Page 115 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

I feel like a mouse in a roomful of predators. The silent onlookers who ask a hundred questions with their disapproving gazes. The queen, who sits to the right in an elevated throne, is a vision of regal beauty. The sting of Agatha’s attention burning at my back. Rahk suddenly becomes the only comfort in the entire room. I silently beg him to look at me, to communicate even the tiniest shade of emotion or thought. Instead, he stands like a veritable pillar of night lit by the moon-white of his hair.

I used to be able to read him. I used to make him laugh. We used to be . . .friends.

Now he won’t even acknowledge my presence.

When I reach the front, Rahk steps down to me and without looking, offers his hand. I take it, and he draws me up the steps to the priest.

I don’t hear a word of the ceremony. It passes in agonizing slowness, and yet I wish it would slow down even more. Maybe if the priest talks for forever, he will never get to the part where he says—

“You are now man—er, fae—and wife,” stumbles the priest. “Lord Rahk, you may kiss your bride.”

I forgot about the kiss.Howdid I forget about the kiss?

He isn’t going to kiss me. I look up at him, at the attention he fixes squares on my forehead, and I do not believe for one moment that he will kiss me. What are we to do, then? Stand here awkwardly until the priest says we can leave without kissing?

Nothing will announce more clearly to everyone present that Rahk has no regard for me.

I usually do not care about creating spectacles. I’ve been rude at balls often—though always in retribution—but this humiliation burns sharper than anything I’ve ever felt before. Rahk doesn’t want me, and he will reveal that fact to everyone.

He startles me when he steps close to me. I swallow a gasp. His eyes finally, unexpectedly, meet mine. I drown in those black depths. He catches the bottom of my jaw with his right hand and prompts me to tilt my chin.

Wait—surely, he isn’t—he won’t—

He ducks his head toward mine.

“Rahk,” I whisper.

He holds my gaze, and then his eyes close. Mine flutter shut in reply. My heart flies away from my chest. I wait for his lips to land on mine.

They never do.

His breath touches my mouth, his hand on the side of my face, but he does not kiss me. I open my eyes to find his still closed, a slight gather between his brows.

He’s using his glamour to create the illusion of a kiss.

He senses my movement and pulls back. I stare up at him, blinking. Our eyes lock for just one moment. Then his return to my forehead and I am left to think bitterly:I knew he wasn’t going to kiss me.

But at least he didn’t publicly disgrace me.

The chapel is quieter than a graveyard. My feet lock in place. I cast around, searching for some indication of what comes next. The many seated people give none, and neither does Rahk or the priest.

It is the queen, finally, who relieves my misery.

She rises from her throne and claps her hands once. “The celebration will continue in the feasting hall with drink and dance.”

There is a celebration after?Why?We were supposed to leave and immediately return to Rahk’s estate. I could groan, my misery renewed. The last thing I want to do is paste a smile on my face for the next many hours and dance on my bad leg.

Rahk bows to the queen. “You are far too generous.”

She lifts her chin in reply, but there is something sparking in her expression as she glances between the two of us.Curiosity.

I’m supposed to act like I’m in love with Rahk, aren’t I?

Maybe I will take one of his moves and, instead of looking at his face, fix my gaze just between his eyebrows. Somehow, that makes it easier to force my own smile. I slip my arm in Rahk’s, and the pipe organ resumes as we retrace our steps down the aisle.

We make it out of the chapel. Several armed guards take up places surrounding us. There are more now than when they escorted me through the palace. Rahk watches them with an unreadable expression. They, in turn, watch him back.

And I’m caught in the middle of it all.

---