Page 153 of Wings of Ash & Flame
They both knew it was a dig at humans. To the Consortium and their mouthpieces, people like her were beasts meant to serve, sweat, and bleed for the fae.
Rage clawed at her chest.
Keep it together. Don’t punch him in the face.
“An end that sees you in a position of power, I imagine.” Her smile was sweet, words barbed.
“Ambition drives us all. Surely you understand that.” For an instant, his eyes flashed with naked hunger before he masked it again.
“I do,” Alaire said, stepping back to put space between them. “But how one pursues ambition makes all the difference. It’s a delicate balance.”
“A delicate balance indeed.” His expression frosted over. “Those who upset that balance often find themselves in precarious situations—especially with few alliances of their own.”
She recognized the veiled threat. “Don’t worry. I’ve always been quite good at staying on my feet.” She crossed her arms.
Dexter narrowed his eyes. “For an heir who rules no kingdom and has no intention of doing so, you always manage to stand in the eye of the storm. As if you’re drawn to power, even while claiming to eschew it.”
She dug her nails into her arms. “I have no desire for a crown, Dexter.” She used his name as Archer had instructed—to unsettle him. “But I understand the weight of responsibility and the price of ambition.” Her eyes flashed with irritation.
Dexter studied her for a long moment, hostility thick between them. “Enjoy the evening,Alaire. Best of luck on your last trial. You’ll need it.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “I’ll keep that in mind. Though I suspect it’s not luck you should be counting on. Enjoy your evening.”
As he turned to schmooze other courtiers, Alaire dropped her smile, resisting the urge to shake off his presence. At least she’d gleaned one thing: not everything was as the Consortium presented.
Dexter was under pressure. It was minute, a crack—but one she could widen with time. The question was how far he’d go to secure power. And who could guarantee it to him? At what cost?
From the corner of her eye, she caught Professor Ross near the orchestra, still watching. A couple passed between them, breaking her line of sight.
What’s his deal?
She pushed the thought aside. Right now, she needed to find Kaia and Archer.
Navigating through the crowd, she slipped out one of the double doors to the balconies. Cool evening air kissed her skin. Floating lanterns mingled with the stars above. Ivy wound along the railing, climbing the stone walls and weaving through clusters of colorful blossoms.
She craned her neck, searching. At the far side of the courtyard, groups of fae giggled, murmuring as they turned over cards in their palms.
Turning to rest against the railing, she collided with someone, nearly losing her balance. Strong hands steadied her.
Archer’s face loomed close, concern etched in his features. “Alaire, do you need a moment to collect yourself?”
Kaia stood at his side, brow furrowed. “You look pale. Everything okay?”
Alaire nodded.
“Shall we head back inside? The evening is still quite youthful,” Archer said.
Inside, they returned to the bar. Archer handed her a drink. “It’s strong. You require it.”
She took a tentative sip. Bitterness hit her tongue first—sharp, biting—before undertones of oak lingered and twisted, burning a fiery path down her throat.
She turned to Kaia. “Want to try it?”
Kaia gave the glass a long, sideways glance. Her fists clenched in the fabric of her dress. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
Alaire set the drink aside and hooked her arms through theirs, pulling them into a secluded alcove.
Her gaze softened as she looked at her friends. Kaia’s optimism and warmth countered Alaire’s mercurial—and occasionally violent—tendencies, while Archer’s unwavering decorum provided a steady foundation for their trio.
