Page 50 of How to Keep a Fae

It’s only now that I notice two kings’ guards standing behind her. They are huge, and it is a sign of my tumultuous state of mind that I missed them this long.

Why are they here? My heart slams around in my ribs… she cannot mean for me to…

“The king wishes to see you,” she says before I can rouse my panic, but no sooner does one fear recede than another rushes to take its place.

“Hurry, Adaline,” she says briskly. “Get your shoes. One does not keep the king waiting.”

Shoes. King. Shoes!

I dash to collect my slippers, fumbling them on and quickly smoothing out my dress and swiping my brush through my hair.

The king? Goodness.

Denna does not come with me. I do not like her well, but going alone is worse. My mind bounces about without finding any home for my rushing thoughts. I barely see the route we take, confused when we arrive at ornate double doors where two more guards stand to attention.

They knock. The door opens, and a bowing servant escorts me inside.

I am escorted through a reception room into a day room, where the king and another imperial sit at a table.

His quarters are luxurious. A broad window to the right of me offers views of a blue, cloudless sky and the forests surrounding Sanctum. Rich crimson, blue, and silver tapestries adorn the walls, depicting battle scenes and ceremonies. Candelabras and gas lanterns are presently unlit, as the room is bathed in afternoon sunlight.

A third man waits in the shadows, one I only notice now, an otherworldly power emanating from his brilliant blue eyes.

A Chosen. Above the king. An immortal fae.

I sink into a deep curtsy and lock my eyes on the richly woven carpet on the floor.

Goodness, I have been gawking around the room. I should have curtsied the moment I saw the king.

A chair slides over the carpet, light footsteps approach, and a broad hand enters my periphery, outstretched to me.

“No need for formality, child,” the king says. “Take my hand. Come, have a seat.”

I take his hand. He has commanded me to, but I’m shaking and don’t know where to put my eyes.

He walks me to the table, pulls out a seat for me, and tucks me back before taking the one beside me.

The carver chair is padded and plush beneath me. I must resist the urge to run my fingertips over the soft padding on the arms.

“You like my chair,” the king says.

I peep at him under my lashes. His hair is dark and wavy, and his beard is neatly trimmed. My eyes don’t dare reach his before I lower them to admire the silver stitching adorning his royal blue jacket in an elaborate scrolling pattern.

His strong presence fills my senses. He is both imperial and alpha. He has not yet joined the chosen ranks, but whispers say that one day he will.

I gulp, realizing he is waiting for my answer.

“I do, um…” What does one call a king? Why am I not better prepared?

My eyes meet him of their own volition. What I see in them is a storm.

He smiles. The storm breaks, revealing a blue as bright as the sky beyond the window.

He takes my hand, and a blanket of calm settles over me. “I shall arrange to have one made for you and sent to your nesting chamber. What is your favorite color?”

Color? Gods, the king is asking me what my favorite color is, but I don’t have a clue.

“I like all colors. Bright and vibrant, soft and subtle. I have the hardest time picking fresh cushions for my nest when they are all so very pretty.”

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