“They could use a little more color. But in truth, they’re gorgeous. If it were me, I’d wear—”
Gillian pops her head through the open bedroom door. “It wouldn’t be you in a hundred years, so that’s neither here nor there.”
Lirra scoffs. “Only because I’m not angling for an invite.”
I clear my throat. “There was no angling.”
“The comment wasn’t intended for you,” Lirra says with a flat look at Gillian.
Gillian stands in the center of the door frame looking like an adorably ornery canary in her frilly, feathered yellow dress. “You sound petty in the most unattractive way, Lirra.”
The Archtraitor’s daughter scowls.
Gillian points to the rainbow pile of silk gowns. “We don’t have much time before the carriage arrives.”
Lirra pushes off the floor. “In Shaerdan, women ride their own horses. And buy their own material for clothes.” She gasps in mockery. “Imagine that.”
“Snip it.” Gillian’s gaze slices to Lirra with the ferocity of a mother bear. “The king knows Britta doesn’t own a carriage and riding Snowfire to the castle would dirty her skirts. King Aodren offered out of kindness. We couldn’t turn him down.” Gillian points to the door. “Go feed the horses since they’re your company for the night.”
I watch Lirra’s face redden under her tree-bark tan and wait for words to explode from her. For as jolly as her father is, Lirra is equal parts unruly and taciturn. Surprisingly, she doesn’t argue. She stomps out of the room, shouldering Gillian aside as she passes through the doorway.
“After I fetch a bucket of water, I’ll be back to do your hair.” Gillian slides her hand over the coiled and curled concoction on her own head and looks pointedly at the dresses.
I nod, though it’s a fight not to roll my eyes until she leaves the room.
I scratch my shoulder where lace trim rubs it and debate between the pink and green dress. And then I nearly cackle, because what am I doing? I feel as though I’m drowning in silk. How did I become a girl whose biggest problem is choosing between ball gowns?
If anything, I should be grateful for this distraction. It’s better than thinking about the alternative, thinking what it means to be Phelia’s daughter. The same blood. The same Channeling gift. The same propensity for darkness?
The door opens, emitting a screech like a field cat in heat. I jump and spin around.
“Britta, I— What . . . what are you wearing?” Cohen’s voice, gravel mucking up his rich tenor, instantly erases my thoughts . . . most of them.
“What are you doing here?” My legs lock. My arms cross over my breasts. Though the shift isn’t exactly see-through, it leaves little to the imagination, and I fear Cohen will find reality lacking. I was frighteningly thin this past winter. I’ve put on some weight, but not curves like Gillian has.
“I—I have to pick a dress.” I jut my chin at the colorful pile.
Cohen steps closer. Hazel eyes dip to my arms, and then the shift’s scooped neckline. He reaches out and runs a finger along the old faint scar above my left breast.
I shiver. “Scrape from the woods.”
He pulls his hand back and rubs his chin, fingers grazing his scar. “I . . . uh, I should leave.”
I quirk my head to the side, noticing his new coat. It matches the uniforms of the royal guard, except his has an arrowhead emblem beside Malam’s stag. Similar to the coat my father had, the sight fills me with pride.
“You look so . . . it’s a nice uniform . . .” I shake my head, wondering why Cohen’s wearing one now when he never wore one before.
“It’s for the king’s Winter Feast Ball. I have to head back to the castle to report, but I wanted to stop here first.”
My cheeks color, but I’m pleased. “Have you come to escort me to the castle?” I’m delighted that he’s our carriage driver.
Cohen clears his throat. “No. I just had to see you.”
“You’ve seen me nearly every day this week.”
“That’s not enough.” The rough texture of his voice shoots fire-tipped arrows through me.
He approaches slowly, reaches for me. His hands grasp my arms, calluses gliding over my skin from elbows up to shoulders. Goose bumps rise in their wake and I shiver. He runs his nose down my cheek, until his lips find the sensitive stretch of skin in the hollow of my neck. He plants a kiss and then taking soft steps with his lips, moves back up around my jaw.
A moan slides out of me.
I fall into him, wanting to wrap myself in his arms. Our bodies line up, his muscular frame undisguised by his coat and the thin fabric of my chemise. When his lips find mine, coaxing them open, I fear the linen I’m wearing is seconds away from igniting. Though I’ve never been drunk on ale or wine, I imagine this is what it’s like. A heady mix of longing curls low in my gut.
I deepen the kiss, winding my arms around his wide shoulders, embracing him in my cottage, where I dream we’ll live out our lives—
Cohen rips himself away. He takes a big breath and shuffles back until his spine hits the door frame.
“Why’d you stop?”
“Gods, Dove, you get me wound so tight.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “Your skin’s so soft. And I . . . We shouldn’t . . . n-not yet . . . I mean, I shouldn’t let us get so . . .”
I laugh a little, feeling shy and still dizzy from his nearness. “So like that?”
“Yeah.”
But why, if it’s what I want too? I was kissing him just as much as he was kissing me.
I snatch a dress off the bed and hold it in front of me, as if I’m checking the size instead of hiding myself and my embarrassment.
He walks back over, his fingers lifting my chin. “Don’t duck your chin. There’s nothing to be embarrassed over.” He can read me so well. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I was taught some things are saved for marriage.”
Escaping his grip, I tip my head to the side. “So, kissing is meant for marriage?”
He rocks back on his heels. “Well, no. But beyond kissing . . . that’s for after you marry.” The way he says you carries weight in a way that makes me want to bury myself beneath the entire pile of dresses. What does he mean by you?
I’m sure I’m overreacting, what with the stress of picking a dress and getting ready to attend the king’s Winter Feast Ball. Still, I echo, “After I marry?”
He nods. The small movement feeds the fear that he doesn’t see the same future.
Cohen turns over one of the dresses; a scowl pushes its way over his relaxed smile. “Fancy lot this is.”
I lift my fingers to my lips, hiding my frustration.
He lets go of the material. “Why so many?”
We’ve already had this conversation. I know this is going to lead to accusations of the king wanting to use me for my powers.