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“Dagny, save me,” I murmur.
The ballroom gleams like a scene torn straight from the pages of a fable. Hundreds of paper lanterns float above us like captive stars, their golden glow illuminating the vaulted ceilings and casting soft light over a sea of sparkling gowns and candlelit tables that’ve been pushed to the side to make room for dancing.
My breath catches in my throat.
It’s too beautiful. Too unreal.
I fist the delicate fabric of my gown. It’s so much easier to focus on the feel of the silk than on how out of place I am in a room designed to dazzle.
And yet, something in my chest cracks open.
Wonder slips in, uninvited but welcomed.
A prickling sensation crawls across the back of my neck, and I glance behind me—just in time to see Lord Devlin gripping Lyrielle’s arm. She jerks free and melts into the crowd, hastily putting distance between her and the male.
As if sensing my gaze, he whips his head in my direction, catching my eye.
I spin away and push after the siren, stomach churning.
What was that about?
Laughter mingles with the clink of crystal and the swell of string instruments as I weave through the revelers, trailing Elle toward the doors.
Just beyond the revelry, the palace garden has been completely transformed into a petal-laced dream. The ballroom’s golden light filters outside through the floor-to-ceiling windows and canopies of wisteria, dusting the white petals underfoot with lavender.
And there, sitting on a gilded throne with a handful of brides fawning over him, is the king of the Fae Isles.
His grin is as crooked as his crown as he leans in and tucks a loose curl behind Miriya’s ear.
Something bitter coils beneath my breastbone, clawing and sharp, burgeoning with every thump of my heart. Possessive. Ugly. Unwelcome. It sinks its teeth in and twists—hot and irrational. I tear my gaze away before it shows on my face, breathing through the ache that’s settled behind my ribs.
“Miriya,” he says, voice low and smooth, like he’s sharing a secret. “Will you dance with me?”
If I’m a sunflower, his voice is the sun, dragging my attention back to him again and again. I watch in burning silence as he offers her his hand. The same hand that was between my thighs no more than half an hour ago. She beams as she accepts his invitation, incandescent with delight, and he leads her inside. Several of the brides trail after them, their strained smiles slipping into quiet frowns.
Disappointment thickens the air like smoke.
Just ahead, Lyrielle lingers at the edge of the gardens, arms folded, a scowl coiling across her pink lips.
“Are you all right?” I ask, weaving past two of the other brides to reach her.
“Perfectly fine. King Riven’s first dance isn’t nearly as important as his last.” She winks. “Are you sulking like the rest of them because you weren’t his top choice?”
More than I’d care to admit.
“A little,” I say anyway. The truth slips out, and it feels good—even when her eyes narrow. “But I wasn’t asking about the dance.” I tilt my head toward the ballroom. “I saw a male grab you earlier. What was that about?”
“Oh, that?” She waves it off. “That was nothing. Just another prick who doesn’t like the idea of a non-fae female becoming their queen.” She rolls her eyes, but I don’t miss the faint tremor in her hand as she tosses a braid over her shoulder. “Come on. We should watch the first dance.”
“Lead the way,” I say, letting the conversation drop, even though I’m not sure I should.
But if Elle insists it was nothing—maybe it really was nothing.
Maybe Lord Devlin is just another bitter bigot.
We push through to the front of the crowd just as Riven gestures toward the musicians from the center of the dance floor. The tune shifts. They no longer play a lively little jig, but something slow and romantic.
Riven and Miriya look good together.
