Page 26 of Bride of the Fae Prince

He keeps coming, his stride more purposeful.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe—

He stops before me, staring down at me. I don’t look up at him. I can’t. Instead, I keep my gaze downcast, fixed on my clasped hands. Then one of the prince’s large hands enters my range of vision. He catches the edge of my veil.

I close my eyes, keeping my head bent and my hands curled around my gown as he pulls the silk away.

There’s silence.

So much silence.

Suffocating, deafening silence.

Then a knuckle hooks under my chin. I force myself not to resist as he tilts my chin up.

“Open your eyes,” he murmurs.

I swallow. My lashes flutter, and I find myself staring at a pair of deep blue eyes, close enough that I can see the silver ringing their edges and the subtle gold flecks dotting his irises. He is so very beautiful, strange and unfamiliar to me. My . . .husband.

Is he not going to say anything? Will he give no indication of whether he’s pleased or horrified with my face? Is it even possible for fae to find humans attractive?

Heat climbs up my neck and into my cheeks. When I can bear it no longer, I lower my gaze and stare at the silver medallion hanging from his neck. It is a stylized tree, with roots even more expansive than its branches.

He clears his throat. The sound draws my eye back up, and our gazes meet for one second before his flees away. Then he turns and marches to a side table I hadn’t noticed when I walked in. There are goblets, along with a decanter. He busies himself pouring a glass for each of us.

I don’t move a muscle, even though I long to snatch the veil that has fallen to the floor and cover my face again. But I can handle his disappointment in me. I’ve handled my father’s for this long. What more is my husband’s?

He tosses back the contents of his glass, winces, then clears his throat. He sets down the glass and plants both hands on the table, his back still to me.

When he speaks, the sound of his low voice gives me a small start. “I thought for certain the veil was your father’s way oftricking unsuspecting fools like myself into binding themselves to the most garish of your race.”

My gut sinks. My wholebeingsinks, as though I am a stone thrown into an ocean.

His head tilts in my direction, though his back is still to me. “I was wrong, it seems.” Then he pours another glass for himself and tosses it back with a wince. “Gah, this stuff is weak. Tastes like moldy water.”

I sit frozen on the bed, like a carved statue.

My husband is . . .pleasedwith me. At least with my face. I should be worried about this, right? The more pleased he is with me, the more I should fear at his hand. I should hope to be beneath his notice. A wife he can hide away in a chamber to pursue her own quiet interests out of the way of everyone else. But though nothing will make my hands stop trembling, I cannot deny that there is a part of me that thrills, rejoices at his words.

No bride truly wishes, in her heart of hearts, to be found repulsive by her bridegroom.

He lifts the glass he poured for me. “Would you like a drink?”

I shake my head.

He gives a dry chuckle. “I don’t blame you.”

I follow his movements as he sets the goblet back down. When he withdraws his hand, it gives the barest tremble. He hides it quickly by turning to face me again, leaning against the table and resting his palms on its edge.

My lips part as the realization hits me.He’s nervous too.

If he’s nervous, that means he cannot be a brute, right? Or am I just hoping for things I have no business hoping for? Despite my rational mind telling me I shouldn’t get my hopes up, part of me lifts. Enough that I can meet his gaze.

He pushes off the table and comes to stand in front of me. I swallow at his nearness, at his sheer size, at what he might want from me. Then he grabs one of the two chairs at the ends of thetable and drags it right in front of me. My eyes widen as he sits, his long legs wide—framing my knees—as he leans closer.

“You haven’t said a single word since I entered,” he says.

Dare I trust my tongue to behave? I lick my lips. “F-forgive me.”

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