“I prefer standing,” I say, but then pause. It might be best if my troublesome tongue doesn’t mess this all up, again.
“You prefer many things,” he answers, and turns me once more. “Preference is a luxury. You must learn to enjoy mine.”
We pass under one of the tall beveled mirrors that flank the hall. For an instant, I spy something in the mirror, watching me from the shadows. I turn to look, seeing a wood elf also dressed as a hunter gazing at me from the corner. He doesn’t look like anyone I’ve seen in the court so far—his hair is so dark it is practically black, his skin is a medium brown, and his dark eyes watch me. My brows furrow, and I miss a step.
“Faster,” Arion calls at my falter, laughing at my clumsiness in a way that tells me I might pay for the error later. The musicians oblige.
The crowd claps, and the claps unify. It is a sound like a rope thrown over something wild, with everyone tugging together to capture it fully.
Arion draws me closer. My chest presses lightly against the gilt pattern on his royal coat.
“You wear it beautifully,” he says, and his mouth is almost kind. “And I will drape you like a jewel over my bed tonight, wearing nothing but the collar.”
Electricity thrums through my veins. He is in a good mood—far too good a mood for this. I thought I had more time. I thought?—
He pivots me with a flourish meant to look effortless and complicated. I let the jeweled hem of the gown catch the light.
Between movements, I see my attendants standing where they were told to stand. Merlina’s veil hides the way her mouth tightensat the corners. Kiala’s hands are folded behind her back so that she can stop herself from correcting me if I err. Eslina’s fan trembles once and stills. Thorne is still in the corner, still drinking.
I try to think of anything but my wedding.
In a few days, Arion will be my husband, but tonight…my stomach lurches, and my eyes burn. I’m not ready for this. I don’t know how to make myself ready.
The music climbs. The muscle under my shoulder blade cramps and releases. Someone laughs near the dais. My throat itches.
Focus, Arlet. Focus.
We tilt for the final pose. The dancers peel back into a wide circle so the court can see the desired image, the king standing tall over his hunt and me, the creature beside him, tamed. The harpist plucks the last note and lets it reverberate for too long.
Then Arion steps back. He gestures to his courtiers, and a few approach. The first one bows before me, and then I am passed to him, and another dance begins.
It takes effort to keep the surprise off my face, as I didn’t realize that I would be expected to dance with others.
“Lord Fareiris,” the man says with a curt nod.
I smile at him and we begin to spin around the room. He doesn’t ask me questions, and leaves quickly once we are finished. That’s all the time it takes for another to replace him.
Arion has left my side and now chats with a group of raucous lords and ladies, leaving Thorne to introduce me to each newcomer.
After half an hour, I lose count of the men and names, their faces blurring together.
Hunger and thirst have given me a headache, and I just want this party to end. I wish to be done and alone in my bed.
And then the next lord steps up.
“This is Lord?—”
“Sprig,” the man responds. Gooseflesh erupts across my arms as he takes my hand.
That voice. He is warm and calloused, and he bows before me, gently pressing a kiss into my wrist.
Too intimate.
Instantly, I look up at the wood elf I’d seen before. His dark eyes are absolutely foreign to me, and yet, I feel I know him. It is a strange sensation.
“It is a pleasure to meet the king’s consort,” he says as he pulls me close. His large hand wraps around my waist, and suddenly, there is no space between my chest and his.
My breath turns shallow. The timbre of his voice echoes somewhere in my chest, and settles low in my belly. It’s almost familiar—the depth of it. The breadth of it. For a second, it takes me back to a forbidden moment.