Chapter 12
He fills the doorway. My mouth goes dry as I stare at him from beneath my veil. I try not to crumple the folds of my dressing gown beneath my sweaty hands. I try to breathe. Try to not imagine what will happen next.
I just need to take this moment by moment.
And at this moment, he studies me from across the room. His scrutiny makes my skin itch, but I can handle scrutiny.
He takes a step toward me. My heart rate kicks up several notches, and my veil sucks in toward my mouth with my sharp inhale. Calm down, I tell myself. I can handle him walking closer to me.
He keeps coming, his stride more purposeful.
Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe—
He stops before me, staring down at me. I don’t look up at him. I can’t. Instead, I keep my gaze downcast, fixed on my clasped hands. Then one of the prince’s large hands enters my range of vision. He catches the edge of my veil.
I close my eyes, keeping my head bent and my hands curled around my gown as he pulls the silk away.
There’s silence.
So much silence.
Suffocating, deafening silence.
Then a knuckle hooks under my chin. I force myself not to resist as he tilts my chin up.
“Open your eyes,” he murmurs.
I swallow. My lashes flutter, and I find myself staring at a pair of deep blue eyes, close enough that I can see the silver ringing their edges and the subtle gold flecks dotting his irises. He is so very beautiful, strange and unfamiliar to me. My . . . husband.
Is he not going to say anything? Will he give no indication of whether he’s pleased or horrified with my face? Is it even possible for fae to find humans attractive?
Heat climbs up my neck and into my cheeks. When I can bear it no longer, I lower my gaze and stare at the silver medallion hanging from his neck. It is a stylized tree, with roots even more expansive than its branches.
He clears his throat. The sound draws my eye back up, and our gazes meet for one second before his flees away. Then he turns and marches to a side table I hadn’t noticed when I walked in. There are goblets, along with a decanter. He busies himself pouring a glass for each of us.
I don’t move a muscle, even though I long to snatch the veil that has fallen to the floor and cover my face again. But I can handle his disappointment in me. I’ve handled my father’s for this long. What more is my husband’s?
He tosses back the contents of his glass, winces, then clears his throat. He sets down the glass and plants both hands on the table, his back still to me.
When he speaks, the sound of his low voice gives me a small start. “I thought for certain the veil was your father’s way of tricking unsuspecting fools like myself into binding themselves to the most garish of your race.”
My gut sinks. My whole being sinks, as though I am a stone thrown into an ocean.
His head tilts in my direction, though his back is still to me. “I was wrong, it seems.” Then he pours another glass for himself and tosses it back with a wince. “Gah, this stuff is weak. Tastes like moldy water.”
I sit frozen on the bed, like a carved statue.
My husband is . . . pleased with me. At least with my face. I should be worried about this, right? The more pleased he is with me, the more I should fear at his hand. I should hope to be beneath his notice. A wife he can hide away in a chamber to pursue her own quiet interests out of the way of everyone else. But though nothing will make my hands stop trembling, I cannot deny that there is a part of me that thrills, rejoices at his words.
No bride truly wishes, in her heart of hearts, to be found repulsive by her bridegroom.
He lifts the glass he poured for me. “Would you like a drink?”
I shake my head.
He gives a dry chuckle. “I don’t blame you.”
I follow his movements as he sets the goblet back down. When he withdraws his hand, it gives the barest tremble. He hides it quickly by turning to face me again, leaning against the table and resting his palms on its edge.
My lips part as the realization hits me. He’s nervous too.
If he’s nervous, that means he cannot be a brute, right? Or am I just hoping for things I have no business hoping for? Despite my rational mind telling me I shouldn’t get my hopes up, part of me lifts. Enough that I can meet his gaze.
He pushes off the table and comes to stand in front of me. I swallow at his nearness, at his sheer size, at what he might want from me. Then he grabs one of the two chairs at the ends of the table and drags it right in front of me. My eyes widen as he sits, his long legs wide—framing my knees—as he leans closer.
“You haven’t said a single word since I entered,” he says.
Dare I trust my tongue to behave? I lick my lips. “F-forgive me.”
His gaze falls to my hands in my lap, clenching the fabric of my dress. He reaches out and gently pries one of my hands free. My heart picks up its erratic rhythm. What is he . . .?
He takes my hand, turns it palm up, and traces the pad of his thumb across the glistening sweat. I flinch, mortified, and try to pull my hand back. He tightens his grip. I stop fighting. He pulls something from the inside of his vest—a kerchief.
I watch dumbfounded as he wipes my hand dry, then takes the other and dries it as well.
“You’re afraid of me.”
I look up at him, find those intense blue eyes fixed on me. “F-forgive me.”
