Page 46 of A Dagger in the Ivy

“Tell me, Highness,” he begins, his gaze drifting down the length of my dress, “who are you really trying to impress with your fancy dress and styled hair?”

“No one. Least of all you.”

One of his brows raises slightly. “So you don’t care what I think of your appearance?”

I resist swallowing back the lump in my throat. “No.”

He steps closer. I have to lift my chin to meet his intense gaze. The hairs on my skin react, and my hand hovers near my dagger.

“Let me ask you again.” A deep-toned, almost unnoticeable hum floats out from his throat.

I don’t understand what’s happening. I become light-headed, and there’s a buzzing in my blood. I suddenly feel at ease. Comfortable, even.

He leans in. I can’t stop staring at his handsome, chiseled face. His grey eyes are mesmerizing, and I feel like I’m gazing into an approaching storm. Dangerous but beautiful. His lips look so soft. “Do you care what I think of your appearance?”

My instinct is to saynobecause I don’t want him to know. Better yet, I should say nothing. “Yes.”

He steps back with a smirk.

Fuck!“Wha—? How did y—? I don’t. I don’t care.” The buzzing inmy blood transforms into scolding-hot fury. I feel like fog is slowly dissipating from my mind.

His chuckle is low, his lids heavy as he backs away from me. “Whatever you say, Highness.” The side of his mouth is still raised as he turns and continues down the hall.

Frustration explodes within me as I realize Dante just used his siren powers to manipulate me to sayyes. Or had he manipulated me to tell the truth? I’m even more angry at that possibility. Is it the truth? Do I care what he thinks of me? Why should I? He’s been nothing but cruel to me since I’ve arrived.

And why would it matter to him? If he hates me so much, my opinion should be the least important thing in the world to him.

Releasing an aggravated huff, I march toward the grand hall to meet with Torbin. I was already late without the incident with Dante. And I don’t want the queen to think I don’t care about her special day. What kind of future daughter-in-law would I be if I showed so little respect for her birthday?

As I reach the main floor, I have to gasp. Ivystone Citadel has been transformed into a vision of opulence for Queen Eleanor’s birthday celebration. Every corner of the grand hall is adorned with her favorite flowers, lavender wisteria, cascading down from the vaulted ceilings in delicate, fragrant drapes. The sweet and floral scent is intoxicating, and I instinctively breathe in deeply to take it all in. The walls are lined with rich, purple tapestries embroidered with silver thread, depicting scenes of Hedera’s history and the royal family’s lineage.

The hall is packed, not just with the usual nobles and courtiers, but with others I don’t recognize. My guess is they are citizens of Hedera, come to bestow their kind words upon the queen. At the edge of the crowd, close to the dais, I spot Torbin. He is dressed in a deep-purple doublet, tailored to perfection, the color matching the wisteria that decorates the hall. The doublet is intricately embroidered with silver thread, forming delicate patterns that catch the light with every movement. His sleeves are slashed to reveal the rich, silk lining underneath, a deep, midnight-blue that complements his overall regalappearance.

Over his doublet, he dons a black velvet cloak, fastened at the shoulder with a brooch bearing the crest of Ivystone Citadel. His trousers are a dark charcoal, tailored to fit snugly and tucked neatly into high, polished black boots that reach his knees. A finely wrought silver belt cinches his waist, from which hangs his sabre. Torbin’s hair is impeccably groomed, swept back to reveal his sharp features and intense gaze.

His eyes sweep the room, and his gaze lands on me. He straightens his posture, his chin held high, as his face brightens with a smile. I can’t help but acknowledge that he looks every bit the prince he is, a striking figure amidst the celebration’s splendor.

I make my way toward my betrothed, and people move out of my way. Some of them incline their heads, and for a moment, I don’t feel like an unwelcome guest.

“I was beginning to get worried,” Torbin whispers to me when I reach him.

“Sorry. I… ran into some trouble. But it’s fine now.”

“I’m glad you made it, then.”

I glance at the queen and the line of people. “I’m a bit confused as to what’s happening.”

He puts a hand on my waist and urges me to stand closer to him. “It’s a tradition. My mother has a big heart for her people. Every year, on her birthday, she listens to their petitions and tries to grant as many of them as she feels reasonable.”

“That sounds turned around.” I smooth out the skirt of my dress. “Shouldn’t your mother be the one having her wishes granted?”

“She likes it better this way. She’s a big believer in keeping Hedera happy.” His eyes wander down the length of my gown and back up again. “Celeste, you grow more stunning every day.”

A bloom of warmth spreads up my neck, reaching my cheeks. At least Torbin is kind enough to appreciate my appearance. Unlike his annoying brother.

The line of citizens and lords bringing their petitions stretchesacross the grand hall. The air is thick with anticipation, and the whispers of those waiting their turns echo off the high, vaulted ceiling. Up on the dais, Queen Eleanor sits regally on her throne, a serene smile on her face as she listens to each supplicant. Her deep-purple gown shimmers in the light filtering through the stained-glass windows, and the ivy-themed jewelry adorning the high neck of her gown and the wrists of her gloves gleams with each movement.

Beside her, appearing bored, King Silas picks a piece of lint off the cuff of his robes. Though the apparent theme of purple touches everything else in the place, the king is dressed in dark green. His brows are drawn down, as if he’s contemplating being done with this event. It doesn’t surprise me; the king doesn’t strike me as having a generous heart like his wife.

---