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Maybe they didn't love each other at first, and just came to feel that way over time? I’m not even sure that’s possible.
These thoughts stick with me long after I ring the service bell and Hilda starts on my hair with the help of Terry. I’m mute as they use hot coals to heat up a spiralling iron, then use it on my hair. It somehow loosens my curls, dropping them to spill down my back. Then they use ribbons to thread through a half-do bun that they fix atop my head, threading out some loose curls to frame my face.
It’s what they do next that surprises me. They use make-up.
I’ve never worn any. We don’t get that stuff back in my world, but I’ve seen it on some fae before.
The glitter that Terry smears over my lips and eyelids is a dark brown with faint cream tones speckled throughout it. Close enough to beige that the mark of what I am can’t be missed.
I stand in front of the mirror as they help me into my dress. It’s then that I catch Terry’s gaze in the reflection.
‘Don’t go,’ she mouths at me.
I’m quick to pale.
Not like I have much choice in the matter. She knows it, too. So as she fastens up the strings at the rear of the corset, suffocating me while lifting up my breasts, she lets her fallen face drop to her work.
Hilda shoots a worried glance at me, but as soon as our eyes meet, she looks away.
The worry I had about this celebration earlier springs back up inside of me, like a withering flower bloomed back to life. More like vines, really—vines that snare around my heart and squeeze the breath out of me. Well, that could be the tight corset, but still.
I don't have time for a sleep.
When Hilda and Terry are done—running me over with forced smiles, then leaving—I have only a half-hour to pace my room nervously and wring my fingers together. Then comes time to meet the prince in the courtyard.
He’s waiting for me by the carriage, dressed in clothes that steal my breath.
I notice him first. He’s talking to the butler when I step out of the atrium, and my eyes widen at the sight—my core heats instantly, and I struggle to hold air in my lungs.
Unlike his official attire, he wears what I think is armour, only made for a prince and not a soldier. Black leather is stuck to his skin, curving along with the defined lines of his muscles like a second skin.
The leather wraps all the way down his thick legs and, as he turns to the butler, I get a glimpse of his backside—firm and tight.
Fine silver chainlinks are draped over his shoulders, flattened by plates of the thinnest metal I have seen. Doesn’t look practical for battle, but it sure looks good and I wonder if it’s traditional or something.
To match his silver armour, his crown sits on his tousled waves, slanted to the side, making his eyes glimmer the same shade.
I swallow back the desire lifting up inside of me.
I come out of the atrium. My heeled sandals—whose straps spiral all the way up to my knees—click on the stone floor.
The sound draws in the prince’s attention.
Head bowed, he looks up at me from beneath his lashes. Shock flashes over his face. His eyebrows lift, lips parting, and his gaze is latched onto my face.
Slowly, his gaze turns down and travels the length of my body—the lift of my breasts, the pinch of my waist, and the curves that the skirt exposes.
The butler is still speaking when Daein steps away from him, advancing on me. He meets me in the middle of the courtyard, stealing me up into his arms. His mouth crashes down on mine.
I part my lips for his tongue to sweep inside of my mouth. The muscles in his arms tighten around my waist, lifting me up to meet his kiss.
But my eyes snap open after a moment, realising that we’re very much kissing in front of others. He is kissing me in front of the other slaves and the guards.
Icy tendrils ribbon through me.
Swallowing hard, I peel my lips away from his and tilt my head back. “You’re messing up my make-up,” I complain, though it’s not the real reason I want to end any public kissing between us. Who knows kind of target this will paint on me?
The prince’s eyes darken, but his arms slip away and he lets me go. Faint traces of my golden-brown smears are glittering on his lips.
