White Horse Black Nights (The Godkissed Bride, #1)(87)
He’s traded his huntsman garb for the light sentinel armor that castle guards wear: brass shoulder plates and forearm guards, leather breastplate with the Valvere crest, a collar-like piece around his neck, and a baldric belt to hold his sword. Though the brass armor is polished to perfection, he still looks like he belongs in the woods. His hair is long and loose. His cheeks tanned from the sun.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I snap.
“Lady Sabine.” His rumbling-stone voice rolls across the threshold between us. “From today on, I shall have the pleasure of serving as your bodyguard.”
The formal tone doesn’t suit him any more than the armor does. Though I must admit, it does something to me to see him in metal and leather. The armored plates make his already enormous frame even more affecting. I once thought he looked like a god—now, he looks as imposing as the king of gods himself, Immortal Vale.
And damn if my belly doesn’t tighten at the sight of him. Naturally, that’s the moment when I realize I’m in nothing more than a revealing chemise and robe. Cheeks blazing, I wrap the robe tighter over my chest.
Scoffing, I blurt out. “Are you trying to torment me?”
His brows lift innocently. “I’m merely obeying Lord Rian’s orders.”
“Oh, of course, you’d never do anything to transgress against your master.” Fire sparks from my eyes as I lean in, sniffing. “You smell like cheap perfume.”
His lips part for a quick retort, but then he stops, and a cold smile crosses his face instead. “Yeah. Well. Probably from the whorehouse I visited last night before taking up this post.”
My jaw slackens as my cheeks blaze in outrage. I must be throwing off more heat than the fireplace. A whore? We’ve been in Duren barely a week, and he’s already fucked someone else? I scramble for words, then shut my mouth. No. Basten Bowborn doesn’t deserve my anger. He doesn’t deserve a second of my thoughts at all.
“Did you require something?” he asks with infuriating calmness, pretending he’s simply my bodyguard. “You seemed anxious to leave your room.”
I recall the voice with an uneasy pull in my stomach. I’m not about to tell Basten that I’m hearing ghosts—he’d tell Rian, and they’d lock me up in a madhouse. So I lift a blase shoulder. “I wanted some fresh air.”
He leans one hand on the doorframe, towering over me in his armor, trying to intimidate me. “I’d be happy to accompany you to the gardens, my lady, though I would suggest you change your attire first. As I understand it, Lord Rian doesn’t want you to roam freely. Out of safety concerns, of course.” His voice falls an octave. “Oh, and if you’ve got any ideas about using the servants’ entrance in your room to sneak out, you should know that it’s kept locked at all times. Besides, I’d hear if you tried to leave that way.”
My fiery stare radiates white-hot hatred. So much hatred that it stalls the breath in my lungs. It’s my own suit of armor, protecting my still-wounded heart.
“So,” he says in a light tone. “A walk in the garden, then?”
I grip the door hard as my hand shakes with rage. “You know what? I’ve changed my mind. My engagement party is in a few days, and I want to look beautiful for my future husband, so I’d better get my rest. The night of the party might even be when I invite him back to my bedroom. I hope you won’t mind standing guard while listening to our moans through the door.”
I don’t mean it, of course. I’d never let Rian touch me. Still, Basten’s eyes go blade-sharp with jealousy, and before he can say a word, I slam the door in his face.
Sorsha Hall’s parties are legendary throughout Astagnon. Even as a child, I’d heard rumors of them, whispered about by nobles visiting my parents in Bremcote. People’s obsession with fae culture is stronger nowhere than the Valvere balls, which attempt to recreate the decadent fae courts of old. Feasts of exotic game, fanciful eye masks, feats of strength, wormwood-laced wine to bring out visions. Oh, and of course, unmentionable debauchery between couples—even throuples—in not-so-private hallways.
Still, after an entire day of being bathed and groomed, trimmed and coiffed, and sewn into a scandalously low-cut blue gown with slits on either side all the way to my upper thighs, I’m unprepared for the awe-inspiring sight when I step into the castle’s ballroom.
Hundreds of paper lanterns containing votive candles hang from the ceiling. Their light reflects off the tall glass windows, twinkling as though the stars have lowered to the earth. A quartet of string musicians plays beautiful and strange fae melodies. The discordant combinations of notes shouldn’t work together but do. The air is rich with the attendees’ fragrant cologne and sumptuous scents from the overflowing tables of decadent foods.
The partygoers are dressed in fanciful clothes copied straight from the Book of the Immortals’s illustrations, with the off-set closures and unbalanced hemlines that, like the off-kilter music, make me feel like I’ve stepped into a slanting world. The majority wear satin masks over their eyes or carry masks on sticks. Nearly every person’s attire incorporates feathers or wings as part of their clothing, mask, or woven into their hair.
Standing in the hallway just outside the ballroom, Brigit comes up behind me, tweaking the positioning of the silvery goose-down wings harnessed to my back. After all, I’m the Winged Lady of Duren, the reason for all the celebratory feathers: No one would expect anything less than for me to have the grandest costume of all.