Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Jack
The carriage ride to the fey court gives me time to think, which might not be entirely a good thing. My mind keeps circling back to this morning’s crisis meeting, to the way Dyfri had stepped in without hesitation when I’d asked for his help.
I’d taken a gamble, bringing him into the negotiations.
Dad’s advisors had looked sceptical, worried and suspicious.
And I’d half expected Dyfri to decline or find some way to make me regret the offer.
Instead, he’d been brilliant. Sharp, insightful, politically astute in ways that had clearly surprised everyone in the room.
Including me.
The thought that’s been nagging at me all day finally crystallises. What if Dyfri isn’t a spy at all? What if he’s exactly what he appears to be, a fey prince who got handed off to the humans as part of a diplomatic arrangement he had no more say in than I did?
The idea should be reassuring, but somehow it makes me feel worse.
Because, if he’s not here to gather intelligence or sabotage our government, then he’s just..
. trapped. Married to a stranger, living in a foreign world, probably homesick and lonely and trying to make the best of an impossible situation.
Just like me.
I glance across at him and have to bite back a sound of appreciation.
Dyfri is back in his fey clothes for tonight’s court function, and the transformation is breathtaking.
Gone is the human glamour, replaced by his true form in all its otherworldly glory.
The midnight-dark robes he’s wearing seem to shimmer with their own light, cut to emphasise his elegant frame without being ostentatious.
But it’s his hair that really captures my attention.
Someone, probably one of the fey servants who appeared this afternoon, has arranged it in an elaborate updo that’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.
Intricate braids and twists wind through the dark mass, secured with what look like tiny silver stars.
And there, prominently displayed among all the artistry, is the simple plait I wove during our wedding ceremony.
The sight of it makes something warm unfurl in my chest. He could have had it hidden, woven into the more complex arrangement where it wouldn’t be visible. Instead, it’s been highlighted, made a focal point of the entire style.
“Your hair looks incredible,” I say, because someone should tell him.
Dyfri’s hand rises automatically to touch the arrangement, a gesture so unconsciously pleased it makes him look almost boyish. “That’s kind of you. I... I wanted it to look right for court.”
There’s something in his voice, a note of nervous pride that makes me realise this matters to him more than he’s letting on.
Maybe this is the first time he’s officially been back to court since our wedding.
Maybe he wants to look like he belongs, like he’s thriving in his new role rather than merely surviving it.
“You look magnificent,” I tell him honestly. “Like you stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.”
The flush that spreads across his cheekbones is utterly charming, made more so by the way he tries to hide his pleased smile.
“Pre-Raphaelite?” he asks.
“Nineteenth-century art movement. They painted a lot of mythological figures. Beautiful people with elaborate hair and flowing robes.” I pause. “You’d fit right in.”
This time he doesn’t bother hiding the smile, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
The fey court is even more overwhelming than I remember from our wedding.
Tonight’s function is being held in what I’m told is the Silver Hall, a vast space with walls that seem to be made of liquid starlight and a ceiling that shows the night sky in real time.
Fey nobles drift through the space like living works of art, their conversations a musical blend of sounds that I can’t even begin to follow.
Dyfri’s four older brothers are all here, but after polite and formal greetings, they drifted to other corners of this endless hall.
I’ve been introduced to approximately thirty people in the last hour, and I can remember maybe three of their names. The fey naming conventions are complex enough to tie my brain in knots, all flowing syllables and genealogical references that would probably make perfect sense if I’d grown up here.
Dyfri, meanwhile, moves through the crowd with fluid grace, switching between languages as easily as breathing. Charming and elegant.
Nevertheless, I can see the way other fey look at him, and it is getting my hackles up. They are not looking at him like he is their prince. They are glancing over in a way that makes me think of a pack of dogs eyeing up a cat on a wall. Just waiting for him to fall.
“Lord Caelynn Ap Rhiannon wishes to congratulate you on your recent nuptials,” Dyfri murmurs to me as a statuesque fey with silver hair approaches us.
