Page 64 of Enslaved

His mouth opens, like he’s going to kiss me, like he’s going to consume me. I lean into him, as hungry as he, as desperate for that feast we’ve been denying ourselves for far too long.

“Clara,” he breathes, his lips so near I can just about taste them. “Clara, my darling, tell me to stop.”

I can’t. I won’t. A little whimper vibrates in my throat. I start to rise on my toes, to close the last of that agonizing space between us—

“Mind if I cut in?”

The Prince curses. The word is so foul and spoken so harshly, it makes my hair stand on end. His hand falls away from my neck, and he turns abruptly, his mouth twisted in a smile even as his eyes flash like twin blades at the looming figure of Lord Ivor.

“Absolutely!” the Prince cries, in a voice so unexpectedly savage, I half expect the golden fae to stagger back bleeding from some wound. “By all means, insert that glorious nose of yours wheresoever it wills. Is not all this in your honor, my lord?” He sweeps a hand, taking in the dancers, the sights, the splendor of the deepening night. Then he fixes his gaze on Ivor again, his smile shrinking just a fraction. “Or should I say, my liege?”

“I am not your liege,” Ivor replies coolly. “Not yet.” He turns to me, and his hard expression softens. “Clara Darlington,” he says. I find myself once again the subject of scrutiny as his gaze travels up and down my gown and figure. I’m beginning to wish I’d begged the Prince to find me one of Dasyra’s old gardening coveralls. “You look remarkable.”

“Hence your need to remark upon it,” the Prince growls.

“Have you business here, Castien?” Ivor demands. He wears glamoured ram’s horns this evening which sprout from his brow and coil on either side of his head, more imposing than any crown of gold and diadems. His body is clad in a green doublet, open in a deep V down the front to expose his powerful chest, and his muscular calves and thighs strain at the seams of his fitted trousers. He is so large and imposing, and other than the horns themselves, none of it feels like glamour. He is too beautiful to be anything less than perfectly real.

The Prince smiles up at him like an impudent cat grinning in the face of a bear. “Oh, don’t you recall? My fair cousin invited me. And how could I bear to miss this celebration of your great love? You and Estrilde were positively made for one another. As fine a pair of vipers as ever knotted tails.”

I want to smack him, to hiss at him for silence. The last thing I need is for Ivor to drive us both out of here on the ends of the guards’ lances before I get to make my request.

But Ivor merely narrows his eyes. “Tread carefully, Castien,” he murmurs. “You’re not in your own world anymore.”

“Nor yours either, I fancy,” the Prince replies with a significant nod.

Both Ivor and I turn where he indicates. In that same moment a pair of trumpets sound, followed by Danny’s voice crying out: “Lodírhal the Magnificent, King of Aurelis!”

An open litter of gold silk appears at the top of the stair. There the king lies propped up on numerous pillows. My stomach plunges at the sight of him. The last time I saw Lodírhal, he had been a man in his prime. A little faded perhaps, a little gaunt. Now he looks like an old man. Gray, withered, his face lined, his hands veined. Loose skin sags around his jowls, and white hair clings to a balding scalp. There are no glamours around him, for they could do him no good.

This is wrong. The fae do not age, at least, not so horrifically or so fast. The broken Fatebond has finally caught up with him. He will not last much longer.

Yet even now he has not lost his dignity. He holds his head up as high as he can, and in his eye gleams his steel-hard will. He is king, after all. Even broken beyond all hope of recovery, he is king.

Estrilde walks beside the litter, more glorious than I’ve ever seen her in a gown of shining sunlight, no doubt imported from Solira. She wears a coiling pair of antelope horns, burnished gold and studded with gems. The glamours surrounding her are palpable and plenteous. At the sight of her, one feels the urge to love, to worship even. I grimace, repulsed at the feeling, and draw back a step, half-hiding behind the Prince. The last thing I want is to be noticed by Estrilde.

“I must go,” Ivor says, turning to look at me. “I must meet Estrilde to officially open the ball.” He speaks as though the Prince isn’t there, standing like a wall between us. “I’ll find you later when I can, Clara Darlington. Will you save a dance for me?”

I nod, even as the Prince mutters, “Why, so you can crush her feet with those great boots of yours?”

Ivor ignores him and swiftly slips away through the crowd. I wonder if he too realizes it would be better not to draw Estrilde’s attention my way. Is he putting distance between me and himself as a means of protection? My pounding heart warms a little at the thought.

“Ass,” the Prince growls. His gaze follows Ivor even as the golden lord approaches the king’s litter and bows deeply. He turns away, looking down at me, searching my face for . . . I’m not sure what. “You look pale, Darling,” he says. “Perhaps it would be best if we sat out the next—”

“Castien! I did not think to meet you here.”

A vision in glittering blue appears before us. Ilusine—golden-skinned and shining like a living sunburst, framed by her mighty golden wings. The last time I glimpsed her, she and the Prince had just parted ways with bitter words between them.

I detect no bitterness in the warm-as-summer gaze she fixes on him now, however. She takes both his hands in hers, pressing them eagerly, and plants a chaste but somehow claiming kiss upon his cheek. “I thought you meant to avoid Aurelis until . . . certain matters were settled,” she says, pulling back and giving the Prince a knowing look. “Not that any would blame you.”

“Ilusine.” The Prince nods, and doesn’t withdraw his hands from hers. “It is good to see you as always. Are you still angling for the throne you desire? Still think you have a shot with Ivor?”

“Nine hells spare me, no!” She shudders, her wings rustling prettily. “Your cousin is more than welcome to him.” She tosses her head. “I always preferred a little more subtlety of mind and a little less brutality of arm. But he suits Estrilde well enough.”

“She has a certain affinity for the cretin, that’s true.”

They seem to have forgotten me entirely. The music is playing, the dancers are beginning to move around us. And they are there, together. It is Ilusine who stands in the sphere of his world, taking up his attention. I back slowly away. It seems to me as though the Prince and Ilusine are drawn to one another even as I had believed he and I were drawn. It is just the music after all. The dangerous fae enchantment and glamour of which I’ve been warned more times than I care to remember.

But I know the rules. I’ve known them since my first arrival in Eledria. They were impressed upon me in no uncertain terms: Never anger the fae. Never trust the fae. And never, ever, as you value your life, love the fae.

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