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I locked the disappointment behind a seamless mask of confidence. I turned my body slightly, arching my spine to press my weight backward into the amber-eyed male. The thin white silk offered no barrier; the heat of his torso bled instantly into my skin, the silver chains of my dress biting softly between our bodies as we locked into the rhythm together.

He let out a low, satisfied growl against the crown of my head, his hands sliding down to guide the movement of my hips with a heavy grip. I closed my eyes and gave in to the motion, letting the primal thud of the drums consume my thoughts. I pushed Caspian completely into the abyss of my mind, choosing instead to drown in the exquisite, carnal validation of being wanted right here, right now, in the dark heart of the summer warmth.

TWENTY-TWO

The caramel-skinned male’s hands linger on my waist for a few final, heavy rhythms before I slid out of his grip with a parting, sharp smile. The rejection is seamless, a standard exchange on the solstice lawns where no one clings to a single partner for long. My skin still feels flush from the proximity, but the restless, carnal thrumming in the air demands something more. I weave through the undulating sea of white silk, my bare feet silent against the warm grass, guided by the scent of roasted honey and heavy spice toward the silver-draped pavilions.

This isn’t the standard vintage poured at the harvest tables. This is Solstice wine, and the heavy crystal decanters are thick with a dangerous, unnatural weight. The sovereign mages had spent months distilling the liquid, imbuing it with crushed Vesper-leaves harvested from the forbidden, subterranean roots of the Aethel-Spire. The botanical magic strikes straight into the blood, artificial and absolute, designed to amplify the triple moons pull until every carnal urge runs harder, deeper. It turns the mind quiet and makes every touch, every glance, and every promise infinitely more desirable.

I grab a silver goblet, draining the dark, heavy vintage in three long swallows. It tastes of midnight blackberries and hot iron, sending a volatile friction rushing straight through my veins.

I could not stop consuming it.

Glass after glass. Dance after dance. Male after male.

Time begins to warp, the standard rifts of the night dissolving into a seamless blur of silver mist and pounding drums. I lose track of how many hours have passed since Caspian left me at the base of the dais. I push his stone mask completely into the abyss, choosing instead to drown in the chaotic validation of the field. I dance with a silver-eyed lord from the western shore, then a broad-shouldered vanguard scout whose hands are rough against my ribs, then a slender, fair-skinned male who tastes of the summer wine. The thin white silk of my gown is completely damp from the humidity, clinging to the curve of my thighs and mapping the rapid, uninhibited rise and fall of my chest. I am entirely lost to the lawlessness of the festival, enjoying every single ounce of the forbidden heat.

Until the white fog parts, and a new shadow glides into my space.

A pair of large hands slide onto my hips from behind, the hold sudden and unyielding as he pulls my back flat against his chest. Before my thoughts can even turn sharp and defensive, a long, pale hand creeps beneath the sheer hem of my white silk gown. Calloused fingers press firmly against the bare skin of my thigh, tracing a slow, deliberate path upward toward my hip. To anyone watching from the outer rings—to the high lords resting on the silver dais—it is a picture-perfect display of solstice debauchery. It looks like just another male claiming his right.

But the words that follow are a sharp, terrifying contrast to the intimate, possessive drag of his hand.

A cold, grating whisper brushes against the shell of my ear, turning the artificial summer warmth instantly to ice. A violent chill runs straight down my spine, shattering the alcohol-induced haze in a single millisecond.

“You look exceptionally beautiful when you’re unraveling, Princess,” Kaelor murmurs, his voice cracked through the silence like a knife against glass. His fingers dig deeper into the raw flesh of my inner thigh, pinning my body to his center so I cannot wrench myself away without creating a scene. “It makes me think about how remarkably easy it would be to snap that delicate neck of yours right here, right now, in the middle of the dance floor. You are perfectly vulnerable, half-breed. And not a single soul in this valley would be able to stop me before your body hits the grass.”

My body locks rigid against his chest. I try to wrench my thigh from his grip, twisting my torso violently to break the hold, but the Vesper-wine has slowed my reactions just enough to cost me the advantage. Kaelor doesn’t let go. With a fluid, malicious burst of strength, he twists his wrists, spinning me around directly into him.

Now face-to-face, our bodies slammed together as he forces me to keep moving to the heavy, primal thud of the drums. His pale, washed-out eyes are entirely empty, mirroring the destructive void of his father, he has to be the son of Dellyn. There is no doubt in my mind that he isn’t.

“Don’t struggle, little placeholder,” he sneers, his mouth curling into a grotesque grin as he guides my hips into the rhythm. “The court is watching. It would be a total shame to ruin the theater before the real show begins.”

He leans down, his chest pressing hard against mine through the translucent white silk. “I truly cannot wait to see what the heir of Mora Alora does to you on the sand. He won’t just take your head, Princess. He will strip the magic from your bones until there is absolutely nothing left but a screaming memory.”

Heir of More Alora. He. Him. It had to be.

Before I can spit a venomous retort, he dips his head lower. The rough, damp slide of his tongue traces a slow, sickening path up the column of my neck, right over the pulsing vein at my throat. A wave of pure, unadulterated revulsion spikes through my chest.

“If it wasn’t for that disgusting mortal dirt clogging your veins,” Kaelor whispers against my ear, his breath smelling of sour wine and decay, “I might actually consider taking you for myself tonight. Surrendering you to the moons before the sand claims the rest of your flesh.”

A shadow cuts through the silver mist. A strong, lean arm hooks around my waist from the side, and a sudden burst of force tears me cleanly out of Kaelor’s grip.

“I believe the lady is finished with your lack of rhythm, Ashborne,” a smooth, dark voice growls.

Mal steps directly into the space between us. His hazel eyes are wild, the gold flecks within them burning like live embers as he pulls my front flat against his broad chest. He locks his fingers through mine, seamlessly picking up the cadence of the drums, turning his shoulder to block Kaelor entirely.

Mal looks over his shoulder, his sharp features locked into a dangerous, unyielding wall. “Go find some other way to spend your solstice, Kaelor. Before I decide to make this execution personal.”

Kaelor steps back, his pale eyes narrowing as he studies Mal’s defensive stance. A vicious, mocking sneer crosses his face, but he doesn’t draw steel. He slowly melts backward into the sea of white silk, disappearing into the rising steam of the lake.

A long, shuddering breath escapes my lips as I lean my forehead against Mal’s shoulder, the intoxicating scent of black amber washing over me, clearing the sour stench of Kaelor.

“Thank you,” I breathe, my voice a quiet wire against his tunic. “For the rescue.”

“You looked like you were about to use your teeth to dismantle his throat,” Mal murmurs, his hands sliding down to settle against the small of my back, guiding me effortlessly through the mist.

A dry chuckle clears my throat as I look up into his hazel gaze. “I was trapped like Rapunzel in her tower, and you just cut the hair to set me free.”