Page 10 of Rhapsody of Ruin
I could have leaned in. I could have pressed my lips to his, felt the heat of his fire consume me. For a moment, I wanted it.
And then I stepped back.
The glamour snapped away, leaving only me, breath steady, mask serene. I left him standing there, fists clenched, eyes burning with fury and want both.
“Good night, Prince Rhydor,” I said, my voice silk.
I turned, the train of my gown whispering as I left his chamber.
In the hall, the guards’ eyes flicked to me, curious, wary. I did not falter.
Only when the shadows swallowed me did I allow the smile to curl my lips.
I had proved my point.
I was not disposable.
Chapter 7
Rhydor
I did not sleep. All night, the taste of her glamour lingered on my tongue, sharp as spice and sweet as sin. The memory of her hand brushing mine still burned, sparks leaping up my arm, leaving me restless and raw. I wanted her. Saints help me, I wanted her with a hunger that clawed at my chest.
And I did not trust a moment of it.
By dawn, though dawn was only a paler shade of twilight in this cursed kingdom, I had convinced myself it was trickery. A spell woven to unmake me, to pull me into her palm like every other weak fool who had fallen for Fae charms. Still, when I closed my eyes, I felt her body angled toward mine, smelled moon-bloom and smoke, saw her lips curve in triumph as she left me half undone.
By the time the veterans gathered with me in the antechamber, I was raw enough to growl at their laughter.
Draven leaned against the wall, golden hair catching the silver light. “You look like a man who lost a battle and won’t admit it.”
Brenn barked a laugh, flame-red head tilting. “Or a man who tasted honey and found it poison.”
“Enough,” Kyssa snapped. Her voice cut sharper than steel. She sat rigid, collar gleaming, her dark hair a streak of defiance. “My cousin is no weakling to be toyed with.”
Tharos flexed his iron hand, the scrape audible. “Weak or strong, the court will keep testing.”
Korrath tapped his cane once, his single good eye glinting. “And so will she.”
Torian said nothing. He stood apart, arms folded, gaze steady. But when his eyes met mine, I read the warning there:Hold your fire. They want you to burn too soon.
I clenched my jaw, forcing my temper back into its cage.
That evening, the banquet spilled across Shadowspire’s gardens, illusions draped as thickly as the twilight air. Trees glowed faintly silver, their branches hung with lanterns shaped like moons. Pools of enchanted water reflected stars that did not exist, shimmering illusions painted onto their surfaces. Music thrummed, a low pulse of harps and drums woven with glamour until it set the heart beating faster.
Courtiers swirled in masks of thorns and feathers, their whispers sharp, their eyes hungrier than the banquet tables laden with glowing fruit and spiced meat. My mother-in-law, though the word soured on my tongue, watched from her high seat, veil flowing like silver smoke. Her gaze slid over me, calculating, waiting for cracks.
Beside her lounged Iriel, mask tilted back, lips curved in a mocking smile every time his eyes found mine.
I hated him already.
The feast stretched on, each toast sharper than the last, each word a barb meant to draw blood. I endured, stone-faced, until the ripple of excitement passed through the court.
A servant girl had stumbled.
She knelt in the grass, trembling, a tray of opal goblets spilled at her knees. Wine soaked her skirts, glittering like spilled jewels in the false starlight.
“She disobeyed!” a lord crowed. His mask was carved in the shape of a fox, his smile vicious. “She failed her charge. Call the Masks!”
