Prince of Night and Storm

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

THE MIDNIGHT BALL

“My only love sprung from my only hate!

Too early seen unknown, and known too late!

Prodigious birth of love it is to me

That I must love a loathèd enemy.”

—Romeo and Juliet, Act I, Scene 5

T onight I submit to Prince Renaud, and die.

I glimpse my enemy the Prince, High Lord of House Montague.

My mother's killer, my brother's jailer. The thief of my childhood, and the usurper of my future. He wears stark Court attire; black, white-and-silver, nearly modern. Though there’s nothing modern about the fall of sapphire and onyx hair down his back, pointed ears peeking from underneath.

My father and I pause outside the arched entrance to the lush forest bower of Everenne City's soaring White Palace. Anchored by his unflappable bearing, I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow, though nothing can subdue my seething fury and beneath it, fear.

“You woke the fucking Prince, Aerinne!”

I did. The consequences weigh on my shoulders. It’s not only my shoulders that will feel the weight.

“Your mother should have warned you what happens when you catch the eye of a High Lord. Of this High Lord.”

His wintry, malevolent moonstone gaze scythes through the crowd then stops, staring through me. My breath falters as I hold that gaze, then steadies as I force my spiked heart rate to calm.

Baba glances at me. “Are you ready, Aerinne?”

He wears cobalt, House Faronne's primary color, enriching the blue undertones of his deep brown skin. I wear a simple sheath of vermillion silk that bares my golden-brown back and shoulders—the secondary color of my House, incidentally a similar shade to fresh blood.

“The fire of humanity combined with the ethereal grace of the Fae. A hint of Other. We underestimated your allure, Aerinne.”

“Tonight is going to end in someone bleeding,” I say. Though it’s supposed to herald the start of peace I can’t accept. Not if I want to live, and that is now my choice.

Live, and sacrifice my people.

Die, and save them.

The Prince hasn’t looked away; I curl my upper lip, sharp discomfort in my gums, and fill my eyes with a promise that any attempt to take me will be met with violence .

“The safest option for you is for our Prince to take you now and sate his desire. It may be harsh, painful even, but quickly over.”

“I'll tell him no.”

“You aren't listening. We are not human, Aerinne. We don't subscribe to human sensibilities.”

“If you have doubts,” my father says, “we can turn back.”

Baba’s human. He can lie, even to himself. But I appreciate the sentiment.

I exhale. “My doubts are centered mainly around his sanity. You can't end a five-hundred-year feud—” ostensibly the purpose of this farce “—you mostly slept through, with dancing and wine.”

“Lots of wine,” Juliette mutters behind me. “If we're lucky.” My cousin guards my back as always, her tension akin to kitten claws clawing up my spine.

“Your job is to keep Aerinne and Lord étienne alive,” Numair says, “not drink.”

Their presence reminds me of what else I stand to lose…

“If you tell him no after he has descended past mere heat into a rut, he will come for you. Your family loves you, and your House holds you in honor. They'll fight. Their deaths won't be pleasant.”

…everything.

Numair shields my father tonight though he’s also my personal guard, hazel gaze picking apart any person who ventures too close, in his eyes an unsheathed threat. They aren't my only guards tonight, but Darkan doesn't count.

Why not? My Dark angel's voice, cool, amused, a mental presence since childhood rarely absent. I am of far more use than these children you call guards. There was no need to bring them, especially not the boy .

True. Darkan saved my life only weeks ago. When will you stop calling Numair “the boy? ”

When he is fit to protect you. If he survives until then.

“We'll argue about that later,” I murmur, then glance at my people. “Let's get this over with.”

The Prince waits at the end of the walkway in a small circular courtyard, forest gardens pressed against its borders, standing on the first step of a sweeping staircase.

Courtiers drift to either side of the uneven white stone pathway. Their heady fragrance fails to hide the Faes’ toxic psychic scents. Malice, lust, amusement mingled with disdain and curiosity.

The scent of moral ambiguity combined with barely checked ambition.

Blood and jasmine.

The rot of age entwined with semi-eternal youth.

“Vultures.” The word slips out of my mouth. I don't bother to catch it. Few of them graced the White Square with their blood, or burned under the scorch of wyvern fire.

“Manners,” Baba says without moving his lips.

“Tell them to stop fucking staring.”

“Aerinne.”

Fine.

“Lord étienne, Regent of House Faronne,” an orderly drones once we’re halfway down the path. “Aerinne Kuthliele, Lady of House Faronne.”

My fingers—they often have a mind of their own—itch to grab the iron dagger strapped to my thigh as we traverse the gauntlet of Fae, my nailbeds aching.

Prince Renaud descends the step, his attention on my face as we approach to the utter silence of the courtyard. We’re locked in a stare; no one sane would hold his gaze like this. He would not allow it. But sanity is subjective, and Old Ones, fickle.

The Prince lifts an arm, slowly, long fingers inches from the curve of my cheekbone.

Cold emanates from his skin, when he'd been heat in the White Square.

Cold, and power. I breathe in both and it fills my throat, choking me, the animal side of my nature rising in response.

The side that cares nothing for Court politics, the death of my family, honor.

It scents male, our male, and wants.

Almost, I jerk back, but freeze for one breath in terror—of myself.

I don’t want this.

“When he approaches you, bow. When he touches you, submit. If he asks, is this against your will, tell him his will is yours. Do as I say, and survive. Then you can plan.”

No. I refuse to want this.

His hand moves forward?—