I nod and smile, banish my brooding thoughts, and try to look like I have any idea what I’m doing, while Lord Caelynn launches into what sounds like formal pleasantries in rapid Fey.
Dyfri translates the important bits, and I manage to string together a few words of thanks in my terrible pronunciation.
It’s during a lull in these types of exchanges that disaster strikes.
We’re standing near one of the refreshment tables, and I’m trying to work out if any of the delicate pastries on offer are safe for human consumption, when I hear a musical laugh from the group beside us.
“Oh, but I do miss Prince Dyfri’s previous role at court,” a female voice is saying in accented English. “Such a dedicated little rhocyn he was. So very... accommodating.”
The word hits me like a physical blow. Rhocyn. I know that word from the ramblings of that buffoon at the British Museum. I know exactly what it means.
Sexual servant.
My head snaps up, seeking the source of the comment. A group of three fey nobles, all elegant and cruel-eyed, are watching us with barely concealed amusement. The female who spoke, a willowy creature with pale green hair, is smiling with the sort of malicious sweetness that makes my skin crawl.
“Lady Morwenna,” Dyfri says quietly beside me, his voice carefully neutral. But I can feel the tension radiating from him, see the way his shoulders have gone rigid.
“Prince Dyfri,” she replies with a mocking little curtsy. “I love the hair, but I think you look better with it down.”
Dyfri flinches. Ever so slightly. A recoil quickly corrected.
The woman’s eyes light up as she sees it, and she smiles with too many teeth. “Do you miss being a rhocyn?”
The casual cruelty in her tone makes something dark and violent unfurl in my chest.
“I beg your pardon?” I say, stepping closer to the group. My voice comes out colder than I intended, with an edge that makes all three fey straighten slightly.
“Oh, did he not tell you?” Lady Morwenna’s smile sharpens. “About his former... occupation? How deliciously scandalous. Though I suppose humans have different standards about such things.”
The other two fey titter appreciatively, and I feel my control start to slip.
“Jack,” Dyfri says quietly, his hand touching my arm. “We should...”
“No,” I say, not taking my eyes off Lady Morwenna. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
I step fully into the group’s space, using every inch of my height to loom over them. The effect is gratifying. All three take an involuntary step back.
“See, I was under the impression that we were guests at a diplomatic function,” I continue, my voice dropping to the sort of quiet intensity that used to send bullies running at Harrow.
“The sort of event where civilised people engage in polite conversation. But apparently, some people have confused this with a school playground.”
Lady Morwenna’s eyes narrow. “I hardly think...”
“Because that’s the only explanation I can think of for a grown woman making snide comments about my husband’s past where I can hear them,” I interrupt.
“Unless you’re deliberately trying to insult me.
In which case, I’d appreciate you being direct about it instead of hiding behind passive-aggressive innuendo. ”
The temperature around us seems to drop several degrees. I’m vaguely aware that other conversations have started to quiet, that we’re drawing attention.
“Your consort was a whore,” Lady Morwenna snaps, her composure finally cracking. “A pretty little thing who warmed beds for anyone who asked. Perhaps you should know exactly what sort of creature you’ve married.”
The words hang in the air like a challenge.
“Jack,” Dyfri says again, more urgently this time. “We need to leave.”
But I’m not done. Not even close.
“You’re absolutely right,” I say conversationally. “I should know exactly what sort of person I’ve married.”
I turn to look at Dyfri, letting warmth flood my voice.
“I married someone who survived whatever hell drove him to that situation. Someone who’s brave enough to start over in a foreign world, intelligent enough to navigate complex political negotiations, and decent enough to help save my government’s arse this morning even though he had no obligation to do so. ”
I turn back to Lady Morwenna, and this time I don’t bother hiding the fury in my expression.
