning to apologize all day, but I’ve been busy with the Seven.”

“Apologize for what?” I ask, toying with the hair at his nape.

“Last night.” He leans back, eyes sweeping me from choker to hem. “And I needed to see you in this dress before everyone else.” His tongue darts out and wets his bottom lip. “Don’t ever tell Rory I said this, but… she was right.”

“Right about what?”

“That you’d look very pretty in dark purple.”

“Really?”

His forehead touches mine. “Really.” He tightens his grip on my waist and lowers his voice. “How am I supposed to focus on anyone else when you’re in the room?”

I don’t get a chance to answer. His mouth claims mine in a kiss that’s slow and hungry. I melt into it, into him, a soft sound catching in my throat as he deepens it.

He breaks away, panting. “Should I stop?”

Of course he should. This is reckless. He’s supposed to focus on Miriya tonight, not drag me into some shadowed alcove and make me forget how to exist outside his orbit.

But what if I pretended—just for a few damning minutes—that I am one of his potential brides?

“No,” I whisper. “Please don’t stop.”

And just like that, his current pulls me under, and all logic is lost to the crush of his mouth and the glide of his hands. He hikes up my gown with one hand and slides the other between my legs, cursing the moment his fingers caress damp lace. A hungry groan comes from the back of his throat.

“You know I don’t revere any gods or goddesses beyond the Sovereign Sisters,” he says quietly, dropping to his knees. “But for a moment, I’d like to worship you like one.”

“Riven, you don’t have⁠—”

“I do, though.” His grin is wicked. “It’s only fair.”

I tilt my head. “Fair how?”