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No one seems to notice me as I brush past them, for their attention is fixed on something toward the back of the pub. Finally, I see what—or who—has them so magnetically entranced. At the very center of the bar sits a male with tousled golden hair, blue eyes, and a crooked smile set between two deep dimples. He’s dressed in a fine gray suit, but his collar has been unbuttoned and his cravat hangs loose around his neck. With one arm slung across the bar top and his upper body careening to the side, he regales his captive audience with some slurred tale of a hunting party where he drunkenly fell asleep atop his horse and awoke in a den of angry boars. His admirers laugh and roar at his story, but I can’t manage so much as a false smile.
My rage from this morning returns at full force, and it takes all my restraint not to let my palms catch fire like they did before. Channeling my inner flame into fortitude, I storm straight up to my idiotic betrothed and pin him with a glare.
His words cut off abruptly as his eyes lock on mine. He goes still, his expression drained of the smug joviality that painted it a moment before. For several beats, all he can do is blink at me. He must recognize me. While I’ve never seen an accurate portrait of him—save for what I discovered in the papers this morning—now that he’s in Faerwyvae, it wouldn’t be a challenge forhimto find a picture ofme. Whatever the case, he’s so dumbstruck that he doesn’t seem to notice himself listing to the side. Not until he nearly falls off his seat. As soon as he rights himself, his smirk is back, as are his dimples. He tilts his chin at me and sweeps his gaze over my form.
“What can I do you for?” he says, tone deep and slurred, each word tumbling into the next. Then, with an unsteady shake of his golden head, he corrects his statement, slower this time. “What I meant to say is, what can I do for you, you stunning creature? Or—if you’re amenable—I meant what I said before too. I’d be happy to do you for nothing at all.”
I ignore the last part and the way he waggles his brows. “What you can do is get off that stool and speak with me in there.” I point to a closed door beneath a sign that saysPrivate Room—Reservations Only.
His eyelids grow heavy as his grin widens. “No foreplay? Now, you’re a lady who knows what she wants. At least tell me your name.”
My cheeks burn with the heat of my growing anger. Does that mean he doesn’t recognize me after all? Whether he does or doesn’t, this exchange goes beyond humiliating. How many other women has he so brazenly propositioned in front of amused spectators when he’s supposed to be engaged to me? Every muscle in my body goes tense at how many witnesses stand before us now.
I take a step closer and lower my voice. “I’m your fiancée, you empty-headed ogre.”
“Ogre,” he says with a chuckle. “That’s a first. Most people call me Your Highness.”
“You’re no prince of my country, which means I’ll call you what I like.”
Whispers surround us, but I force myself to ignore them. Instead, I wave at the barkeep, who stands frozen with his dishrag buried in the glass he’s pretending to clean. With a startled jolt at my attention, he approaches the bar.
I speak before he can. “I need that room. Now.”
His mouth falls open as his gaze darts between me and the private room. “It’s…it’s reservations only—”
“This is my reservation,” I say, pushing a large coin across the table. On one side, it bears the lettersEF, my sister’s initials. On the other is her profile. Royal coins are symbols that inform their recipients that the owner of said coin is not to be argued with and that any expenses involved are to be charged to the court indicated by the coin itself. Evie may not have power in the Summer Court, but all royals are to be respected across the isle. And while it crushes my pride to use my sister to get my way, now is not the time for ego. Not when I’m seconds away from burning the prince to a crisp.
The barkeep’s eyes go wide. He returns the coin to me with a fervent nod. “The room is yours, miss.”
I turn my gaze to my fiancé and find him slowly sliding off his stool, a look of mild terror in his eyes. Or is it awe? Then he shutters his expression and dons that lazy smirk, extending a hand toward the private room. “After you, gorgeous.”
I sweep past him only to halt after a few steps. He pulls up short, nearly colliding with me. I round on him and stand tall, chin lifted, while he stumbles to regain steady footing. “Call me that again,” I say through my teeth, “and I’ll burn out your tongue.”
To his credit, he doesn’t so much as blanch. Instead, his eyes fall to my lips. “Mmm. I like a woman with a little fire.”
Heat floods my palms once more, but this time it rises to my cheeks too. Before he can see my angry blush, I whirl around and enter the private room.
5
Prince Albert and I sit across from each other at a circular table, him in a cushioned booth, me in a leather high-backed chair. The room is modest in size, large enough to host business meetings but quaint enough to ensure only one party at a time may utilize it. The lighting here is dimmer than it was in the main part of the pub, with dark, windowless walls surrounding us and single brass chandelier hanging over the table.
Albert shifts anxiously in his seat, his expression fluctuating between his carefree smirk and something more somber. We haven’t spoken since settling into the room. He seems to be giving me the chance to talk first, and I’m still trying to cool my rage.
“So, you’re my fae bride,” Albert finally says, giving up on silence. When I don’t reply, he adds, “You don’t look fae. No pointed ears. No fangs. No claws.”
If I weren’t so angry, I’d tell him I can relate to such preconceived notions. There was a time when I too thought all fae were monstrous beasts. “And you don’t look like a prince. No manners. No poise. No gentility.”
He huffs a laugh. “You aren’t what I was expecting at all.”
“Imagine my disappointment at discovering the same about you.”
A small wooden panel set above a wide shelf opens in one of the walls, revealing the face of the barkeep. “Drinks?” he asks, tone hesitant.
“A bottle of wine,” I say, keeping my gaze on Albert. “Agave Ignitus, please.”
The prince leans back in his booth, crossing an ankle over his knee and draping one arm along the backrest. “I like wine.”
I narrow my eyes. “One glass. That’s all. Thank you.”
