“No,” I said. “Thank you.”
I was in a dark mood that night when I watched Prisca walk into the ballroom. The seamstress…her aunt—and wasn’t that a strange thought?—had dressed her in lavender. The gown fell to her feet in layers, each panel almost translucent, offering teasing glimpses of her legs when those layers parted as she walked.
It was daring and different, most of the court wearing dark colors and their best jewels.
Thol watched her, a puzzled look on his face. Did he recognize her? With a frown, he looked away, clearly dismissing the resemblance.
Idiot.
What did it say about me that I’d recognized her across a dining hall the moment I’d seen her again?
She nodded at something one of the other women said, and then she was turning to that fucking blond courtier. Peiter.
He took her into his arms, and she smiled up at him.
She looked beautiful—even with her darkened hair and eyes. She also looked tired, almost fragile, and I clamped down on the urge to haul her over my shoulder, dump her on my bed, and order her to sleep.
She would likely attempt to gut me.
My mouth curved.
“I’ve been thinking,” Marth said.
He was watching Prisca in a way that made me want to tear out his throat. I somehow managed not to snarl at him.
“You’ve been thinking?” I prompted.
His face paled at whatever he saw in my eyes, but he stuck out his chin, turning his attention back to Prisca.
“I think you’re afraid.”
Insult flashed through me, but I kept my voice neutral. “Afraid?”
His skin was almost bloodless now, but he continued talking. “She’s the first woman you’ve felt anything for since—”
“Careful.”
He took a deep breath. “And she’s the same woman you left to die. Now you’re pushing her away because, deep down, you know it will be worse when she eventually sees who you really are. And hates you still.”
I angled my head. “You’re becoming surprisingly perceptive, Marth.”
He shivered and took a step away from me.
I had many reasons I’d attempted to stay away from the little wildcat. Among those was the fact that I was as different from these courtiers—and from her village boy—as night was from day. My affections were dark, possessive, all-consuming.
Sabium began his speech, spewing his usual poison. Thankfully, it was shorter than usual, and I politely clapped with everyone else as the music began once more.
Rythos appeared at my shoulder. He’d been staying out of sight, but he leaned close. “There’s something wrong with Prisca.”
I went still. Wrath rose inside me, a beast that howled for vengeance.
The world narrowed, until all I could see was Prisca, weaving across the dance floor toward the wall. Fear flickered in her eyes, and she stumbled.
“Lorian,” Rythos hissed, but I was already moving.
My arms came around her as her knees almost buckled. “Too much wine?”
I knew the answer before she managed to lift her head, her gaze clouded. “You. I know you.”
A chill began in my stomach and radiated outward. “Prisca. You’ve been poisoned. I need you to do exactly what I say.”
She tugged weakly at my grip. “Let go.”
“No. You’re going to walk toward that door over there. Can you do that?”
“Gold door.”
“That’s right. The gold door.”
“Pretty.”
My pulse thudded as the color began to drain from her face. She stumbled, and fear plunged into my chest, as sharp as my sword. Whatever she had been given was fast-acting. I had to get a healer to her before she collapsed.
“Prisca, listen.” I was trembling, I realized. Shaking more than the woman in my arms. My every instinct told me to carry her away from here. But Sabium was already frowning at me, clearly wondering why I was taking the time to dance with a woman so far below my station.
Sending him a wicked smile, I waited until realization crossed his face. Let him think I’d decided to bed one of the queen’s women. A woman who was clearly incapacitated.
The king smirked, his gaze drifting away, and I let out a long breath. There was no way Prisca could walk alone. She could barely stand. We would both have to deal with the rumors and interest.
Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I turned and escorted her off the dance floor, ensuring my expression showed nothing more than bored amusement.
Not a single person stepped in front of me to ask what I was doing steering a clearly drunk woman away from the ball. Most of them smirked, turning to whisper to their friends—already creating vicious gossip.