Excitement erupts as bets in the crowd are settled—and my eyes go wide as I realize what this means. Improbably, Rian’s fighter won. Did he catch a lucky break? Yeah, unlikely. Chances are far better that Rian ordered whichever fighter I chose to throw the fight.
My dress feels too restricted as I shift uncomfortably in my seat, realizing I’ve been played. My cheeks burn crimson. The costume wings at my back dig into my spine.
I shoot Rian a glare. He smiles back wolfishly.
Damn the Valveres.
After Rian congratulates the winner and invites Roland to sit at the high lord’s table—the far end next to the less favorable nobles—the energy in the crowd shifts. The masked attendees, sated by wine, no longer crave bloodlust. Now they only desire lust.
“A kiss!” Someone shouts. “May the Winged Lady give our lord a kiss!”
“Yes, keep your promise, good lady!”
My fists ball in my lap. Behind my mask, my eyes scan the crowd with rising panic. How can I get out of this? On instinct, I fall back into the old habit of unconsciously seeking out Basten for help.
He’s standing by the ballroom’s rear entrance. His arms fold tightly over his breastplate. Lantern light gleams off his brass shoulder plates. His eyes bore into Rian as Rian settles back into his chair. Yeah, I’m not the only one who figured out that Rian rigged the game.
“What do you say, my lady?” Rian asks loud enough for the crowd to overhear. “Of course, far be it for me to think a rogue like myself has earned a carnal kiss from such a goddess; I’ll settle for one blown from your sweet lips.”
It’s surprisingly generous of Rian to offer me this way out of a real kiss, and while I’m certain he has ulterior motives, it does relax my tightly set muscles.
Glaring across the tops of the costumed attendees, I snag Basten’s eyes.
He laid with a whore? Well, two can play that game.
“Fair is fair, my lord,” I announce loudly, pushing to my feet and flouncing my harnessed wings theatrically before dropping my ass into Rian’s lap, glad my feathered mask hides my nerves.
The crowd oohs and titters at my cheeky move. Rian’s hands grip my hips, adjusting me in his lap with a touch of both suspicion and intrigue on his face.
Reaching behind my head, I unfasten the satin ribbon holding my mask on. Now, barefaced, I address the crowd—address Basten—in measured words. “I honor my wagers, my lord. You’ll have your kiss.”
OUT. OUT NOW.
The voice. It’s back. It’s here. My attention whips around the room, seeking its source. Picking up on my sudden distraction, Rian places a hand on my thigh to draw the crowd’s attention back to us.
It works.
His calloused hand runs along my bare thigh, exposed by the dress’s high slit, until more immediate matters eclipse my concern over the voice.
He shifts his hips in a way that makes me bob precariously in his lap. My heart rat-a-tats. His hand strokes my thigh languidly, in no rush. Leaning back in the throne-like chair, he gazes at me with half-lowered eyelids.
He’s manipulating me. Making me kiss him, not the other way around. Forcing me into the initiator role so it will seem to the crowd that I’m desperate for it.
A perfectly willing bride.
I channel the fighters’ theatricality and tell myself this is only an act. Basten is watching. His eyes are the only ones I care about. I want him to think I’m willing. That he isn’t the only person putting Rian above all others.
I want to hurt him as badly as he wounded me.
An actress—just an actress. With a burst of courage, I lock my arms around Rian’s neck and meld my lips to his. The clapping and hooting from the crowd make the paper lanterns quake. I thrust my nearly-exposed breasts against Rian’s chest, squeezed tighter by the harness holding my wings, and throw all I have into the kiss.
Rian’s palm glides along my bare thigh up to my ass. He’s giving the attendees a show, just as I am. His lips take over, setting the tone for the kiss, deftly taking control now. His tongue flicks against mine, silently asking how far I’m willing to go. My dress feels tighter than ever. How far am I willing to go? Is Basten watching? Are his hands fisting at his side?
The kiss isn’t as bad as I feared—in fact, I’m a touch breathless. Rian’s unwavering confidence makes him an exceptional kisser, and now I get why so many women hunger for him. His teeth snag my bottom lip to bite gently. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I felt a thrill, though it could just be the energy from the crowd focused on me as the center of attention.
GET OUT.
I break the kiss with a sharp intake of breath. The voice again, louder this time. It provides the jolt of reason that I need to remember that the kiss is only an act. But my breathlessness is very real. So are the goosebumps on my thigh as Rian’s thumb strokes it in lazy circles.
From the corner of my eye, I see Basten swipe a tray of crystal glasses off the buffet table to the floor, smashing them in a burst of anger. A few people close by laugh like he’s drunk, and no one else cares. I’m the only one who sees him flex his hand—there’s a flash of blood on his knuckles—and then storm out of the ballroom.
I smile in grim satisfaction. I did it—I got to him. He would only react like that if he did care about me.
“That was . . . unexpected,” Rian purrs in my ear, and beneath his seductive tone, there’s a heavy note of suspicion.
He’s not an idiot. He knows a bride he bought against her will and humiliated in front of half of the kingdom must loathe him. Then again, Basten told me once that men have an astounding capacity to lie to themselves when it’s about something they want.
I give Rian a nervous smile, more shaken by the kiss than I expected, as I slide off his lap. Briefly, my eyes flicker to the rear entrance.
Basten is gone.
I hadn’t planned for this, but if there was any good time to slip away and investigate the mysterious voice, it’s now. For once, I’m not being watched.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord,” I stammer, resting a hand on my heaving chest. “I—I’m short of breath. I’m just going to take a moment on the balcony.”
Rian nods, his half-masted eyes grilling into me like he can read my lies but isn’t going to call me out on them.
He murmurs, “Of course, songbird.”
Placing a hand on the base of my throat, I slip through the raucous attendees, who’ve returned to dancing and drinking and fucking each other with their eyes. Struggling under the unwieldy weight of the wings, I head toward the balcony—and then double back to the rear entrance, and slip out when no one is looking.
Chapter 30
Wolf
Blood drips from the gash in my hand as I storm into the hallway. I can’t get away from that fucking party fast enough. So many stinking bodies. That jarring fae music. The deafening cheers when Rian had his hand all over Sabine’s ass.
Fuck.