Page 9 of The Forbidden Fae King

“Keira.” That musical voice calls my name, dragging out the syllables, and I turn to it like it is a spell.

Hidden behind chatting courtiers, Prince Finan leans against the stone wall, one leg bent and his foot pressed to it. I drink in the image of him like a woman dying of thirst. The blue-black curls of his hair are pulled back by a gold circlet, with a single ringlet flopping forward over his ice-blue eyes. He casts a simmering gaze at me, beckoning with a hand, and I jut forward like an eager puppy.

The crowd parts as I move to him, but I hardly notice them.

Prince Finan takes my hand and brings it to his lips, brushing the lightest kiss on its back. The fluttering sensation sends warmth up my arm.

I should curtesy to him, but our familiarity has far outgrown that.

“You do indeed look like a wildling.” He pulls a leaf from my hair and caresses my cheek as he rubs something from it.

“You heard what your father said to me?” I raise my eyebrows. “And you said nothing? You chose not to defend your lady’s honor?”

His laughter rings out. “One does not question your king. Not even a prince.”

I examine his face, with his head tipped to one side. There isn’t a hint of annoyance or protectiveness. Maybe I overreacted to the king's words.

“Besides,” Finan drags out the word as he twirls a loose lock of my hair around his finger. “What made you think you could go on a hunt? It's far too dangerous for a lady. Better to leave that sort of untasteful business to the soldiers.”

“Finan, aside from my sister, I am the greatest hunter in theAppleshield Protectorate. I joineveryhunt.” It’s like he doesn’t even know me.

He spreads one of my curls across his palm, so each individual strand is visible against the contrast of his pale skin. “I love the beauty of your hair,” he murmurs. “The way every strand is a different color. Gold, orange, red, burgundy, and brown. It is like every shade of autumn leaves are captured within them.”

His intensity steals my breath away and the capacity for thought escapes me.

The prince gives me a pat on the hip. “Go. Bathe and change. I want you looking pretty on my arm.” With that command, he straightens to his full height, a hand’s width above mine, and walks away from me, joining the conversation the younger Prince Niall is embroiled in with an ambassador.

I am left standing alone in a crowd of people. It feels like the sun disappeared.

Chapter 3

Keira

Idon’t get to relax in the steaming hot water of my bath. The roots of my hair hurt as a maid pulls free the snarls from it. Another maid scrubs my skin with a brush until it turns pink and the water becomes tinged brown. A third meticulously cleans and files my fingernails, then my toenails.

I am being pulled in multiple directions at once, with hardly enough time to get ready for the king’s welcome reception. His entire entourage are currently cleaning up after their long journey, though I don’t expect any of them to have worked up a sweat, arriving in a convoy of slow carriages.

Fatigue crashes down on me as I stand completely naked before the bath, rivulets running down my still-flushed skin, as the maids remove my body hair by guiding sharp blades across my flesh, in the southern fashion. The tension seeps from me as soon as they are done and my bathrobe is thrown around my shoulders.

I hate this. I only do it for Finan.

I am always so afraid they will cut me. It has happened before.

When I sit at my vanity table with large bifold mirrors, a cup of coffee already waits for me and I take hurried sips of it between being fussed over by maids.

They apply oils to my hair until it shines gold and red in the sunlight that enters through the large window. It is coiled into loops on top of my head, with long tresses left free to cascade down my shoulders. Combs with green jewels are inserted into my hair, matching the garnets of my necklace and the mint velvet dress that clings to my ample curves.

I feel less like a wilding, clean and manicured after the hunt.

My footfalls echo through the long corridors of the keep, clicking on polished stone tiles and muted thuds on tapestry rugs.

Burning orbs of fire hang suspended along the ceiling, illuminating the spaces where other castles would have torches on brackets. The orbs create no smoke and a little heat, the combustion producing light in a completely isolated bubble, until the fuel of magic is consumed and they wink out.

The orbs are another of our magical exports.

We have retainers who are strong wielders of fire, making such technology possible for us, but the process is slow and limited. Further out in the kingdom it is rare to find someone with so much power.

I could almost laugh bitterly at the thought.

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