Kastel glares at the servant suspiciously. “My sister is with us. If there’s anything the archduke wants to say, it can be said in front of all of us.”
“Kastel, I’m fine. Thank you for your concern, but Corvan and I are already acquainted. It is fine.”
“My lady. Masters. May I offer you a drink?” Another servant swoops in; an older man with swept back dark hair elegantly greying at his temples. “Do you have a preference for mulled wine, or beer?”
“I’ll have a beer,” Aderick says, deliberately breaking the tension. “After all this lying about, I’m craving a pint of good stout. Meal in a glass, they call it.”
“You’re in luck, Sir. Tyron is renowned for its dark-roasted malt stout.”
“Rick.” I bend down and whisper in his ear. “Don’t forget that you’re recovering. No getting drunk or doing anything strenuous or stupid, all right? I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
“Yes, sister,” he says meekly, an angelic smile crossing his lips. “I’ll behave. It’s just that I’ve looked death in the eye and survived, so I think I deserve one beer, at least.”
Aderick can be too charming for his own good, but he can be reckless. He’s the ringleader, too. I’m more than certain he was behind the decision to go after me.
Kastel’s the opinionated one, never afraid to speak his mind.
Garan is stoic. He’s strong and hard-working and has all the makings of a fierce soldier, but he’s a man of few words. I can hardly ever tell what he’s thinking.
I smile at the servant, who tips his head respectfully. “I’d better go. I’ll leave the three of you in his capable hands. Please don’t worry about Corvan. He really isn’t as terrible as you might have been led to believe.”
Aderick lets out a low whistle of surprise. Kastel looks more skeptical than ever. Garan’s attention is elsewhere—he’s watching the servants, who are busy setting up a large feast in the center of the hall.
I follow the servant, my boots ringing on the polished marble floors. We head across the floor toward a pair of tall, elegant glass doors. The square, gilt-framed glass panels are etched with frost, obscuring the view outside. Daron appears, bearing a sumptuous fur coat. “It’s a little chilly outside, my lady. Allow me.”
“Normally, I’d put on my own coat, but I suspect you won’t be having any of that.”
Daron’s mouth quirks. “Of course not, My Lady. We can’t have the archduke’s one-and-only betrothed going through the hardship of putting on her very own coat.”
“Just this once, because you offered so graciously.” I’m going to have to talk to Corvan about the servants. I’ll go mad if I have people waiting on me hand and foot all the bloody time.
I hold my arms out and let Daron slip on the coat. Silk-lined and luxurious, it’s a delicate shade of cream. The fur is soft and plush.
I don’t even know what animal this coat is made from, but I’m incredibly grateful for its warmth as Daron pushes open the massive doors, admitting an icy blast of wind.
He ushers me through. “I leave you in His Highness’s eager presence, My Lady.”
I step out onto the balcony.
Corvan is there, standing at the balustrade.
He stares back at me.
My heart goes still.
I can’t deny it.
I’m stunned.
He’s cut his hair. The silken white tresses are gone. This new style is short and crisp, shorn at the sides and a little longer on top.
It only serves to accentuate his regal features.
I almost mourn the loss of his long hair. It gave him a wild, decadent aura that made him seem like a character out of some ancient mythical tale.
But I like this too. The clean, stylish haircut doesn’t detract from his hard-edged elegance, nor does it take away his subtle aura of power and dangerousness.
Corvan wears an impeccably tailored charcoal-grey suit. A tailcoat over a silk brocade vest. Elegantly tapered trousers. All trimmed and embroidered with midnight blue. The crisp white collar of his shirt contrasts elegantly with the delicate blue and grey floral design of his silk cravat.
There isn’t a sliver of doubt left in my mind that he’s the firstborn son of Emperor Valdon Duthriss.
I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. He’s still staring at me with that blistering intensity. The faintest pinkish hue has crept into his alabaster cheeks.
Nobody’s ever looked at me like that before.
As if he would destroy a kingdom just to have me.
The sun is slipping below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of purple and pink. Light from the great hall bathes us in a warm glow.
“Hello, Finley.” He smiles, fangs and all. Immediately, I’m reminded of how it felt to have his warm lips pressed against my neck.
Beneath my coat, my body reacts. The slow-burning warmth of arousal flares between my thighs.
“Hello, Corvan.” My voice sounds so unlike me; low and husky and self-assured.
I feel anything but assured right now.
“You look good,” I say quietly, trying my best not to reveal the extent of my awe; this feeling that the entire world as I know it is sliding out from beneath my feet.
I could choose to let this moment make me feel small, but I refuse.
Nobody in this world is going to determine my fate but me.
I slowly walk forward, my footsteps soft on the frost-limned stone.
He’s still staring at me like that, and I swear I see it again.
A faint crimson glow, radiating from his gaze.
This is magic.
Everyone knows that magic exists; that beyond the civilized borders of Ruen there are monsters and ancient inhuman creatures, but few have ever actually seen it.
In Rahava, magic is taboo.
They say that magic comes from the blood of the gods, and humans aren’t worthy of wielding it.
“Finley…” He says my name like a caress. “You look absolutely beautiful.”
A warm flush that enters my cheeks. Nobody has ever paid me a compliment like that before.
If I’m not careful, I could lose myself in him.
“I thank you for your generous gifts, Your Highness.” I offer him a respectful little bow. “Opening all those carefully packaged and finely chosen garments was a welcome distraction this afternoon.”
He frowns. “Finley, I told you before, it’s just Corvan. No honorifics, please. Not from you. Although it pleases me immensely that you like the things I selected.”
“You selected them?” My heart flutters. To think he would have gone and taken the time to personally pick out things he thought I’d like? “I assumed it was all Gerent’s doing.”
“I know you much better than Gerent does.”
“You barely know me.”
One eyebrow arches, his expression turning a little wicked. “I wouldn’t presume to know your tastes, but I can take a guess. I’m sure there were some things that weren’t to your liking.”
“Surprisingly, only a few.”
“Good. I have a feeling you’re the practical type, but as my soon-to-be wife, you’re going to be spoiled whether you like it or not.”
Wife. The word hits me with resounding finality.
On the first night, once wed, we’re supposed to…