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He’d freed some of his dark hair from its customary bun, letting it hang loose around his shoulders. Thick and dark, black as the night, it gleamed beneath the low lights of the antechamber where we waited. For once, I could see no stubble on his chin.
The sleeveless tunic he wore was deep burgundy, made of a tight-knit wool like all of his clothing. But there were shots of gold thread woven into the fabric that glimmered when he shifted his weight. The buttons, cutting at an angle across his chest to finish up at his shoulder, appeared to be carved bone. Which fell terrestrial creature that bone had been taken from, I couldn’t guess. Each one was carved to depict a different horrifying creature in the midst of a roar, jaws hanging open.
He’d traded the white linen undershirt he’d taken to wearing for a black one instead. Was that for me? A tribute to my own preference for dark colors? Or simply a better complement to the crimson tunic and dark trousers he’d chosen to wear today?
After the way we’d fought outside the palace walls, the hatred and loathing in his eyes, I couldn’t imagine the former.
What would the courtiers and citizens of Annwyn make of us? I glanced down at my own clothing. I’d chosen a deep pomegranate skirt that covered my legs entirely, held in place by a jeweled belt at my waist. My daggers in their scabbards were there as well, of course.
The tail of my elaborate white braid hovered near my exposed torso. The matching pomegranate silk of my top was held in place by gold braids that looped underneath each of my breasts, twined around my arms, and then attached to a jeweled collar at my neck. Long, sheer sleeves billowed from my arms, falling in long panels to the ground before being gathered into golden bangles at my wrists.
I looked like a queen. Maybe even a Queen of Secrets with my unusual hair white hair and nontraditional dark clothing. But I’d eschewed the crown—my mother’s crown—when Cyara had offered it. I was more than a little relieved to find that Arran, too, had foregone any such overt symbolism.
He stood staring directly forward, eyes fixed upon the door to the throne room. This was the same room I’d dragged him into after the Offering. How much things had changed since then—and how little.
Arran—that was how I thought of him now. Yes, he was the Brutal Prince. But he was more than the dread warrior of legend. I liked him no more than I had that first day. Did I hate him less? Maybe.
His feelings for me were quite clear. He could not even look at me.
Some small part of me had thought that once he knew the reason for my actions, my need to avenge Arthur, that he would understand. Not approve, I did not expect that. But surely someone whose life and legacy had been forged in bloodshed would understand my bloodthirsty need for vengeance.
But still, all he had for me was loathing.
I shoved the rising emotion in my chest back down to the dark pits of my soul. Emotion and wanting and hoping… there was no room inside of me for such foolishness.
I opened my mouth, my tongue burning with words of contempt and pain.
But the door to the throne room opened and Esa swept in, a shimmering mist swirling around her.
“It is time,” she said, looking us over.
Her eyes lingered on Arran’s chest, tracing the breadth from side to side. Loathing rose to my tongue once again, but not for Arran. My chest burned. He wasmine, and Esa damn well knew it.
Unable to control myself, I stepped close to Arran and put my arm through his. He stiffened so slightly, I knew only I had felt it. Then his hand came down to cover mine. A show of unity—and a show it was, I was certain—but Esa’s face closed instantly.
But she could not hide the gleam of desire, the ring of blazing deep blue around her pupils. Desire for my betrothed.
“Get on with it, then,” I snarled, my fingernails digging into Arran’s arm.
The beast rewarded me with a low, subtle growl. For my ears only, I realized now.
Arran may hate me, but his beast did not.
Esa took her silly little magical mist and disappeared through the door. A heartbeat later, Arran and I followed.
So many eyes.
More than had ever seen me before, all at once.
Every inch of the throne room was crammed with occupants. I vaguely recognized the courtiers who made their homes in the goldstone palace. Esa went to join Noros, Elora, Teo, and Roksana where the other royal councilors waited on the far side of the twin thrones.
Gawayn, Lyrena, and Evander stood at the foot of the dais. No one would approach closer than that stalwart line, I knew. Not even the royal councilors.
Parys lurked near a pillar about halfway down the throne room, a goblet of aural in his hand as he laughed with another elemental courtier.
A group of terrestrials stood all together to the left, the same side as the throne traditionally occupied by the king or queen hailing from the terrestrial fae. Guinevere, surprisingly, was not among them. I did not see her at all, I realized.
I turned to ask Arran about it, but his face was hard, hewn from granite. I knew intuitively that I’d be ignored if I said anything to him now. Which made me want to even more.
