Repulsed, she lifted her left hand to wipe her mouth when the prince caught her wrist. She glared at him and then frowned when he gave her almost an imperceptible shake of his head. What the devil?
He moved closer, his thighs pressing against the gauzy fabric of her black dress, and lifted his hand to her face. Arrik ran his thumb over her bottom and then top lip. Her eyes widened. It wasn’t a caress. He was wiping away the king’s kiss. Her breath stuttered as he dropped her left hand and cupped the other side of her face. The prince drew closer so that they were breathing the same air. She stared into his ice-colored eyes that seemed to have grown warmer despite his impassive expression.
“Don’t think,” he whispered. “And don’t bite me.”
Wren’s pulse thundered in her ears as he pressed his lips to her own but made no other move. They gazed at each other, and he gently pulled her to his chest. She splayed her hands across his torso as the kiss went on, but never progressed further than lips pressed against lips. There was no passion, no desire.
He pulled back slowly and she stared at the column of his throat as he straightened. Bawdy cheers filled the air but she didn’t focus on them. She’d seen something in his gaze and the way he’d kissed her…the prince wasn’t a decent man, so perhaps he wanted her cooperation as much as she wanted to escape. If that was the case, then maybe they could come to some sort of agreement. They could be allies.
Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.
She yanked her hands from his person and wiped them on her dress, causing the king to laugh raucously at her reaction. It was clear as day to anyone watching that all this was a farce meant purely to entertain. Even if the prince could be swayed to be an uneasy ally, she would never forgive him for what he did. He’d murdered her family.
“Let the celebrations begin!” the king announced.
The doors burst open, and servants filed into the room, carrying golden trays of food. The elvish highborn moved to the low tables and reclined against the pillows on the floor as the food was placed on the tables. It was just as opulent and over-the-top as the Verlantian people were.
Arrik led her to a table on the dais and she woodenly sat down as the king, queen, the princes and their consorts began to eat from the table. A servant approached Wren and poured wine in the goblet.
“Thank you,” she murmured, trying to catch the girl’s eye.
The servant froze for a moment and quickly backed away.
Wren frowned and then glanced back at the table. The eldest prince who sported silver beads in his jet-black hair smirked at her, and her stomach bottomed out when she realized everyone else was snickering.
“They are not to be spoken to,” Arrik murmured.
And they called those from the isles barbarians.
She ignored her new husband and focused on the food. Wren couldn’t even begin to name half of what was on the table, and though she had previously been starving, she found she had no appetite for such unknown things. The bright colors and shiny appearances of most of the food made her think of poison, so she reached for her goblet of wine and swirled it around as the royal family feasted and gossiped. Wren listened, storing little bits of information. Who knew what would be useful? The queen tried to goad her into eating, but she politely refused. Today wasn’t a day for feasting and celebrating.
Time dragged by and the evening deepened.
The music changed and the elves began to dance.
Wren had always loved to dance. Her mum used to say that it was in her bones. But not this day. Though she got away with not eating, she couldn’t escape the dancing.
The king and his sons all led her through their dances. Some with veiled threats, others with lurid offers and promises. Then she was passed amongst the highborn. Much to her chagrin, not all of the elves were horrible. In fact, she’d met an older elf, who, under different circumstances, she’d have liked to have played chess with. He was witty and smart.
Then again, it could have been an act.
Once again, Wren was yanked into the arms of her husband, who pulled her through a series of intricate moves effortlessly. She stumbled and he caught her. Humiliated, she jerked away and he hauled her against his body. His left arm wrapped around her waist and she squeaked when he lifted her until her toes brushed the tops of his boots.
“Put me down,” she gritted out.
“No, you’re dragging this out for both of us,” he muttered.
“What?” she gasped, outraged.
He ignored her and they whirled around the room until King Soren cut in, taking over for the next dance. The music slowed and she shifted away from the elf king as he leaned down to whisper in her ear.
“Welcome to my family.”
“I am not part of your family.” She’d never be.
“You are bound to my son, thus making you my daughter.”
“Do you kiss all your daughters?” she quipped. “I’ve been told that is frowned upon in all parts of the world.”
He chuckled. She glanced up at the king, his shrewd blue eyes already watching her. His gaze moved from her face down to her chest and lingered, before moving back to her face. She blushed which seemed to amuse him.
Chin up. You’re a princess. You can do this. Just look him in the eye and hold your ground. He will not get the better of you.
“Is it wrong to appreciate beauty?” he mused.
“No, but coveting what is not yours is a sin, is it not?”
His fingers tightened on hers as he spun them around, her dress flaring. “Everything is mine to give and to take. Remember that.” He smiled and it was anything but friendly. “I’ve always loved wild things, especially breaking them.” Soren leaned closer. “That is something both Arrik and I share.”
With that parting remark, he passed her off to his youngest trueborn son, Kalles. Kalles shared the same blond hair and high cheekbones, but his eyes were a cerulean blue instead of glass and crystal.
He was a peacock that spoke entirely about himself, but at least his hands hadn’t wandered once. Five sons had sat at the royal table, including Arrik. They all resembled the king in some manner but what bothered Wren the most was that amongst the crowd, she’d seen more than one man or woman who could have been a sibling to the princes.
Base-born children to be sure. Just how many children had the king sired? Wren didn’t want to know.
“I can’t imagine this is what you wanted to be doing today,” Kalles murmured, pulling Wren closer so that he could speak directly into her ear. “It is not right to do something like this to someone of your status. It is humiliating.”
She blinked at him. What did he expect her to say? Was the man’s intention to lull Wren into trusting him, only to stab her in the back later on? She had seen all of Arrik’s brothers laughing when her marriage was announced. But perhaps that had been the show, instead, for the king. Wren had no idea what to believe.
She knew it was perfectly possible that Queen Astrid had been attempting something similar earlier—to get into Wren’s good graces merely to use Wren to her own advantage. But just as Wren considered breaking away from Kalles, the man slipped a stiletto down the front of her dress; it rested in her corset, cushioned by her breast.
Wren gasped and managed to mask her surprise. “What are you up to?” she growled. Anyone who looked closely would be able to see the top of the hilt.
“Mischief of course. Keep it or throw it away. I don’t care.” Kalles pulled a smile. “Arrik’s brides never survive very long.”
Brides? “What do you mean?”
He nodded toward a group of nobles looking their way. “Do you really think they’re all interested in you—the wild princess raised with dragons? You’re amusing to be sure, but you’re part of a larger game. They are betting on how long you’ll live.”
Ice trickled down her spine.
Kalles spun them as she caught sight of Arrik moving in their direction, his silver hair a beacon in the crowd.
“Why would they do such a thing?” she asked urgently.