Page 42 of Bride of the Fae Prince

Then I bend down, catch her face in my hands, and press my forehead to hers. A gasp escapes her throat as I close my eyes, sinking deep into the flow of life and magic around me, the river running through my soul. It’s bright and golden, with threads of sapphire. I wrap that liquid gold around my awareness of her, concealing the smell of her humanness with my own. Her practical gown melts away to reveal a sweeping train of pure white, edged in gold filigree, with delicate sheer sleeves that end in a point over her hand, and a beaded sweetheart neckline.I unravel her hair in my mind from its bun until it falls in gleaming waves to her waist.

Her ears, her short stature, her sweet human face—none of it I change to resemble a fae.

I open my eyes, find hers wide and staring at me, her jaw sagging. For a second, I cannot move. The next second, I give a dangerous thought to how easy it would be to angle my mouth and claim her lips.

Then I pull away, drawing a deep breath into my suddenly tight lungs.

She looks down at herself, at the change I’ve wrought to her gown. When I glance sidelong at Rahk, he’s not looking our way, but feigning interest in the hilt of one of his knives. Stella touches the delicate gold belt slung across her hips, then pinches one of the sleeves. Brushes her hands along the softness of her skirt as her hair falls around her.

What have I done?part of me cries.What have I done, bringing her here?

She looks up, catches me staring. “This isn’t real?”

“It’s a glamour.”

“Where did my dress go?”

“You’re still wearing it.”

She narrows her eyes. “Impossible.”

And I smile despite myself. Stella studies me carefully, as if she sees the underlying darkness beneath my smile. It’s too knowing of a gaze for my comfort.

“Ready?” I ask Rahk. He returns his knife to its scabbard and gives a short nod. “You might want to make yourself scarce too,” I say to him. “For a few days, at least.”

“I will stand with you.”

I give a rueful snort. “And if I order you to visit your sisters for a few days? The Nothril Court misses your presence, I’m sure. I will write to you about the issue of Orawyth.”

Rahk glares at me. “Hecannot hurt me without losing my court’s loyalty.”

Stella glances between us. I consider several responses, all of which would frighten her. So I say nothing, merely offer her my arm and try to ignore the warmth of her fingers curling around my elbow. We walk across the bridge over the channel emptying into the sea, heading toward the palace.

To my endless relief, Rahk doesn’t follow.

He knows what I cannot say in front of my wife, and he knows as well as I do that following me right now might just be the stupidest thing anyone can do.

As we reach the other side of the bridge, as Stella uses her other hand to lift the front of her skirts as we walk up the steps to the palace—her pure-white train dragging behind us—she asks, “Is Rahk a prince, too?”

I nod. “He is heir to one of the Courts that answers to my father.”

“Then why does he answer to you like a servant?”

I almost laugh out loud. She hasn’t seen enough of Rahk if that’s her opinion of him. She’s mistaken his deference to me as his future High King and his role as my choice warrior for a subservient soul.

But with each step that brings us closer to the throne room, the softer side of me locks away, too tight and far away for her to reach. It’s why I give her a roguish wink and say, “Because he values his life.”

Stella struggles to keep up with me, but not because the pace I set is too vigorous. She cannot seem to tear her attention away from devouring the palace as we climb a winding, open staircase with vines dripping from the railing. “These vines are so healthy!” she cries. “Look how large their leaves are! We don’t have plants like this back home!” Then she cranes her neck to stare up at the arches overhead, the waterfall we pass, thewinged statues on display. I tug her into a corridor once we reach the right level.

Don’t listen to her,I tell myself.It’ll break your focus.

We round a corner, file down several more hallways into the heart of the palace. There, before us, is a pair of double doors guarded by two enormously tall guards, their feathered wings tucked in close to their backs. Stella wipes her sweaty hand on her white dress and tightens her grip on my arm. But I don’t look at her. A single wrong glance can spell disaster from here on out. Everything must be carefully executed with precision.

I close my eyes as we reach the door. Only a second—and I fill my soul with ice. I have no feelings, no desires, no cares. My raging heartbeat eases into a lethal calm. I open my eyes, focusing on the doors as they open.

The familiar scene unfurls before me. The High King’s court is packed to the brim with fae and various creatures from all over Faerieland, come to watch the spectacles of royal intrigue or present their cases before their king. The vaulted ceiling arches overhead, and sunlight streams down from above, creating a glowing halo around the golden figure lounging on his throne.

A hush falls over the crowd. I refuse to look at Stella, to measure her reaction, to wonder what she might be thinking. I focus on Faradir, on his posture, the graceful display of lofty elegance and power.

---