“Have I done something to scare you? Are you afraid of what I am? Has someone terrified you with tales of what I will do to you?” His face comes closer as he speaks, as if that will help him read whatever I’m trying to hide on mine.
I keep my back straight as Vivienne’s, forcing myself not to pull away from him. I speak the words slowly, hoping it will help them come out smoother. “I d-don’t . . . mean . . . to offend you, my l-lord.”
A line creases his forehead. When he speaks again, his voice is soft and gentle. “Call me Ash.”
Ash? Not Trenian? Is this some kind of nickname? I manage a nod.
He takes my hand in his, heedless of its clamminess, and holds my gaze so intently I can barely keep from looking away. “Isabelle. I will not hurt you. Not tonight, and not ever.”
My lips part. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly.
His mouth hardens, and though the words are quiet, there’s an underlying fierceness to them that leaves me breathless. And a little terrified. “Hurting you would be like ripping the wings off a beautiful butterfly—it would be monstrous. And though I may seem a monster to your mortal sensibilities, I can assure you that you will not find an enemy in me, little wife.”
I lower my gaze, but this time it’s because I don’t want him to see the sudden welling of my tears.
He is kind. It wouldn’t make sense for it to be a front now—now that I am his wife and at his mercy. If he was truly a licentious brute, he’d have taken me already. Yet he hasn’t. He is instead sitting before me, assuaging my fears.
I have the sudden impulse to lean forward and rest my head against his chest. I quickly rein it in. Does this mean he won’t . . .? That he doesn’t want . . .?
“Look at me,” he says gently.
I obey and blink rapidly to hide the evidence of my emotion.
A muscle moves in his jaw. “It has been a long day for you. But I must marry you my people’s way before we leave tomorrow.”
“Your people’s way?”
He looks at me in surprise, as though shocked I would volunteer to say anything that wasn’t an answer to a question. Then a quirked brow quickly replaces the surprise. “Would you like me to show you?”
Perhaps I should keep to my restraint. But I am curious, and I think my interest delights him. Or perhaps he’s just glad I’m not almost in tears anymore. Either way, I nod.
His countenance brightens, and he gets to his feet, tightening his grip on my hand. “Then come with me, darling. I will show you how to marry a fae.”
Darling? My face goes hot as he draws me to my feet. He doesn’t let go of me as he guides me to the other side of the bed, where there is a stretch of floor. He kneels on the rug, then gives my hand a tug.
“Kneel across from me, facing me. Yes, like that. Now, hold out your left hand to me.”
I do as he says, and he takes it, turns it palm up, and presses a kiss to the sensitive skin. A pleasant tingle shoots up my arm, but I don’t flinch, despite how a gasp almost escapes my lips. His eyes flash to meet mine right before he pulls his lips away from my hand, and there’s something about that golden flecked twinkle that is almost a question.
The kiss isn’t part of the ritual, is it?
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to draw a full breath again.
He places his left palm flat against mine between us, and the size difference is almost comical. My pale skin against his dark, my extended fingers barely passing his knuckles. We sit there, kneeling with our hands between us, and I wait with bated breath as his head bows and he mutters words in an unfamiliar language.
My eyes widen. Our hands start glowing, as though a bright candle is hiding between our palms and casting light through the gaps between our fingers. A breeze catches the strands of my hair, teasing them from my braid and whipping them around my face. The prince—no, Ash—keeps muttering, and as he speaks, a shining dot appears on his chest, right over his heart. It grows, becoming a gleaming golden thread that winds around his left arm, coming straight for our joined hands. Part of me wants to jerk away, to let out a short squeak and scramble to safety.
But he promised he won’t hurt me . . . and I believe him.
So I stay.
His head lifts, enough that our eyes can meet, and he speaks clearer, firmer. The language is still unintelligible to me, but the intensity of his expression makes me think this is serious, whatever he is saying. A lock of his hair falls onto his forehead, the chiseled edges of his face painted in light and shadow.
Then he says my name, right in the middle of that string of nonsense. The glowing gold string wraps around our hands, binding them together. At some point, my mouth has dropped open, and I’m gaping. At him, at this string from his heart.
He stops speaking, lowers his head, and winces. His free hand presses against his chest as he takes a deep breath. The glow around our hands doesn’t subside. Is this exhausting for him? Draining or painful?
“My lord? Are you well?”
“Ash. Not lord. Ash.” He lifts his head. “And I am fine. Merely struggling to access my magic in this stifling air.”
“Would it help to open a window?”
He blinks at me in surprise for several long heartbeats, and then a grin spreads across his face. “I wish, love. Now, it’s your turn. Can you repeat after me?”
Repeat after him? In another language? I struggle enough in my own. My toes tingle with numbness. “B-but I d-don’t have magic,” I say.
“You will have mine to draw from.”
“It w-will h-hurt you?”
