Page 5 of Bride of the Fae Prince

The selfish part of me wants to pretend I heard nothing from Father about his deal with Prince Brochfael. I want to be blissfully ignorant as I waltz into a marriage with King Ilbert. I want to claim the attentions of what seems to be a genuinely kind, not altogether unbecoming, and relatively young man.

I give myself a little shake. Iwon’tdo that to Amelia. I’ll leave the ball if I must. I’ll go get her and make sure she’s introduced to King Ilbert.

But when I stand, I’m finally able to see who the king of Enslington is speaking to. Who he is laughing with as he holds the goblet he went to fetch for me.

It’s Amelia.

Her face is flushed a pretty pink, complimenting her lovely lilac gown. With that grin on her face, she’s a vision. She isn’t like my other sisters, however, who are beauty paired with some starkly undesirable trait such as coldness or arrogance. She is beautiful, and she is pure goodness.

I don’t blame King Ilbert for the way he looks at her.

It’s a relief, truly. From what I’ve surmised, he is a good man. And more than I care about my own happiness, I want Amelia to be cared for.

A boisterous laugh echoes from farther down the ballroom. I follow the sound until my eyes land on a guffawing Prince Brochfael smacking a servant so hard on the back, he nearly trips and drops his tray of empty goblets.

I’m yet again only relieved I’m no great beauty. Beauty will do me no service in my future.

Chapter 2

The Prince

“What do you mean,you won’t marry her?” High King Faradir demands. “Princess Listhra is beautiful, of royal descent, a worthy warrior. You cannot have an objection to her.”

I make a show of tapping my temple, and then say, “Well, if you require a moreliteralclarification, I mean that I shan’t pledge myself to her, and likewise shan’t accept any pledge from her. Is that clearer? Or shall I rephrase, Father?”

The court goes so quiet that one very soft intake of breath from somewhere is audible to everyone. I keep my arms crossed as I lean against one of the columns circling the High King’s throne and framing the sacred stream.

The princess in question glares daggers at me with her cold, amber eyes and tosses a lock of rich brown hair over her shoulder. Why she expected anything else from me is utterly beyond my comprehension. She should know not to take it personally. After all, she’s only the sixth fae woman I’ve declined.

Faradir has this idea in his head that the more royal and beautiful a woman is, the more tempted I’ll be. As if I’ll fall for his thinly veiled tricks. I know him better than that. And he should know me better.

Alas, here we are.

“I mean no offense to you, of course, Princess Listhra,” I say with a sigh, tossing a grin her way. “You’re fairer than the choicest firerose at the height of its bloom, and there’s nothing you could have done to change my decision.”

She stands opposite me, to my father’s left, so I’d have to stare at my shoes to miss her glare. She shouldn’t be so offended; she knows I’m not lying, so she ought to appreciate the compliment.

Perhaps my words were too harsh. But really, I’m almost insulted that the High King thought I’d agree to marry her. I’ve known her for some two hundred years now, and every year she grows more intolerable than the previous. He’d have had much greater success with the second woman he’d brought me. She wasn’t pretentious like the rest. I kind of liked her. One Oleria, second youngest princess of the Ildreer Court.

But, thankfully for me and her, Faradir gave up too early.

“Such a callous rejection, my son,” says the High King, glaring at me as he leans back against his throne, fingers drumming on the armrest. His glamour makes his face shine like a small sun, his hair falling like molten gold over his shoulders. It’s stark against his brilliant white robes. He’s daylight compared to me. I take after my mother’s darker complexion. She was a daughter of Nothril—the Night Court. “Can you not see how you’ve broken her heart?”

I lift one eyebrow at him. “She cares as little for me as I do for her.”

That familiar expression crosses the High King’s face, and I barely have time to fortify myself for that dreadedsnapof hisfingers. It resounds in the stone-still court full of bodies who dare not make a sound.

I almost don’t want to look, to see who it is this time.

But everything I do and don’t do is carefully measured by the man on Faerieland’s throne, and I owe whoever will be dragged through that door my acknowledgement—and my promise.

I sigh loudly. “This again? How predicable, Father.”

Without moving my body, I swivel my head with disinterest toward the opened double doors. Toward the winged, fanged guards and the human chained in iron between them. They drag him forward, the crowd of Faerieland’s denizens rustling to allow them through. Though, the stench of iron and the pulse radiating from the chains are the stronger motivations for the swift withdrawal.

The guards drop the man to his knees at my feet, facing the High King.

He looks up at me.Calver.Who, just this morning, laid out the very clothes I wear now.

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