Chapter 7
Chapter seven
It’s very late, but I can’t go to sleep. What’s Dad going to say when I tell him I’ve lost my husband? My very-essential-for-diplomatic-reasons husband?
I probably should have alerted security the moment he walked through a wall and disappeared. Especially since things aren’t right between us since our explosive argument.
Oh my god. This is terrible. I’ve messed everything up. Dyfri has gone home, told the fey that the humans are stupid and that we should be wiped off the face of the Earth.
And here I am, sitting in bed, reading notes on fey culture as if homework is going to save the human race.
Suddenly, a soft noise in the living room catches my attention. Is that Dyfri? Or some staff member who is about to discover that the fey prince is missing and I haven’t told anyone?
The bedroom door opens, and Dyfri strides in. He looks amazing. He’s back in fey robes, but it is his night-dark hair that is striking. It is tied back from his face in a dizzying array of twists, braids and plaits. Extremely fancy in that way fey are fond of.
It really suits him. I don’t understand the science behind why people look different with their hair up or down, but by god can I see the effect. He looks magnificent.
He is holding himself differently too. There is a set to his shoulders that wasn’t there before. A tilt of his chin. I think it might be confidence. Or pride. Whatever it is, it looks damn good on him.
He is every inch the imposing, formidable and deadly fey prince. Beautiful and terrifying.
And completely unharmed from his visit to the fey court. I have been fretting for nothing.
“You read?” he says.
My fingers tighten on the sheath of papers in my hand. “Yeah. I thought it would be a good idea to research fey culture.”
Dyfri lifts one dark eyebrow.
I swallow quickly. “I mean, I read some before we were married, of course I did. But you know, one can’t ever know too much.”
Dyfri steps further into our bedroom. The door swings shut behind him.
“The glasses are adorable,” he says.
Reflexively, my hand reaches towards the glasses perched on my nose. “Thanks.”
He stares at me while my heartbeat quickens and quickens.
“You came back,” I say lamely.
“Acute observation,” he says, but he doesn’t roll his eyes.
Instead, he strides to his bathroom and shuts the door. I breathe into the silence, and then put my glasses and briefing notes away.
Dyfri emerges a short while later. Wearing one of his long, gorgeous nightgowns. He slips into bed and turns his back to me.
My hand is shaking as I reach for the lamp, but I manage to find the switch, and the room is plunged into darkness.
I lie down. Every part of me is hyper-aware that my husband is mere inches away.
I swear I can feel his heartbeat. Part of me probably knows his precise body temperature.
But it is all useless information. My husband is gorgeous, but I’m pretty sure that this morning we agreed to never touch one another.
And that feels like such a shame.
The British Museum’s Great Court has been transformed for tonight’s reception.
Towering glass and steel arches soar overhead, while elegant tables draped in cream and gold dot the marble floor.
It’s meant to be a simple social event, a chance for prominent Londoners to meet their representatives in a more relaxed setting than the formal state dinners.
I’m wearing my best dinner jacket, the one that actually fits properly, and I’ve managed my tie without Dad’s help. Small victories.
Dyfri glides beside me, resplendent in a midnight-dark velvet suit that somehow manages to look both formal and otherworldly.
His hair is swept back in an intricate arrangement that probably took an hour to achieve, with the wedding plait woven through it like a silver thread.
He looks like he belongs on a film set, not at a stuffy London reception.
“Remind me why we’re here again?” I groan in dismay as we pause near the entrance, surveying the crowd of politicians, academics, and society figures.
“Diplomacy,” Dyfri replies smoothly. “Your father believes it’s important for people to see us as a... functioning couple.”
The way he says ‘functioning’ makes it clear exactly how well he thinks we’re managing that particular performance.
A woman in an elaborate feathered hat descends on us almost immediately. Lady Something-or-other, I don’t catch the name, but she’s got that predatory smile that means trouble.
“Prince Dyfri!” she gushes. “How absolutely marvellous to meet you. I’m simply fascinated by fey culture.”
She pauses and leans in close. “My family has always said we are descendants of fey, from the last time you graced our world.”
Dyfri gives her an utterly blank look. Ruthless in its intensity. Lady what’s-her-name’s eyes flick to me, and she straightens, clearing her throat.
“Tell me, is it true that your people don’t actually need to eat food? That you sustain yourselves on moonlight and dreams?”
I wince internally. The briefing notes specifically mentioned avoiding questions about fey biology or magical practices.
But Dyfri just smiles politely. Apparently happy to engage in conversation now that she is acting a little more sane. “I’m afraid we’re disappointingly mundane in our dietary requirements, Lady Pemberton. Though I must say, the canapés here are exceptional.”
“Oh.” She looks deflated for a moment, then rallies. “But surely you have some fascinating magical abilities? Can you really turn people into toads?”
“Only on Tuesdays,” Dyfri deadpans, and I have to bite back a snort of laughter.
Lady Pemberton blinks, clearly unsure if he’s joking. Before she can probe further, a distinguished gentleman with silver hair joins our little group.
“Professor Whitfield,” he introduces himself, shaking Dyfri’s hand with the sort of aggressive enthusiasm that immediately sets my teeth on edge. “Cambridge, Department of Anthropology. I’ve been simply dying to meet you.”