“You, on the other hand, appear to be the sort of person who thinks someone’s worst moments define them. The sort who takes pleasure in other people’s pain. Which tells me everything I need to know about your character.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Lady Morwenna’s face has gone white with shock and what might be apocalyptic outrage.
“Jack,” Dyfri whispers, and when I look at him, his eyes are wide with something very close to panic. “We have to go. Now.”
This time I listen. I offer Lady Morwenna a coldly polite nod, take Dyfri’s arm, and start walking toward the nearest exit.
We make it approximately ten steps before Dyfri veers sharply left, pulling me down a corridor I hadn’t noticed before. He doesn’t stop until we’re in what appears to be a small antechamber, empty except for a few chairs and a window that looks out onto a moonlit garden.
“What the hell was that?” Dyfri demands, whirling to face me.
He’s magnificent in his fury, all sharp edges and barely controlled power. His carefully arranged hair has come slightly loose from our hasty exit, a few strands framing his face.
“That was me defending my husband,” I say simply.
“Defending me?” He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “Jack, you have no idea what you’ve just done. Lady Morwenna is connected to half the noble houses in the realm. She will not take this insult lightly. She’ll get her revenge. She’ll tell the human media...”
“Tell them what? That someone stood up to her? Good.”
“That you’re married to a rhocyn!” The word comes out raw, painful. “That your consort is a whore who...”
“Stop.” The command comes out sharper than I intended, cutting through his self-recrimination. “Just stop.”
Dyfri falls silent, but his eyes are blazing with something that looks like hurt and shame and defiance all tangled together.
“You weren’t a whore,” I say quietly. “You were someone in an impossible situation who did what you had to do to survive. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” His voice is bitter. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks remarkably similar.”
“Then you’re not looking hard enough.”
I take a step closer, and he doesn’t retreat.
“I don’t know what happened to you before we met,” I continue.
“I don’t know what drove you to that point or how long you had to endure it.
But I can tell it wasn’t your choice. And I know that the person who helped me save a political crisis this morning, who makes sarcastic comments about my snoring, who falls asleep in my arms..
. that person is not defined by the worst things that happened to him. ”
Dyfri stares at me, something raw and vulnerable flickering across his features. “You don’t understand...”
“Then help me understand,” I say gently. “But not because you think I should be disgusted with you. Because I’ll never be. I’m furious that anyone ever made you do those things. I’m outraged that they have the nerve to mock you for it now. But disgusted with you? Never.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Dyfri’s eyes are bright with something that might be tears, quickly blinked away.
“You defended me,” he says finally, as if the concept is foreign to him.
“Of course I did.”
“No one’s ever...” He stops, shakes his head. “People don’t usually...”
“Stand up for you?” I finish gently. “Well, they should. You deserve better than people like Lady Morwenna.”
“Do I?” The question is barely a whisper.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “You deserve kindness. Respect. Someone who sees your worth instead of your past.”
Something breaks in his expression then, the careful mask crumbling to reveal the hurt, lonely person underneath.
“I don’t want to go back out there,” he admits. “Not tonight. They’ll all be talking about it, about you, about what you said...”
“Then we won’t go back,” I say simply. “Is there a way out of here that doesn’t involve walking through the main hall?”
He blinks at me. “You want to leave?”
“I want you to feel safe. If that means leaving, then we leave.”
“But the diplomatic implications...”
“Can be handled tomorrow. Tonight, I’m more concerned about my husband.”
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Then, so quietly I almost miss it, he says, “I am grateful.”
I want to reach for him, to offer some physical comfort, but I sense he’s not ready for that yet. Instead, I just nod.
“Can you get us out of here without anyone seeing?”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “I may know a secret passage or two.”
“Of course you do.” Despite everything, I find myself smiling back. “Lead the way, husband.”
The smile that blooms across his face then is radiant, transforming his features completely. And as he takes my hand to show me the way, I realise something has fundamentally shifted between us.
Whatever we were before tonight, we’re something different now. Something stronger.
Something that might actually have a chance.