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He didn’t get stuck here like me, as far as I know. He chose to leave.
A heavy sigh fills the space between us. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Some of the weight on my chest lifts.
“Thank you.” I hold his gaze as I squeeze his hand again.
He cups my cheek. A glassy sheen fills his eyes. “I never thought I’d—”
“I know.” This smile isn’t forced. “Me too.”
Chapter 8
UncleMarkdidn’tcomeback during all of yesterday or this morning. My eagle companion is mysteriously absent as well. If he scared him off for good, we’re going to have words.
My stomach keeps turning over on itself, and I can barely sit still. Yesterday, in the five minutes I saw him, Sigurd asked me to accompany him to the opening ceremony of the games to be held this morning. I jumped at the chance. His brows pinched as his head cocked to the side while he tried to figure out why I was so eager to join him after my abject refusal the day before.
“I need out of these rooms,” I told him.
Not entirely false. I couldn’t remember the last time I spent an entire day cooped up inside, much less two. I’m still not sure how it doesn’t drive Gran crazy being inside as much as she is. Maybe, when I get back, I can get her to go out more, even if it’s just to sit on the porch in her rocker.
First, I’ve got to get there, and this competition is my chance.
If Uncle Mark failed, maybe someone there will make me a last-minute addition. It won’t work if I’m stuck here though. Sigurd, the cocky bastard, wanting to parade me around to help his image works in my favor.
Moria took it upon herself to be my fashion consultant for the event. She decided it might raise too many questions if I looked like I had just stepped through a door and into Faery. Which, of course, I did, but the people don’t have to know that. Better that I appear like I actually planned to be here and attend the event.
“How about this one?” I say, stepping from the bathroom.
Half the outfits she brought were too revealing. Too much cleavage. Too high of a slit up the sides. Too little…everything. Maybe they would work if I was just to sit there and look pretty, which is no doubt what Sigurd has in mind, but if I’m going to win this competition, I have to be prepared for anything. Flashing half their kingdom via wardrobe malfunction is so not on my to-do list.
This outfit, though, might just work. Tight, flexible pants—seriously, they move better than some of my yoga pants—are tucked down into ankle boots with an airy tunic shirt in silvery gray.
“A little plain.” Moria taps a finger on her cheek. “Good colors though. Sigurd will like them.” She winks. “Let’s add a few accessories.”
I fight the urge to squirm as Moria layers me up with jewelry. A long, silver necklace with a blue gem—gotta be glass, no way that’s a sapphire—that hangs between my breasts. Equally stunning earrings dangle at my jawline. A few silver bangles are stacked around one wrist.
“You seem to like jewelry for someone who doesn’t wear any,” I say as she sorts through clips for my hair.
She frowns at a gaudy mess of silver and sets it away. Thank God. “It’s pretty, but I prefer my accessories to be a little more practical.” She pulls at a silver decoration on her thigh, revealing a thin blade I would never have guessed to be tucked away there. She shoves it back into place and shrugs. “Most days anyway.”
Content with my appearance, we venture to the main sitting room.
Sigurd waits, standing near the edge of the large balcony. Light catches in his dark hair and on the silver accents of his outfit. He exudes casual elegance. There are no crowns for this king, no capes, nor is he decked in jewels and furs like the pictures of some kings from our human history books.
Even so, the confidence in his stance and the way he carries himself speak volumes on their own. “You chose my colors.”
A flush spreads across my cheeks. His colors, huh? No wonder Moria said he’d like them. I spear her with a hard look, but she doesn’t notice. Instead, I focus back on the man inspecting me way too intently. “Do I need to pay you a fee to wear them?”
His lips twitch. “Seeing you in them is payment enough.”
Warmth buries itself in my chest, and I have to look away. Shameless flirt. He must really like the woman I resemble. Enough to bind me with magic in haste and still flirt with me, even though I’m obviously not who he thought I was.
I wonder why he can’t have her. I peek at him from the corner of my eye. He’s attractive enough. Powerful. Wealthy. Surely most women would appreciate at least some of that.
“Take my hand.” The one he holds out to me is gloved. Thank God. He’s stirred up enough of a mess in me. No need to add to it.
Keep your head in the game, girl.