“Think of it like sprinting as compared to walking. It is only painful when done too long.”
I give a slow, hesitant nod, not wanting to speak again.
“Are you ready?”
I nod again, my throat closing.
“Rometh elrial tadoth,” he says.
I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut, twisting my free hand into my dress to hide how it clenches into a fist. My heart hammers, my throat turning to sandpaper. “R-r-r-roometh elri-i-iel tadooth.”
“Good,” he whispers. “Samens lir dyketor.”
“S-samens leer dye-dye-ketor.”
“Very good.” He gives me more sounds to make, but with each of his gentle reassurances, my anxiety eases, and with it, my words become clearer. Then he gives me his name. “Trenian Ashrift Solavirth.”
“Trenian Ashrift Solavirth,” I repeat. I open my eyes, and then open them some more in shock when I see a pearlescent white strand twining around my arm and wrapping around our hands. I almost jerk away and try to shake it off.
A few more collections of strange syllables, and then Ash announces, “That’s it.”
The glow of the strands around our hands illuminates his face. A kernel of wonder hatches in my breast, expanding into something that swells almost too large for my rib cage.
My husband is everything I could have dreamed of—and more. How were the cards dealt thus, that my husband would be both handsome and good, strong and kind?
“What did I say?” I ask.
“You pledged yourself heart, body, and soul to me and no other, as long as we both shall live. And you gave me permission to forgo addressing you by your royal title.”
“And you promised me the same thing?”
“Similar things, yes.”
“What’s next?” I breathe.
“I said I would never hurt you, but I must make a slight caveat to that. The bonding needs blood to finish. Only a drop from each of us. May I prick your finger?”
With his free hand, he draws a knife from his belt. It’s long and wicked, curving in jagged edges from top to bottom, with a point so sharp it catches the light of the magic binding our hands. What if this is when the kind fa?ade washes away, and he does kill me after all? My first instinct is to flinch away from it, but his hand curves around mine. His thumb trails a gentle caress down the side of my pinky and hand.
“Have no fear. You may do it yourself if you prefer.”
I won’t be a coward. It’s just a prick. I shake my head. “Y-you.”
“Then I will do yours, and you will do mine.”
“Oh, no! I couldn’t hurt you!”
Something shifts in his face. Something hard—and there’s that glimpse of the wildness deep inside him. The wildness I suspect he has tamed for me in this bridal chamber.
“It will not hurt me.”
I don’t believe him, but I focus myself on not flinching as he maneuvers our joined hands so the pad of my thumb sticks out. It throbs in anticipation. His eyes flick to mine, then back to my thumb. He sets the tip of the knife against it, letting me take a deep breath. Then there’s a prick of pain, and I give a little gasp. But just like that, it’s over, and we both watch as the drop of blood wells on my finger and spills over the glowing threads. They react almost immediately, the gold and pearlescent strands fusing together as one. My eyes are wide and fixated on the sight so that I miss when he holds the knife to me, hilt presented toward me.
“Are you sure it won’t hurt you?” I ask, my fingers closing around the hilt. They flex, unfamiliar with any type of blade.
His mouth twists wryly. “Just don’t cut off my finger, darling.”
Cut off his finger? Oh, gracious heavens have mercy, what a wretched thought! I really shouldn’t be holding this knife. I don’t know how to use it. What if I press too hard and run the knife straight through his palm? What if I permanently maim my new husband?
“I will help you.” His hand takes hold of mine, covering it where it wraps around the hilt of the knife. He exposes his thumb and carefully guides the blade closer until its tip rests against the pad of his finger. “There. Now just apply gentle pressure.”
“H-how g-gently?”
He smiles, then applies the pressure on my hand. It’s just a tiny bit, and then blood wells. I pull back quickly, and he lets go as I set the knife down. “D-did I press too hard?”
The thick thread that was once our separate threads glows in response to Ash’s drop of blood. It brightens, brightens, until it’s so bright I shield my eyes.
Then, abruptly, it goes out. I slowly lower my hand.
It’s dark again in the room, with only the gentle light of the candles to illumine the broad shoulders and bright eyes of my new husband. Our hands, pressed together, are no longer bound by magic.
I start to withdraw my hand, but his fingers thread through mine, clasping our hands together. He leans toward me. My heart lurches as his other hand reaches for my face, coming to rest beneath my jaw and around my neck, pulling me forward.
Is he going to kiss me? Do fae marriages end the same way human marriages do? This time I have no veil—it will be just our lips, nothing separating them. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck as he comes closer, closer, closer.
But he doesn’t kiss my mouth.
His lips land on my forehead, soft and slow. As if he is in no hurry to pull away. Then, to answer my question, he murmurs against my skin: “No, you are perfect, little wife.”