Page 43 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
“I’m afraid not, my lady.” He tucked his hands behind his back, a lock of deep blue hair falling onto his forehead. “We sail in six days’ time and then once more we will be out at sea.”
How disappointing. “I bet you’ve had a number of adventures.”
“Indeed.” He bent his head close, the scent of aged bourbon, vanilla, and clove surrounding her. “I wish I was afforded the opportunity to tell you about them sometime.”
Everinne grinned, a blush spreading to her cheeks. “I’d love that.”
“Sounds like a brilliant idea,” Atlas announced loudly. When he glanced her way again, his face was a mask of unexpected indifference. A chill had crept into his eyes. “My father is requiring me to host a ball in the hopes of finding a wife.”
Wife.
The word sliced through Everinne like the blade of a honed sword, piercing her.
She didn’t realize he was being forced to marry. Of course the kralv would pressure him to take a bride. Oldrich Skye kept a leash around Atlas’s throat, bending his son to his will while threatening him if he dared to disobey an order.
Atlas turned away from her to face Aran. It was as though the topic at hand had sobered him in an instant. His rueful smile was gone. He straightened, his posture morphing from lackadaisical and carefree into that of a polished prince. “I imagine I can throw something together before the three of you set sail again. After all, it would give our Everinne a chance to dance with Lord Tovian.”
OurEverinne?
What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
Veros clicked his tongue, crossing his arms over his chest. “Everinne doesn’t participate in royal affairs.”
But she would certainly be willing to change her mind, if a certain star-kissed lord was in attendance.
“Oh, I don’t know, Veros,” she crooned, fiddling with the collar of aquamarines around her neck in an effort to hold Tovian’s attention. “I think I can make an exception.”
Atlas took one lurching step toward her, but Veros tossed out his arm, halting him.
“A ball sounds like an excellent idea.” Aran’s lilting, mild voice slivered through the tension in the dining hall. “My lords, would you care to attend the prince’s ball while he hunts for a wife?”
Nyxian laughed, his dimples flashing as he rocked back on his heels. “Sounds like exactly the type of party we’d attend back home.”
Tovian’s smile widened. Either he was completely oblivious to Atlas’s simmering rage or he simply didn’t care. “If it means I get to spend a few precious hours with Lady Everinne, then I can think of no better way to enjoy an evening.”
“She’s not a lady,” Atlas muttered under his breath, his words clipped.
Everinne disregarded his cruel insult, choosing to focus instead on the flattery Lord Tovian Starstorm so graciously offered her. “And will you save me a dance, my lord?”
He captured her hand again, pressing another wickedly charming kiss right on the inside of her wrist. “I’ll save every one of them for you.”
Everinne tossed Atlas a careless look, then coated her voice with sickening sugar. “Prince Atlas?”
She could’ve sworn she heard his teeth grinding.
“Yes, Ever?” he asked, maintaining a cutthroat smile.
“When will you be hosting your ball?”
His jaw ticked and he inhaled sharply. “Three nights from now.”
“Well, then.” She slid her hand from Lord Tovian’s grasp, letting her fingers link with his before releasing him. “I suppose I should go buy a dress.”
Veros arched a brow and Atlas’s mouth curved into a vile smirk.
Damn it.
She’d almost forgotten her promise to him. She was supposed to tell Veros about her new job at the Mystic Obscura.
