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Finally, after what feels like too many Quiets and Warmths and First Winds and Breezes, the prince summons me over with a curl of his fingers.
I join him by a curtained alcove.
He places his hand on the small of my back, drawing attention from the thrones. I lock my eyes onto his, as if to hide from the other royals.
Daein grazes his lips over my earlobe. “I wish to argue with you.”
A lopsided grin steals my mouth. Blame the fruit.
Blame the flourishing ache in my chest when he turns his mouth to mine and kisses me—right in front of the whole Court.
He gives no one the chance to corner him, berate him, shout with the rage swirling on their stormy faces.
He takes me out of the Court at once, and steals me away in the carriage.
