Chapter 8 #2
The exquisitely beautiful woman from earlier is near by. Her crystal-blue eyes go wide as her red lips part. In an instant, her expression snaps back, composed and cooly detached, but her gaze still flicks between me and Drystan as though trying to make sense of such a pairing.
Frankly, I can’t blame her. I stand out here, and not only because I’m human.
As if picking up on my thoughts, someone mutters, “A human?”
That soft question breaks the silence and dozens of whispered conversations break out across the room. The scrutiny on me is a physical force, and my knees wobble under its weight.
“Well,” the blue-eyed woman says on a breath as she steps forward. “Your Majesty certainly knows how to keep us on our toes. Such an interesting idea to marry a human. May we know what we’re to call our future…” She swallows and licks her lips. “… queen?”
She isn’t asking me, so perhaps that doesn’t break the rule about names.
The king shoots me a quick, unreadable look and I think he’s going to tell them all I’m nameless, but inclining his head, he answers, “Rhiannon.”
“Hmm.” Her black hair gleams as she tosses her head. “Like the stories of old. How… interesting. And isn’t she pretty? Do we really believe that pretty little neck can carry the seal?”
“Phaedra.” His voice carries a note of warning that I don’t understand.
She gives a tight little smile, then steps forward. “Allow me to be the first to offer congratulations to Your Majesty and… Rhiannon.” Even though her mouth is still curved in a smile, the look she gives me is sharp enough to gut herring at a hundred paces. It’s a wonder I’m still standing.
All I can do is smile right back, bright and sweet. I’ve had practice at smiling through pain—this is nothing.
Drystan’s thumb slides up my spine, making my body stiffen. He doesn’t so much as glance at me as he inclines his head to her. “You speak most generously, Phaedra.”
After she bows and slips into the crowd, more fae come forward, congratulating us on our impending nuptials. I need to escape before that comes to pass, but a royal wedding must take a while to arrange, even for fae. I hope.
When a black-haired man approaches and the king stiffens, it catches my attention.
The sharp lines of his cheekbones remind me of Drystan’s.
But as he bows over my hand, he smiles charmingly, like the king never could.
“Effan,” he says simply before flashing me a roguish wink and disappearing into the crowd.
Next, a couple steps forward, reminding me of Min, who there’s still no sign of. A woman with the same pointed chin and small, pert mouth, together with her husband whose eyes are the perfect match for Min’s. They’re introduced as Lord and Lady Song.
Yet even as I smile at them more widely than I’ve smiled at the others, they only return cool, polite nods. I’m foolish for thinking they reminded me of her at all—they have none of her sparking warmth.
I lose count of how many more folk we receive, how many pretty speeches they make, as my head starts spinning.
Before the next one steps forward, the king bends closer. “Haven’t you eaten? I told Min to ensure you had breakfast.”
I blink up at him. Shit. The last thing I want to do is get Min in trouble—she’s the only person here who’s been friendly. “I ate.”
“You’re swaying.”
That would be weakness. And weakness means death. I try to hold myself still, strong, upright. “It was a little while ago.”
“What do you want?” At my blank look, he huffs. “To eat. Anything you desire.”
Anything?
Not an option I’ve been given before. Every day of my life I’ve existed on some combination of vegetables and fish, sometimes with bread, and at festivals and birthdays with rich, buttery pastry.
But I’d feel silly digging into a full meal in front of all these fae, whose stares are intensifying as this hushed conversation between us continues.
I’m not sure why, but it would feel weak to eat a meal while they all stand there—an admission of my human frailty and all the silly, mortal needs that go along with that.
I need something I can nibble on. Something quick and easy.
The king’s lips purse with building impatience.
“Biscuits,” I blurt.
When I was little, Annem and I would bake them, with her in charge of the huge rolling pin and me responsible for cutting out the little discs.
She’d always let me eat one while they were fresh out of the oven, still piping hot.
Later, when they’d cooled, they’d be crunchier, the lightly spiced flavor more pronounced and I’d get a whole new experience.
Perhaps part of me is seeking something familiar.
We haven’t had those in a long time.
I nod and say it again, more somberly. The sugar will give me a temporary energy boost.
“Biscuits?” He says that one word flatly, and when I don’t respond, he shakes his head, eyelids fluttering like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “Very well.” He holds out his hand and a delicate glass plate appears covered in thin, round biscuits.
