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But it seems I misread him.
He cuts his sharp gaze to mine in the mirror’s reflection. “My mind is elsewhere.”
“Oh.” I thought he was admiring me. Maybe I deflate a little at learning that my body is far from his thoughts.
My shoulders slump and my eyes are downcast.
The prince draws back from me, his hands slipping over my waist. I can feel his gaze searing into me in the mirror.
“I have a gift for you.”
My mouth puckers and I shoot a dark look up at him. “More fabrics?”
The corner of his mouth twitches with an almost-smile. “Something you will appreciate better. I am coming to realise that what I offer you is not as much to your liking as I would prefer.”
I turn around to face him and cock my head to the side. “I like the white powder you give me.” Letting my gaze drift down to the bulge in his black slacks, I add, “And another thing.”
He doesn't smile for me.
His mood is not sour, not exactly, but it’s distant. New grounds for me to tread carefully on.
“What do you want to give me?” I ask, reaching out for his hands. His fingers don’t entwine with mine as he scrutinises me.
His tone is stone cold, like frozen marble, “Your entertainment.”
My face puckers with a bout of confusion. That’s all I’m afforded as a reaction before he tightens his grip on one of my hands, then leads the way out of the bedchambers.
We walk through the castle, hand-in-hand—a way that he would never have been seen with me mere weeks ago.
Before, he would cast me icy looks in passing, never address me in the atrium, barely speak to me in the Hall. Now, he kisses me in the courtyard and at the Court, whisks me away to the markets (not a fun trip for me, mind you), and walks beside me half-dressed and holding my hand.
He makes it known with these simple gestures that I’m more than his lover. I’m his evate. And I’m still clueless as to what that really means at the core of it all.
I want to ask him of course, but he never gives me a straight answer. He either grins wickedly or throws me a glare carved from daggers. There’s no use.
I’ll find no answers with him.
So I’m silent as I scurry beside his long strides through the castle, all the way deep into the dusty old studies and—the grand library.
“Oh,” I utter before we round on the arched double doors, framed with gold flecks. “The collection.”
He cuts a disappointed look at me out the corner of his eye before he abandons my hand for the door handles. He pushes them open, revealing the library I’ve seen a couple of times when I hung around Sira on her cleaning duties. She stills ignores me. And there is no family for her to return to anymore should I beg Daein to let her return home—slavery in the fae lands is her home, the only one she’s ever known, really.
The rows upon rows of stacked shelves never cease to amaze me. For a beat, I stand in the doorway, astounded by the sheer amount of thick leather-coated tomes and books packed into the library.
Stealing me from my thoughts, the prince takes me by the wrist and leads me inside. He steers me down the middle of a long stretch of shelves for a good while before the books start to thin and the shelves turn up empty. We’re way at the back—further in than I’ve been before, and here the dust is thick and suffocating.
With my free arm, I bend my inner elbow over my mouth and stifle my breaths.
That’s when his pace starts to slow and I see the gift he’s gathered for me.
Tucked away in the corner of the back wall, there are two short shelves holding a few dozen books, all with their spines peeling and their covers torn.
He releases my wrist as I wander over to the nearest book. A faded blue cover with letters of golden shimmer etched onto its front. I flip it open and, just like the title, the words are foreign to me. Alien.
I slam it shut and push it back into the shelf.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
