Page 157 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

Rahk rarely looks tired, but he does now. “Those slippers don’t leave a scent behind like regular shoes. I had to search several rooms before I found you.”

My mind immediately latches onto that statement. I’m glad my bracelet disintegrated now, for fear it would have given me away in this moment. I hold up my empty wrist for him. “Your gift is gone.”

“You must have not liked that fellow. Only very strong hatred can destroy the spellcraft holding Faerie trinkets together.”

“I have good reason,” I say, before explaining the incident.

He listens quietly, nodding along. When I’m finished, he remains silent for a few minutes. Then, he says, “I ought to have made sure he cracked his head when he fell.”

He says it so mildly I burst out in laughter and can barely stop. Sleepless delirium approaches the closer we get to dawn. I wipe tears from my eyes and lean back against the settee. The back of my head hits the polished wooden trim. It’s not comfortable. I glance at my husband. He also leans back, his legs spread wide, one hand planted on his thigh as he surveys the room. I note every perfect line of his profile. Then I note just how comfortable his broad, strong shoulder looks.

Apparently, it has been one too many hours without sleep. I scoot over, lay my head against his shoulder, and close my eyes. He startles very slightly, and I can feel from the way he shifts that he is looking down at me. He settles back in his seat, deeper than before. His smell surrounds me, so comforting I might just fall asleep right here.

I yawn. “How did you do . . . whatever you did to him?”

“It wasn’t much. I glamoured a little drop in the floor. He had poor balance—otherwise it would have been easy enough to right himself.” His voice is close to the top of my head, and I enjoy the way his low voice vibrates through his chest and into me.

I chuckle softly. “He left right after that. He couldn’t handle the humiliation of a wine-stained waistcoat and a sore backside.”

“Good.” He moves, slipping an arm around my waist and pulling me against his chest. I melt against him, too tired to resist. Too warm in his arms. Too soothed by his scent.

“You know what news I’ve just received?” I ask sleepily.

“Hmm?”

“Somehow rumor got out about what Lord Boreham and Lady Agatha were plotting. He went at once to his home in Commington and everyone says the embarrassment is so great he will never return to court.”

Rahk’s rumbled reply is deeply pleased. “Good.”

I smile and let my eyes drift closed. We stay like this long enough for me to doze. A nearby door closing wakes me up. Rahk’s hand on my waist slides up and down in gentle caresses. “Would you like to go home?”

I nod with a yawn.

“Shall I carry you out to the carriage?”

I blink against my blurry vision and the candles fighting for their last inch of life. I push myself upright, only to find that Rahk supports my forearm, lending me balance. “I must walk out myself. To be carried out of a ball is a great shame. At least, I’ve always thought so.”

Rahk chuckles and helps me to my feet. He turns his attention to the skirt of my gown, bending down to straighten the wrinkles, and then to my hair—which has become slightly mussed. He reaches around me to the fake bun pinned to my scalp, a furrow appearing between his brows, and uses his long fingers to adjust the pins. His motions are slow and deliberate, almost too gentle. I chew on my lip as he moves to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I watch him, my body turning warm, and when his gaze returns to mine, I think of kissing him. I wish he would kiss me like he kissed me before.

The saints know I wouldn’t resist it.

He stands so close to me. The muscles in his throat constrict as he runs his gaze over my face.

Then he looks toward the door, ducking his chin briefly, and loops his arm through mine. My stomach drops in disappointment—even though I know rationally that kissing Rahk is the last thing I should be doing. I still want it.

I’m in a sleepy fog when we visit the queen and pay our respects once more before we leave. Her son is nowhere to be seen.

“Lord Rahk,” the queen says sharply after we bow.

“Yes, Majesty?” asks Rahk, straightening.

She lifts her nose into the air and arranges her features into lofty disinterest. “I will go to the troll. You will not accompany me, however. I will take my own men.”

I barely restrain my gasp and the bright grin I want to turn up to Rahk.It worked!

He keeps a much calmer composure, but I can read the spark in his eyes. “Thank you.”

I wait until we are outside before I grab Rahk’s elbow in both of my hands and loud whisper to him, “You did it! We did it!”

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