Something about his tone makes me uncomfortable, though I can’t put my finger on why.
“Professor,” Dyfri acknowledges politely.
“I’ve been studying your people since the portals opened,” Whitfield continues, his grip on Dyfri’s hand lingering longer than necessary. “The cultural implications of a hierarchical society based on magical ability and not purely hereditary nobility. Fascinating stuff.”
“I’m sure,” Dyfri says, gently extracting his hand.
“Of course, there are some rather disturbing elements to fey society that we simply can’t ignore,” Whitfield presses on, apparently oblivious to Dyfri’s increasingly rigid posture. “The concept of... what do you call them? Rhocyn? Sexual servants, essentially. Quite barbaric by modern standards.”
The temperature around us seems to drop several degrees. I feel Dyfri go absolutely still beside me.
“Professor,” I interrupt, stepping closer to Dyfri. “Perhaps we could discuss something else...”
“Oh, but this is precisely the sort of cultural exchange we need!” Whitfield exclaims, his eyes bright with academic fervour.
“We can’t simply ignore the more problematic aspects of fey culture in favour of pretty dresses and exotic customs. The subjugation of certain classes, the lack of basic consent laws. ..”
“That’s enough.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, sharp and cutting through Whitfield’s lecture. I don’t know why Dyfri is upset, I just know that he is. And that’s the only thing I need to know.
The professor blinks at me in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said that’s enough.” I step fully into Dyfri’s space, not quite between him and Whitfield but close enough to make my position clear. “You’re not here to conduct academic research, Professor. You’re here as a guest at a diplomatic reception, and you’re being incredibly rude to my husband.”
“I hardly think...”
“You’re making assumptions about an entire culture based on incomplete information,” I continue, my voice carrying more authority than I knew I possessed. “And you’re doing it in a way that’s deliberately provocative and offensive. That’s not scholarship, that’s just bad manners.”
Whitfield’s face flushes red. “Young man, I’ve been studying comparative cultures for thirty years...”
“Then you should know better than to ambush someone at a social gathering with accusations disguised as academic inquiry,” I say firmly.
“If you’re genuinely interested in fey culture, I’m sure the embassy would be happy to arrange a proper interview through official channels. But this isn’t the time or place.”
Lady Pemberton has backed away, sensing the tension. A few other guests have started to take notice, their conversations faltering as they glance in our direction.
Whitfield straightens, clearly preparing to assert his academic authority, but before he can speak, another voice cuts through the tension.
“Professor Whitfield!” A younger woman approaches, tablet in hand and apologetic smile on her face. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but the Telegraph would like a quick word about your latest publication.”
“Ah, yes, of course.” Whitfield’s demeanour shifts instantly, academic pride overriding his annoyance. He shoots me a look that suggests this conversation isn’t over, then allows himself to be led away.
The silence that follows feels deafening.
“Well,” says Lady Pemberton faintly. “I think I’ll just... go find the champagne.” She flutters away, leaving Dyfri and me alone in the middle of the crowded reception.
I turn to face my husband, expecting... I’m not sure what. Gratitude, maybe? Acknowledgment that I’d stood up for him?
Instead, Dyfri is staring at me with an expression I can’t read. His dark eyes are wide, almost shocked, and there’s something vulnerable in his face that makes my chest tight.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says quietly.
“Yes, I did.” The words come out more forcefully than I intended. “He was being a prick.”
Dyfri’s lips twitch, just slightly. “A prick?”
“A complete and utter prick,” I confirm. “The sort of academic who thinks being clever gives him the right to be cruel.”
“He wasn’t wrong about everything,” Dyfri says, his voice carefully neutral.
“Maybe not. But he was wrong about the way he said it, and he was wrong about the place and time.” I meet his eyes directly. “And he was definitely wrong if he thought I was going to stand there and let him make you uncomfortable for the sake of his intellectual curiosity.”
Something shifts in Dyfri’s expression. The careful mask he wears slips just a fraction, revealing something raw and surprised underneath.
“No one’s ever...” He stops, shakes his head slightly. “That is, people don’t usually...”
“Don’t usually what?”
“Defend me,” he says simply.
The words hit me like a physical blow. Because of course people don’t. He’s a fey prince, beautiful and powerful and probably perfectly capable of defending himself. But there’s something in the way he says it that suggests this goes deeper than tonight’s confrontation.
“Well, they should,” I say firmly. “And I will because you’re my husband. That means something.”
“Does it?” The question is barely a whisper.
“Yes,” I say, surprised by the conviction in my own voice. “It does.”
We stand there for a moment, the noise of the reception fading into background chatter. Dyfri is looking at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, and I have the strangest feeling that something fundamental has shifted between us.
“Jack!” Dad’s voice breaks the moment. He approaches with a small group of MPs in tow, his politician’s smile firmly in place. “There you are. I’d like you to meet...”
And just like that, we’re pulled back into the carefully choreographed dance of diplomatic socialising. But as the evening progresses, I catch Dyfri glancing at me when he thinks I’m not looking, something almost like wonder in his dark eyes.
Maybe I’m not as useless at this husband thing as I thought.