Chapter 10
Rikard
At the high feast table, Rikard watched her in his peripheral vision, this human woman who was now, by the laws of both their species, his mate.
She sat with her back straight and hands in her lap, receiving the steady stream of congratulations from their guests with perfect human manners.
The veil was gone, set aside after the ceremony, but her torn dress moved around her like something alive.
She was more interesting than he’d initially thought.
When he agreed to her proposal, he’d filed her away as another desperate human whose problems he’d solved with a practical arrangement, just like every other human who visited his office.
He hadn’t bothered to look at her any closer.
Why would he? The whole point of their arrangement was keeping their distance.
Separate lives, separate hours, separate everything except his family name and the child they’d both parent.
She’d said it herself: they need never cross paths.
In a way, this was his first real glimpse of her.
What she’d done to her wedding dress suggested a capacity for emotion that didn’t belong in a contract marriage.
It suggested she didn’t view him solely as a solution to her problems, as he’d assumed.
She saw through his office to the broken gargoyle underneath, and rather than looking away, she’d picked up her shears and joined him.
He suspected she would be a better mother than she believed. A woman who could do that for someone she didn’t love would do far more for someone she did.
He would not tell her this. It wasn’t his place, and she’d likely take it as presumption. But he held the thought in reserve, ready to deploy when it became relevant.
Their mating feast was held in the same courtyard where they said their vows, under a canopy of lanterns that the keepers had strung between the Tower and the surrounding buildings.
Moths circled the warm glass, their pale wings catching the light in lazy spirals.
Though the humans couldn’t hear them, they twittered ceaselessly about the unusual ceremony location, the bride’s ruined gown, and of course, Rikard’s well-known perversions.
Cléa, who’d normally be mortified by such gossip, was capitalizing on the attention.
She’d recovered from the shock of the ruined gown and was now telling anyone within earshot that Hannalinde had designed the gown herself, implying that the shredding was part of the original plan rather than the last-minute act of…
rebellion? Compassion? Rikard admired the speed with which his mother rewrote the story for her own purposes.
Roul sat beside her, drinking steadily and jesting with the Zenith and his wife, who sat beside him. He always enjoyed a party and didn’t much care about its purpose, although he seemed to approve of Hannalinde joining their family. The human king and queen rounded out the high table.
The rest of the human guests occupied the lower tables.
A contingent of the nobility had boycotted the event due to Hanna’s family name, but their absence was offset by the lords and ladies and wealthy merchant families who had come out of support for Hanna, social pressure, or the simple inability to resist a scandal.
Dressed in their finery, they regularly glanced up at the gargoyles perched on the surrounding buildings with expressions that ranged from fascination to barely concealed alarm.
Thankfully, tensions eased when the platters of meat began to circulate. A huge, steaming tray of venison and quail arrived in front of Rikard and Hannalinde. He’d filled her plate and then begun to fill his own, when his mother elbowed him, tilting a horn toward Hannalinde.
“Feed her,” she hissed at him.
He had not planned to carry on the tradition of feeding his mate from his own hand, especially not in front of such a large crowd. It seemed too intimate. But apparently their guests disagreed, because hundreds of eyes were on the high table, waiting for him to do it.
He tore a piece of quail from the bone and, careful to retract his claws, held it out to Hannalinde. She looked at the offered morsel, then at him, a question in her eyes.
“It is our custom to feed our mates,” he explained quietly. “A promise to provide. You don’t have to take it in your mouth, if you’d rather not.”
He expected her to shy away from such a public performance of the fragile trust between them, but she hesitated only a moment longer before leaning forward to accept his offering. The brush of her lips against his fingers was brief, but for some reason it seared into him.
He was still flexing them at his side when, to his astonishment, she cut a piece of venison from her own plate and held it up for him. He had to dip his head to take it from her. Was it his imagination, or was the venison the most juicy and flavorful he’d ever eaten?
“It tastes better from your hand,” he told her gravely.
Her cheeks flushed, and she poised her knife above her plate. “Would you like some more?”
“I believe I would.”
Eventually, after the highest-ranking gargoyles and humans left with their retinues, the feast gave way to a human-style ball.
Musicians played from a raised dais in the corner, and part of the courtyard had been cleared for dancing.
Gargoyles perched above, watching the human spectacle with varying degrees of interest and disdain, while the more rebellious ones descended to mingle on the ground.
Rikard did not dance. He sat at the high table with Hannalinde. Neither of them suggested joining the floor. He suspected she could dance very well, given her upbringing, but he did not ask her to dance because he did not know the steps.
Thankfully, she did not demand that he stumble through a human dance while the upper tiers watched. Perhaps her dress was too unwieldy or her constitution too delicate due to the pregnancy, or perhaps she wished to spare him the embarrassment. Whatever the reason, he was not sorry to remain seated.
Hannalinde’s human friend Carlijn threw herself into the festivities with abandon, cajoling humans and gargoyles alike to dance with her.
Her brown ringlets bounced as she spun through a reel, her cheeks flushed and her laughter carrying above the music.
She danced three more in quick succession before she made her way to their table, where Rikard’s friends had gathered to visit with them.
Bastien greeted Carlijn with polite disinterest when she introduced herself, his large hands clasped behind his back.
But before she could even take offense at his dismissal, Lucan swooped in, materializing at her side.
His curly hair gleamed with fresh oil as he bent over her hand to kiss it.
It was obvious from her giggles that she was flattered by his attentions.
Rikard watched them leave for the dance floor with the grim knowledge that Lucan was going to break her heart.
“Your friend should stay away from him,” he warned Hannalinde.
“Who?” She followed his gaze. “The tall one with the pretty horns?”
