Page 30 of Bride of the Fae Prince

Far too dangerous for Faerieland.

I sheathe my knife and stand before offering my hand to help her up. Once she’s on her feet, I march back over to the table with the decanter. My throat is parched, but I don’t want to drink that moldy excuse of a brew. When I search the room, I find a pitcher of water in the bathing chamber. It also tastes bad, but I down three glasses of it. My back is to her, and I don’t want to turn around until I’ve collected some composure.

My heart sings from the bond we just made, and I try to tamp down on its exhilaration. It didn’t respond to the human ceremony, of course, but now I feel it. Deep in my soul. The fact that this woman is now my wife, and I her husband. My hand buzzes where it held hers—the aftereffects of magic. Sustaining her vows proved to not be as strenuous as I expected on my magic. A small thing to be grateful for. A nice little distraction to focus my mind on, instead of the fact that I have awifeand she is in this bedchamber with me. Alone.

I wanted this. But now that we’re here, it’s almost more than I can take. A horrible consideration rushes through my mind, of ensuring her comfort, then bidding her goodnight and crashing on Rahk’s floor for the rest of the night.

I doubt she would appreciate that. Besides, I married her. It’s my job to stay with her.

If I turn around, I will be forced to look both at her and at the bed that fills the room. But there is one other thing I must dotonight. So regardless of how fractured my composure is, I must regain some semblance of control. I grip the table, grip it so hard it gives a little creak.

Then I let go, releasing a deep breath. I turn around.

She’s standing where I left her, on the opposite side of the bed. Her white gown is stark in the candlelit dimness. Its simplicity suits her lovely frame much better than that flurry of fabric she was wearing earlier. Would she object if I asked her to unravel her braid?

I won’t ask. I’ve kissed her twice already tonight, and that is two times more than I should have.

But tonight, it’s just us. Tonight we are nothing but newlyweds, a bride and bridegroom. I don’t want to think about how things will have to be between us when we go home. All I want is to just be a man with his new wife.

She is quiet standing there, wide eyes blinking slowly at me. She’s not sure what is next. I think I’ve consoled her enough for her to know that I meant what I said about not hurting her. Still, I should probably say something—something more explicit. At the same time, she flushes so easily . . . Would she rather I didn’t acknowledgeexpectationsand simply move past them as if they were never there to begin with?

I open my mouth, but the words don’t come. The only thing that will is: “You need another name. Isabelle Louise is a lovely, practical name. But it’s just not safe or suitable for Faerieland.”

“Safe?” she repeats, without stuttering. Satisfaction curls in my stomach. She doesn’t stutter when she is reacting genuinely, and it pleases me to see the sincere sparks of confusion and curiosity in her instead of the stilted, rehearsed“my lords.”

“Names have power in Faerieland, and if you are to be my wife, we cannot give others power over you. And we need something suitable for ballads. Something more romantic, with a touch of tragedy.”

She nods once, then tilts her head. “Ballads?”

I cannot help my grin. Cannot help skirting the bed to come closer to her. I lean against the wall just a couple feet away from her, crossing my arms as I look down at her. “Of course. You, my star, will be sung of for ages to come. That is what comes of marrying the next High King of the Fae, and being his human bride, no less.”

She seems to consider this, her brow wrinkling slightly, as if the possibility of being the subject of ballads has never occurred to her.

I’m not lying. She will go down in history as the High King’s beloved human wife. Stories will be told of her, regaling her beauty and goodness. She will be the subject of legends.

Of tragedies.

I will be sung of, too. As the lover who wept over his dead bride’s body.

I focus on the floor between us, tapping my chin as if I am thinking of a name for her. I already have one—I thought of it after our dance. What I’m actually thinking about are ways to block out the image I have in my head of her doe eyes, wide and unblinking, frozen in death.

“Am I supposed to give you a name, too?” she asks.

I look up. There’s that surprise that thrills through my blood and draws a line of pleasure in its wake. I smile. “If you want to, but there’s no tradition necessitating that. Does my name displease you?”

“No more than Isabelle Louise displeases you.”

Her reply is so unexpected I actually laugh.There’s that spark she hides.Warmth courses through me again, followed by the urge to close the distance between us, to discover how she reacts to my touch. But I force myself to remain against the wall as I try not to notice the way her lips twitch at my reaction.

“Stella.”

Her eyes meet mine, a question knit into the twitch of her brow.

“Do you like it?” I hope she does. It suits her very well, in my eyes. “In our language, it meansthe one from the stars.”

“Stella,” she repeats, trying it out. Then she looks up and smiles. “It’s beautiful.”

Great Kings have mercy on the idiotic way my brain stops working for a minute. I look away and clear my throat. “Well, shall we take rest? Would that please you, Stella?”

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