Reaching behind my head, I unfasten the satin ribbon holding my mask on. Now, barefaced, I address the crowd—address Basten—in measured words. “I honor my wagers, my lord. You’ll have your kiss.”
OUT. OUT NOW.
The voice. It’s back. It’s here. My attention whips around the room, seeking its source. Picking up on my sudden distraction, Rian places a hand on my thigh to draw the crowd’s attention back to us.
It works.
His calloused hand runs along my bare thigh, exposed by the dress’s high slit, until more immediate matters eclipse my concern over the voice.
He shifts his hips in a way that makes me bob precariously in his lap. My heart rat-a-tats. His hand strokes my thigh languidly, in no rush. Leaning back in the throne-like chair, he gazes at me with half-lowered eyelids.
He’s manipulating me. Making me kiss him, not the other way around. Forcing me into the initiator role so it will seem to the crowd that I’m desperate for it.
A perfectly willing bride.
I channel the fighters’ theatricality and tell myself this is only an act. Basten is watching. His eyes are the only ones I care about. I want him to think I’m willing. That he isn’t the only person putting Rian above all others.
I want to hurt him as badly as he wounded me.
An actress—just an actress. With a burst of courage, I lock my arms around Rian’s neck and meld my lips to his. The clapping and hooting from the crowd make the paper lanterns quake. I thrust my nearly-exposed breasts against Rian’s chest, squeezed tighter by the harness holding my wings, and throw all I have into the kiss.
Rian’s palm glides along my bare thigh up to my ass. He’s giving the attendees a show, just as I am. His lips take over, setting the tone for the kiss, deftly taking control now. His tongue flicks against mine, silently asking how far I’m willing to go. My dress feels tighter than ever. How far am I willing to go? Is Basten watching? Are his hands fisting at his side?
The kiss isn’t as bad as I feared—in fact, I’m a touch breathless. Rian’s unwavering confidence makes him an exceptional kisser, and now I get why so many women hunger for him. His teeth snag my bottom lip to bite gently. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I felt a thrill, though it could just be the energy from the crowd focused on me as the center of attention.
GET OUT.
I break the kiss with a sharp intake of breath. The voice again, louder this time. It provides the jolt of reason that I need to remember that the kiss is only an act. But my breathlessness is very real. So are the goosebumps on my thigh as Rian’s thumb strokes it in lazy circles.
From the corner of my eye, I see Basten swipe a tray of crystal glasses off the buffet table to the floor, smashing them in a burst of anger. A few people close by laugh like he’s drunk, and no one else cares. I’m the only one who sees him flex his hand—there’s a flash of blood on his knuckles—and then storm out of the ballroom.
I smile in grim satisfaction. I did it—I got to him. He would only react like that if he did care about me.
“That was . . . unexpected,” Rian purrs in my ear, and beneath his seductive tone, there’s a heavy note of suspicion.
He’s not an idiot. He knows a bride he bought against her will and humiliated in front of half of the kingdom must loathe him. Then again, Basten told me once that men have an astounding capacity to lie to themselves when it’s about something they want.
I give Rian a nervous smile, more shaken by the kiss than I expected, as I slide off his lap. Briefly, my eyes flicker to the rear entrance.
Basten is gone.
I hadn’t planned for this, but if there was any good time to slip away and investigate the mysterious voice, it’s now. For once, I’m not being watched.
“If you’ll excuse me, my lord,” I stammer, resting a hand on my heaving chest. “I—I’m short of breath. I’m just going to take a moment on the balcony.”
Rian nods, his half-masted eyes grilling into me like he can read my lies but isn’t going to call me out on them.
He murmurs, “Of course, songbird.”
Placing a hand on the base of my throat, I slip through the raucous attendees, who’ve returned to dancing and drinking and fucking each other with their eyes. Struggling under the unwieldy weight of the wings, I head toward the balcony—and then double back to the rear entrance, and slip out when no one is looking.
Chapter 30
Wolf
Blood drips from the gash in my hand as I storm into the hallway. I can’t get away from that fucking party fast enough. So many stinking bodies. That jarring fae music. The deafening cheers when Rian had his hand all over Sabine’s ass.
Fuck.
Here I go again, fisting my hand so hard it’s bleeding more. Where’s a damn cloth . . .
The southern hallway is dark, its candelabras intentionally half-lit to foster a secretive air. Couples have already taken advantage of the darkness’s cover. In nearly every alcove I stride past, shadowed forms rut together in winged masks, playacting like they’re fae. The idiots. I hate Sorsha Hall’s parties. I’ve never understood people’s adoration of the fae—what have they ever done for us?
A woman’s high-pitched moan of pleasure stops me in my tracks, and makes me briefly shut my eyes. For a second, it sounded like Sabine. Behind my eyelids, all I see is her perched in his lap with his hand on her bare thigh. When she kissed him, it took all my strength not to drag her off his lap, wrestle her to the floor, and fuck her in front of the whole damn court until there wasn’t a shred of doubt who she belonged to.
Damn Rian. Damn this whole fucking castle.
I grab a crumpled napkin from where it’s fallen off someone’s plate and wrap it around the bleeding gash on my knuckles. Knotting it tightly, I slump back against a wall, tucked away in a seldom-used hallway lined with storage closets, where no one will see me rest my head against the cool stone.
What the hell am I doing?
I have to get my shit together. I have to get Sabine out of my head. Something bad is happening in Astagnon, and there’s fucking blood in the water. There are so many trails to follow, so many possible leads. Where do they all come together? What does King Rachillon know that we don’t? Are the gods truly awakening? Are all his preparations—breaching the border wall, kidnapping godkissed people—to prepare for their return?
All these questions screech to a halt the second I smell violets on the air.
Like a predator, my eyes snap open.
Twenty paces away, Sabine slips quietly out of the ballroom and tiptoes down the hallway opposite me. My spine straightens in disbelief at her boldness. Sneaking out of her own engagement party? What does that little winged wildcat think she’s doing?
Hugging the shadows, she moves with purpose down the hallway. The same woman as before moans from the alcove, and Sabine freezes, presses a hand to her chest, then continues. I stalk her from behind, curious about what she’s up to. She knows there’s no escape from Sorsha Hall, so what’s her aim?
At the end of the hall, she pauses. She stands still for a few seconds like she’s listening. Nearly inaudibly, she whispers under her breath as though voicing a thought. “Who are you? What do you want?” It’s so quiet that only someone with my hearing could pick up on it.