He frowned at her description. He found he did not like her frank admiration of other males and was eager to quash it.
“Yes, Lucan. He’s an unrepentant, insatiable, catastrophically charming rake who collects female conquests.
He will tell her anything she wants to hear to bed her, and then he will tell anyone who wants to hear what it was like. ”
Hannalinde watched the pair twirl their way across the courtyard. Carlijn spun under Lucan’s raised arm, her skirts belling outward and her face bright with reckless joy. “I don’t know. She looks happy.”
“I imagine so.” Like an animal tasting the bait, right before it’s snared.
“I’ll tell her, but I doubt she’ll listen to me,” Hannalinde sighed. “Carlijn doesn’t listen to anyone. It’s her worst quality and her best.”
“Her best?”
“If she listened to other people, she’d never have stayed friends with me.
” Hannalinde glanced at him, and the look was wry and unexpectedly warm.
“Or attended my wedding, for that matter.” He felt a stir of resentment toward his own friend, conspicuously absent.
It was disappointing that Drogan could not put aside his personal feelings for one night.
Across the courtyard, Lucan bent to murmur something in Carlijn’s ear.
She threw back her head and laughed so hard that two nearby humans clutched their wine goblets in alarm, and Rikard could practically hear Lucan’s purr from the high table.
Bastien caught Rikard’s eye and gave a small, resigned shrug.
Rikard nodded. Some battles weren’t worth fighting. Lucan would do what Lucan did, and Carlijn seemed more than capable of handling herself. At least the two of them were giving the moths something to report on besides Hanna’s beautiful, ruined gown.
The crowd thinned as the evening deepened. The gargoyles unwilling to mingle with humans left first, launching into the air from rooftops and walls. The human guests departed on foot in clusters, pausing to bow or curtsy to the platform where Rikard and Hannalinde sat.
He acknowledged each one with a curt nod. Hannalinde dispensed more gracious smiles to these undeserving rabble, the same humans who’d scorned and shamed her for her father’s crimes. He did not know how she could stomach it.
Not that his kind was any better. It sobered him to think that her attacker might have been amongst the wedding guests.
They might have greeted him, welcomed him to their feast, fed him and entertained him, without even knowing.
Though the thought had just struck him, Hanna must have been feeling it all night.
But when he stole a glance at her, she was as composed as ever.
She must be flagging, though. He certainly was.
“Perhaps we should make our exit?” he murmured. She gave a grateful nod, and he helped her untangle her skirts from the base of her seat. “Shall I carry you?”
“You needn’t.” Her pulse was visible in the hollow of her throat. Such thin-skinned creatures, humans. It was no wonder they needed the protection of stone walls and stone guardians.
“I think I will anyway.” He hoisted her in his arms in a bundle of silk and smiles, and the guests who spotted the move laughed and hooted in approval. He chuckled as he carried her off the dais. “Seems we’ve won them over.”
“The ones who don’t approve already left, I imagine,” she said mildly, but he could tell she was pleased to have at least some reputation restored. “It’s the one with green shutters.”
She indicated the townhouse they’d rented for her to dress and prepare for the ceremony. He ought to take her there. Her things were there. Carlijn would stay with her. He had guards posted on the roof, so she’d be safe from her true mate. She’d move into his eyrie tomorrow as planned.
Still, he did not like it. He began to carry her toward the Tower instead. At her noise of surprise, he gritted out the only explanation he could provide: “My mate belongs in my nest.”
“Oh!” she said, stiffening momentarily in his arms. But then she relaxed, patting his steel breastplate. He fancied he could feel her fingers through it. “All right, then.”
When they reached the center of the Tower, it was empty, save for the scuff and scramble of a keeper here and there. He set her down at the base of the ladder.
Hannalinde straightened, brushing feast crumbs from her shredded skirt.
Standing face-to-face with her, he could see her fatigue in the fine lines around her mouth and the shadows under her eyes.
Four months pregnant, she’d performed the role of her life in front of a city who’d shunned her for a decade, and now she had to climb seven ladders straight up.
“Rest a moment before the climb,” he murmured, straightening one of the sagging blooms tucked into her hair.
“If I stop for a moment, I’ll fall asleep right here, and the moths will spread tales of the Nadir’s wife being forced to sleep on the floor.”
“I’ll smash them all if they do,” he vowed.
A small, breathy laugh escaped her. “I believe you would.”
“I will find someone to fly you up,” he decided. It was not the way he wished to begin mated life, with his mate in someone else’s arms. But he also did not wish to begin it with his mate falling off the ladder to her demise, either.
She stopped him. “No need. I can manage. I just need help tying up my train, if you don’t mind?”
She showed him the clever ties built into the design of her gown.
He had to kneel and reach up under her skirts to find them, into that private space that was a few degrees warmer from her trapped body heat.
He tried to avoid the brush of her thighs against the back of his arm as he located the delicate ribbons amid the wreckage of her dress, but it was unavoidable.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, not wishing to remind her of the indignities she’d suffered.
“It’s nothing,” she said tightly, holding very, very still. He moved slowly, like she was a wild animal that he was trying not to frighten, as he drew the ribbons up and tied them so her skirts brushed her ankles rather than dragging on the floor.
“Thank you,” she said a little breathlessly, leaning on the ladder, her knuckles white. His mate was showing her cracks. He wasn’t sure she had any until that moment. Perhaps they were more alike than not.
Unlike the last time they traversed these rungs together, she ascended the ladder first. His movements rote by practice, he could not help watching her above him. It was for her own safety, he rationalized. If she were to fall, he could at least have a chance at breaking it if he were below.
Practicalities aside, he did not mind the view. It was not her slim ankles and shapely calves that captured his imagination, but her ragged hem.