64 #2
“Are they dating?” Shay asks me, wide-eyed.
I just shrug, a grin still on my face. “I guess so.”
“You look like…an alpha,” Ryders drawls, his voice thick as his gaze finally trails over Faye.
I jab my elbow between his ribs and he whines wolfishly.
“I mean, an alpha queen ,” Ryder amends quickly, and I roll my eyes.
Faye giggles. “You don’t look so bad either, wolf.
” She leans in to press a kiss to his cheek, and I swear color floods his sun-tanned skin.
Then she hooks her arm through mine, and we drift toward the ballroom, its golden walls gleaming beneath towering crystal chandeliers.
White rose petals drift from the ceiling, spinning and whirling around the dancing couples.
Their sweet scent perfumes the air, and they flutter into butterflies before they ever reach the floor.
Waiters in sleek suits weave through the revelry, carrying impossible trays crowned with pyramids of delicate flutes filled with jewel-bright wines.
My heart pounds when I turn and glimpse the throne at the far end of the hall. Hewn from solid onyx, it rises from a matching dais, its sides sculpted into four-horned dragons clawing their way out of the stone.
And at its center sits Caryan.
His wings are unfurled like a mantle of night. The crown rests upon his brow, set with black diamonds that fracture the light until it looks like a halo of darkness.
My traitorous gaze drags over him. Black scaled armor studded with gems clings to his tall, devastating frame. Polished boots, a sword resting lazily against the throne—mere decoration, a mockery of how little he needs a weapon.
Charcoal shadows his eyes, and for a terrible moment he looks like his brother—until the slate gray of his irises gives him away. His gaze catches mine, sharp and fleeting, before shifting to the couple kneeling at his feet.
My gaze drifts to a smaller dais beside his, crowned with a modest golden throne.
Harmless-looking compared to Caryan’s—like an old, toothless dragon.
Queen Daphina sits upon it in a wide, glittering gown of gold, radiant, her hair pinned into an intricate sweep, her skin glowing as if she’s been dipped in the last light of an autumn sunset.
I turn away quickly as a sharp, ridiculous jealousy claws up my throat. Grabbing a glass of wine from a passing tray, I retreat to the wall and watch my friends dance and laugh, stubbornly resisting the urge to search for Riven.
Of course, I spot him anyway—striding into the ballroom with Evanalora on his arm.
I drain my glass and snatch another, determined to swallow it in one go the moment they begin to dance.
And still, I watch.
He looks better than ever in a dark suit, silver lapels framing his pale throat. Gold caps gleam on the tips of his ears. Kohl shadows his eyes, streaks of gold paint carving his face into something almost divine.
He spins her. They move like water—effortless, practiced. Evanalora shines in sky-blue silk, matching him step for step.
Suddenly, I’ve never felt more alone. My dress is too tight. The air too thin.
Gods, I wish Aris were here. I wish I’d never come. I should’ve gone hunting instead. Because for all its beauty, this place was never meant for me. I’m a creature of the forest, not the ballroom.
When Caryan stands, the music dies instantly.
Everyone kneels.
“Students who have proven your strength, you have my commendation. This is the way of the fae—seize your power, temper it, hone it until it cuts like a blade. The war at our gates will demand strength without mercy, and only the strong will endure. Tonight, I look upon you with pride. Every one of you has exceeded expectations. So take this night. Celebrate. Tomorrow, we sharpen our steel.”
Everyone stands again, and in their auras, I see they all glow at Caryan’s words of praise—as if he’s some kind of god to them. Even the professors’ auras are tinged with a warm glow. Wow. Maybe I underestimated Caryan’s reputation here.
The queen says nothing. She only stands and watches, hands folded, eyes devouring Caryan—and my stupid jealousy flares again.
It gets worse when the couples part and Caryan offers Daphina his hand. I down the second glass, too, suddenly feeling sick. I should go. I shouldn’t torture myself by watching this.
Who am I even fooling? There is no reason for me to stand here, alone against the wall, pining for two men who clearly aren’t interested in me—at least not in the way I want them to be.
“Want to dance?” A voice startles me, and I’m surprised to look into Kyrith’s eyes. His hair still looks the same, rugged, with strands hanging as if he just came directly from a battlefield.
“Poor high lord. Shame your room has no bathtub,” I tease.
He snorts and drags a hand through his hair. “The ladies like it.”
I rake my gaze over him, but I don’t miss the way his eyes wander—to Faye, laughing as Ryder spins her across the floor.
I spot a streak of something that might be jealousy. But it’s gone too quickly for me to be sure.
He turns back to me. “Cut me a break. At least my clothes are clean.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re the only man who shows up to a ball in a linen shirt and leather breeches.”
“But didn’t you notice? I honed my blade—and even polished my boots for the occasion.”
I laugh and glance down. They’re shining like mirrors.
He smirks. “Wits and blades—always sharp. Come on, lilac brat. Dance with me.”
“Yeah, hells no. I’m definitely going to step on your toes so many times you’ll curse me and wish me a gruesome death.”
He chuckles but doesn’t lower his hand, seeing straight through my act. “Come on, Melody. Let’s crush it.”
I shake my head, resisting the urge to look back at Caryan. At how close he’s holding Daphina. Close enough for lovers.
Is he doing it because they are? Or because he wants the court to believe they are? Or both?
Or at Riven, his hand resting on the small of Evanalora’s back. Or the way she’s clearly pining for him.
Gods, I can’t breathe.
“I really can’t dance. And I’m tired,” I squeeze out. “But hey—there are plenty of girls here who actually like you.” I jut my chin toward a group of students watching him and giggling, openly vying for his attention. Yeah. The high lords here really are celebrities.
When he finally sighs and walks their way, I take my chance and slip off before anyone can stop me.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think straight. My heart splinters with every second I remain in that cursed ballroom.
Why did I come?
Why did I force myself to watch?
To feel ugly? Mediocre? Forgettable?
Because right now I feel everything I promised myself I never would again.
Tears blur my vision, but I make it to the washroom before they fall. I scrub my eyes dry, drag in a shaking breath, and slip back out, melting away from the revelry.