I open my mouth to thank him, then remember myself and snap it shut.
Annem and Pa hammered good manners into me too thoroughly.
Instead I incline my head and take one. It snaps between my teeth, perfectly crisp, and the sweet spice of brown sugar and ginger fills my mouth.
A small sound escapes my throat. I can’t help it.
It might be the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
Another small pleasure to squirrel away.
When I open my eyes—though I don’t remember closing them—I find the king watching me, his eyebrows raised, lips barely parted.
How can he be so irritable when he lives in a world with food like this?
“They’re incredible.” I grab another as he just watches, and that makes me wonder—“Wait, have you even tried them?”
His mouth flattening is all the answer I need.
That is a tragedy. It sweeps me up in a sudden need to share something simple, something human with this imposing, inhuman King of Death and I find myself offering him the biscuit. “You’re missing out. This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
His lips twitch. “Is it, now? I can’t decide if that’s a sad reflection on your life or if the biscuits are just that good.”
My face grows hot, but I cock my head like I’m not embarrassed by the way he’s twisted my words. “Trust me. It’s the biscuits.”
He holds my gaze a long while and suddenly I feel foolish. He’s not just a king—he’s the son of The Morrigan, a demi-god in his own right. He isn’t about to start eating sweet treats in front of his subjects. There’s probably some rule against it.
I pull my hand away—or at least I go to, but he captures my fingers. There’s this faint shake of his head, gently admonishing me for withdrawing, then he takes the offered biscuit. “They do seem to have pleased you.”
There’s something surreal about watching him bow his crowned head and lift something so simple and unadorned to his lips. I can’t look away as I take another biscuit for myself. His gaze has slipped to one side, but somehow he perfectly times his bite with mine.
The crunch is like an explosion in my mouth—in his, too, given away by his eyes widening. Next comes the buttery melt, spreading the ginger’s heat, just this side of fiery. A soft breath leaves his nose as though he’s melting, too.
Then comes my favorite part—the flood of heady pleasure from the sweetness. Slowly, slowly, his eyebrows lift, and when his eyes turn to mine, the pupils are wide.
He may not be human, but he is still a person, beguiled by baked goods just like the rest of us.
“Hmm?” I cock my head.
Taking a deep breath, he inclines his. “Hmm.”
How he’s lived in the same world as these without ever eating one before is beyond me.
As he swallows, throat knotting, his attention on me is focused and hot, like the glowing point of a poker just pulled from the coals. I hold still, worried I’ve displeased him by breaking some rule I don’t understand.
“You have…” With a crooked finger, he lifts my chin. It’s surprisingly gentle, and yet my heart leaps knowing his hand is so close to my throat. I’m suddenly vulnerable, suddenly too close and at the same time there’s this intimacy to his gaze on my mouth that’s so unexpected, it stills me.
Softly, his thumb grazes my lower lip and lingers. The pad is soft, warm. A flush of pleasure runs through my nerves, chasing the earlier sugar rush. I wonder how it would feel if he pressed harder, if his fingers bit into my chin, clamped me in place, if he bent down and—
I suck in a breath, blinking away the thought. The wild, foolish thought.
But we’re still held in this quiet moment, and maybe that’s because I swear there’s this slight softening of his gaze that says he feels this too. That right now, for however many seconds we linger here, we are merely people, not an unseelie king and the human who’s been bargained away to him.
“There.” His tone is less sharp than usual, a caress that slides through my flesh as his physical touch retreats. “Are you ready to continue?”
The fae. The whole room of them, here to congratulate us on our betrothal. Right. Yes.
And also, no. Not ready at all.
My eyelids flutter as I remember myself. My foolish, foolish self.
I may be stuck here for now, and they might have incredible biscuits and gorgeous people here, but I’m not staying. I’ll enjoy whatever small pleasures I can find, but the first chance I get, I’m gone.
I nibble on the biscuits as we receive yet more of his subjects.
My back and hips grow sore, so I have to shift my weight and try to subtly move and stretch without tipping over the little glass plate.
Just as I’m wondering if I can ask for a seat without seeming weak, the thirteen red-haired fae who caught my eye earlier approach and bow.
“My royal guard, the Twylth,” Drystan offers by way of explanation. He’s taken no more biscuits and stands with his back straight. “This is the Baloran—their leader.”