Page 11 of Bride of the Fae Prince

It doesn’t matter.It’s selfish of me to consider my happiness when lives are at stake. The only thing that matters is doing what I was born to do: marry for the good of my kingdom.

We file into the hallway, down a grand staircase, until we meet with Father and the rest of my sisters standing by the entrance to the palace. It’s almost a haunting image, of brightly colored gowns against the gold filigree detailing of an enormous painting of a gory battlefield, of dusk’s half-light leaking through the curtains and mingling with the candlelit shadows, of my veiled sisters floating across the polished floor like wraiths.

I draw a deep breath through my nostrils.

It’s time to meet my future husband.

Chapter 4

The Princess

Father and his guardsgo outside first. My sisters and I hang back, and I lose myself in the midst of them, finding security in their numbers. When it’s time to follow, we make our way to the outer bailey where the drawbridge lowers to allow entrance to whoever waits on the other side of the wall.

When I come to a halt, Father’s back takes up most of my vision. He stands with his feet wide, shoulders back, his right hand gripping his left wrist behind him. A cold wind nips at my veil, and for once I’m grateful for the light warmth it offers.

From my vantage point, and through the sheen of my veil, I can make out two very tall men crossing the bridge on foot.Very tall. One is dark complexioned, the other lighter, his hair almost white. Which one is the prince? Is either of them the prince? I crane my neck to catch a better view, but it’s almost impossible from behind Father. A few glimpses reveal pointed ears, long hair, sharp weaponry. More people file through the drawbridge until there’s a full envoy in the courtyard.

When I peek back over my shoulder, I’m shocked to find our own warriors lining the pathway, inconspicuous archers standing at the ready on the parapets. Is Father preparing for an underhanded trick from the fae? Or does he intend to intimidate them as part of his negotiation scheme?

I try to stand on my toes, my curiosity overcoming everything else, when Vivienne grabs my shoulder. “Be still,” she hisses.

I obey, swallowing my ire.Fine. I suppose I’ll get to see the prince plenty enough if we wed. Through my narrow window between the arms of Father and one of his men, I can make out a sword swinging at the hip of the white-haired fae.

My heart pounds an erratic rhythm as the silence stretches through the courtyard.

“Prince Trenian,” booms Father. “We offer you our warmest welcome.”

There’s a dry snort. “A welcome as warm as cold steel, apparently.”

It’s the darker one who speaks, the one I have trouble catching a clear view of. Prince Trenian. My attention narrows on the little bit of him I can see: one tan, bare forearm covered in tattoos.

“Forgive the precautions. We have not received an envoy from the fae in over a hundred years,” says Father.

Prince Trenian snorts again and cracks his knuckles. An oddly casual gesture for a prince. “My father doesn’t believe much in diplomatic relations.” His voice is low, rich, and . . .verysardonic.

“I would take it that you differ from King Faradir?” Father shifts slightly, just enough that I can peer between the gap enough to glimpse a smile widening a dark, chiseled jaw. It doesn’t strike me as a particularlyfriendlysmile.

“My actions might suggest such a thing. Come, now—am I to stay on your doorstep until dusk, or shall you receive me with this warm welcome?”

Father sweeps his arm toward the palace steps, beckoning. A warm welcome indeed. The prince smirks and mounts the stairs, obliging the unspoken invitation. Father joins him, and my sisters and I fall into step behind them.

Finally, my view of the prince isn’t obscured. His height strikes me again, along with his wide shoulders and broad frame. I was under the impression that most fae were bright, light, and lithely elegant. I wasn’t expecting him to look like my father’s choicest warriors—only far more beautiful, where they are scarred and brutal, possessing a predator’s grace instead of a lumbering gait. His face is all chiseled edges and masculine definition, framed by his long dark hair.

Handsome would be . . . well, an understatement.

Maybe it is good I’m veiled after all. It’s a bit hard to imagine someone like him ever choosing a mortal bride, no matter how beautiful to human eyes.

As if sensing my thoughts, he pauses on the top stair and turns.

Bright blue eyes shoot to find mine, piercing through my veil. They shine like cut sapphires. My feet halt on the lowest stair. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. Not while he’s looking at me like that.

My sisters draw back, leaving me standing here. Alone. Bearing the enormous weight of his scrutiny. I cannot even breathe as his gaze sweeps me from the top of my veil to the tip of my toes.

His eyes slide to Father, whose face and body have gone taut. “Do I have the honor of beholding your daughter before me?”

My throat goes dry. I force my hands to stay still at my side and try to keep them from trembling. He can’t see through my veil—so why does it feel as though his gaze runs over every feature of my face?

That gaze is not kind. It is calculating. It isn’t hard to imagine that mouth twisting just slightly more into cold cruelty.

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