Chapter 7
Derian
Everything about her is striking.
Her voice isn’t at all what I anticipated.
It’s low and smooth, each word sending a ripple through me.
She’s a woman of contradictions. All at once, she’s serious and strong while also teasing and flirtatious.
She bats her eyelashes like any other dimwitted, pretty woman of the court, but her eyes… they burn unnaturally bright.
There’s a delectable amount of calculation in those eyes.
Her mind is alive, and, by damn, if that isn’t intriguing.
When she reaches those delicate fingers behind her head and begins untying her mask, every part of me tenses, waiting to see what’s hidden under the silver lace.
Anticipation coils in my chest, and the payoff is even better than I predicted.
Blemishless skin, unusually tan considering many of the ladies of court spend their days indoors.
Almond-shaped eyes of the brightest blue I’ve ever seen on a woman.
Full lips, more red than pink, and a narrow jawline accentuated by high, refined cheekbones.
Of all the Mortal women I’ve met since my ship docked in this wretched kingdom, she’s the first one who’s made my trousers feel too tight just by looking at her.
I’ve watched her all night. I saw how each time she danced with a man she spent the first two eight counts of every dance watching the feet of those around her before picking up the steps and making it all look effortless.
I noticed how she smiled shyly at every man she talked to, only to turn away slightly and roll her eyes or make a face of disgust.
And now, by some magical coincidence, she’s here. Alone. With me.
I want to unravel her. I want to tease apart every aspect of her and understand how she thinks. I might even need it. I’m desperate to peel back the layers of her contradictions to grasp why she seems so different from all the other Mortal women who’ve been grating on me since I arrived.
“It’s all rather exciting, don’t you think?” she asks, grinning wide enough that the whites of her teeth shine.
I narrow my eyes. “What is?”
“The princess’s wedding, of course.”
“You’re excited by the princess’s wedding?”
It doesn’t fit the little I know of her.
Sure, the other ladies of the court have spent the night gawking at the princess, eyes glittering with jealousy and curiosity.
But not her. Lady Lachlan, the woman who herself admits she’s not here to find a partner and often doesn’t meet others' expectations, hasn’t seemed all that interested in the upcoming nuptials.
I haven’t heard her mention it in any of the conversations I’ve overheard.
She hasn’t been sneaking peeks at me the way the other ladies do. She’s no wide-eyed dreamer, this one.
And yet here she sits, leaning forward with bright eyes and excited energy.
She’s playing a game with me. I just can’t figure out why.
“Of course,” she scoffs, her voice light and playful. “She looks so beautiful tonight. I don’t know how her groom has been able to stay away.”
Her groom. Not me.
So she doesn’t know.
Most Mortals can sense when they’re in the presence of a Fae. That innate otherness makes their skin crawl, their instincts bristle. Lady Lachlan seems oblivious.
Pity.
Maybe she isn’t as clever as I’ve given her credit for after all.
“The prince is somewhat of a solitary creature,” I tell her, noticing the way her nostrils flare slightly.
“Oh, you know him?”
“Some days more than others.”
Her brows pinch, the tiny crease faint but there. She’s waiting for me to clarify my meaning, and I have no interest in doing so.
“What’s he like?” she finally asks tentatively.
I turn my gaze to the wall. I shouldn’t feel disappointed in her.
The simple questions are to be expected of a Mortal girl.
She has to be only twenty, maybe twenty-one, summers.
Of course she’s curious about the Fae. She’s likely grown up hearing the stories, the warnings, of how the immortal creatures across the sea have been twice blessed with beauty and power, only to be cursed by their arrogance.
We created the Wastelands, they say. Poisoned the world.
And so, like every other immature girl at this ball, she’s curious about the Fae prince who’s said to be a monster in a beautiful body.
“He’s exactly how you might imagine him to be,” I say flatly.
Her brows knit further. “And how’s that?”
I meet her gaze directly. “You’ve heard the rumors of Prince Derian, have you not? You know what they say about him.”
Her lips part slightly, her sharp blue eyes scanning my face. Searching. She knows I’m hiding something, but she can’t yet see what.
“They say he’s a monster,” she says finally, her tone soft. “That he can kill within seconds and not feel remorse. They say not even his brother, the King, can control him.”
There’s a careful neutrality to her words, but I don’t miss the flicker of something sharper beneath them. Fear? No. Hatred, perhaps. It’s subtle, buried beneath the polished exterior she wears so well, but it’s there.
“And do you believe everything you hear, Lady Lachlan?” I ask, keeping my voice light, though I lean forward just enough to unsettle her.
Her smile doesn’t waver, but her grip on the edge of the table tightens ever so slightly. “Not everything. I’ve found there’s usually some truth hidden in whispers, though.”
Clever. Careful. She plays her role well.
“I suppose that depends on the whisper,” I reply smoothly, leaning back.
She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but she smiles and drops her gaze, feigning demureness.
“If the prince is truly the monster they say,” I continue, rising to my feet, “then perhaps it’s best to avoid being caught in his path. You never know what he’d do to a woman like you.”
Her breath catches so subtly that only someone watching closely would notice. She glances up at me, the playful edge to her expression slipping.
“Perhaps,” she says finally, her tone clipped.
She stands abruptly, pushing her chair in. As she reaches for her mask, I’m faster, grasping hold of it and stepping around the desk.
“Allow me,” I say, my voice low as I step behind her.
Her shoulders stiffen, and for a moment, she hesitates to give me her back.
But after a slight nudge on her shoulder, she turns, letting me tie the mask into place over her dark curls.
Her hair is silken, and for a moment, I imagine fisting my hands in it, pushing her forward at the waist and pulling so her spine arches for me.
“You should go back to the party,” I say, my voice dropping even lower. “Before the prince notices one of the ball’s most intriguing guests is missing.”
I run my fingers across her shoulders. Her shiver is so slight it’s almost imperceptible, but it gives me satisfaction knowing I’m having that effect on her.
If just a touch on her shoulder can make her quiver, I can only imagine the fun we could have together. I can’t help the smirk tugging on the corner of my lips.
“I’m not all that intriguing,” she protests.
I step back, letting my gaze linger on her for a moment longer. “You are far more fascinating than you realize, Lady Lachlan.”
Her lips part as if to respond, but she simply nods, brushing her fingers against the edge of her mask as if reassuring herself it’s secure.
With a glance over her shoulder, equal parts suspicion and curiosity, she turns and slips through the door, the click of the latch echoing softly in the room.
I remain where I stand, a low hum of interest settling in my chest as I turn my glass in my hand.
Intriguing, indeed.