Page 14 of Bride of the Fae Prince

I just wish my life was the only one I gamble.

“Isabelle Louise,” I mumble under my breath, rolling her name across my tongue and tasting it like fine wine. “Isabelle Louise.”

Chapter 6

The Princess

“Is she ready?” Fathercalls from the hallway. His voice is thinner than usual, strain coating every syllable.

“She’s ready,” Vivienne calls back.

Of course, I had to be with the four of them while my ladies assisted me in putting on my gown and applying cosmetics to my face. Which they promptly covered with a veil. Their constant chatter and exhortations are like a wet blanket around my shoulders, making me small and shivery.

Except Amelia, of course.

But she is unusually quiet, and when I look at her, her face is pinched. As though she fears I marry a monster.

Better I marry a monster than she.

She might find some happiness with King Ilbert. Who knows what will happen to me as the bride of the fae prince?

Yvonne hangs back slightly from the others, making snide comments here and there. It isn’t until she makes one about Prince Trenian being handsome that I finally realize she’sactuallyjealous. Which saddens me even more. Her betrothed is the worst of all my sisters’ husbands-to-be.

“Your actions are more important than ever,” Vivienne reminds, the sternness of her tone hardening the beauty of her face. “Our people need this marriage to stop the encroachment of the fae on our lands, and you’d better not scare the prince away tonight like you scared away King Ilbert.”

Jacquelle pipes in. “Don’t forget that you must be eager to fulfill all marital duties when the time comes.” She shoots me a significant look in the mirror, making me blush. “If you show any hesitation, it could ruin the peace treaty.”

At some point, I block them out. I have enough on my mind without their pestering concerns. I cannot think ahead to a wedding—or what comes after a wedding—until I’m through tonight. That is my first goal. Keep my composure tonight and try not to accidentally send the son of our enemy packing the moment I don’t meet his expectations.

I float in a fog out the door to meet my father. The journey to the ballroom is similarly hazy. My sisters’ voices buzz around my ears, keeping me anchored. It’s only when those grand double doors swing open, and the familiar announcer’s call carries across the gilded space, that I blink, the fog clearing with a sweeping wave of anxiety.

Immediately, my eye is drawn to the tall, dark figure in the middle of the room. His back is to us, but when the announcer heralds us, he turns around. His gaze latches onto me, somehow picking me out from my sisters in an instant.

“Remember,” says Vivienne from behind me, “you must—”

Faster than I expect, the prince is before me. I suck in a quick breath, craning my neck to peer up at him. He’s so handsome in his strange clothing, with his long, embroidered tunic of midnight blue, his close-fitted sleeves that hide his tattoos but reveal muscular arms.

He doesn’t address my father.

Instead, he reaches out to me, palm upturned. Father’s gaze burns into the side of my face, momentarily paralyzing me. Am I not supposed to respond because of the slight to Father? That doesn’t seem like a good way to begin peace negotiations.

Slowly, I lift my hand, place my cold fingers in his much larger, warm hand. It closes around mine, and I stare at it, almost uncomprehending. I look up, find his gaze on me. It shifts to glance over my head at the crowd of sisters close behind me.

“You all are like a gaggle of sprites around a crumb of gold in a riverbed,” says the prince with a quirked mouth and one half-raised eyebrow. “You’ll suffocate the poor maiden before I have a chance to learn how frighteningly young she must be. Truly, there is nothing in the world that makes one feel so ancient than to ask a human her age!” He looks down at me and smiles. “Dance with me, Princess.”

I mean to say that it will be my honor, but when I open my mouth, no sound emerges. If I force it, it’ll come out in stutters. The fae prince doesn’t want a bride who struggles to talk. I resort to a deep nod and curtsy.

His smile widens. Then he tosses a casual, “King Roland, Princesses,” over my shoulder at my family. With that and nothing more, he draws me after him toward the center of the polished wood dance floor, and even though I ought to be terrified, I’m almost more relieved to be rid of my sisters’ constant reminders of the many ways I can mess this up, than I am frightened to be in the prince’s presence.

He doesn’t seem cruel or evil yet. That’s good, right?

“So,” he says, his deep voice drawing my attention all the way back up to his face. If I crane my neck anymore, I’d be staring at the golden chandeliers above us. “They veil you so that I may not lay eyes on you. Do they also bind your feet from dance, and your tongue from speech?”

No one has bound my tongue, but it seems desperate to prove the contrary. I shake my head.

“I’ll need proof.”

This, at least, surprises a reaction out of me. “I b-beg your pardon, Your Highness?” Once the words are out, my stomach clenches. Did he notice the stutter?

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