36. Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Five
Isoria
I stifled a yawn, longing for a chance to make excuses and slip away to the cozy solitude of Archer’s personal library.
Maybe there I could wait out the evening until Archer returned, hopefully drunk and exhausted and malleable, and I could use my new knowledge.
I had to do something, before this bond smothered me.
My attempts at distracting myself weren’t working as well as I’d hoped.
Though the food and drinks were delicious, the company left much to be desired.
Lily and Owen joined me now and again, but for the most part, they were lost in one another, dancing and flirting.
I was pleased that Lily had found a way to break down Owen’s surly exterior.
His normally gruff attitude was gone whenever he turned to her, his gaze softening, his mouth inevitably curling into a smile.
If only their happiness didn’t also make me feel a little nauseous, a little empty. Whenever I caught my eyes seeking Archer in the crowd, I stopped myself. You’re a captive, and whatever he was saying, whatever he was feeling, that won’t change. He hunts your kind. You can never trust him.
As I forced myself through dance after dance and falsely cheerful conversation after conversation with strangers, I impatiently waited for the moment my stunt was discovered.
I’d found an alcove that had given me a reprieve from socializing, but one that still afforded the perfect view of the unfolding party.
Finally, the moment I’d been waiting for arrived.
“It’s time, Archer,” King Wystan called, his guttural voice rumbling in my chest—but not in a pleasant way. He was a solemn form on his throne, erected on a dais facing the open wall of the ballroom and the lovely nighttime scene. He waved idly toward his son.
Even from across the room, I could see Archer’s form stiffen, his shoulders pulling taut as he stood to his full height. No one else noticed, like I did, that the heartbreaker grin he turned on his court didn’t reach his eyes.
Archer stepped toward the dais, those green eyes searching the crowd, but not finding me hidden in the alcove at the back.
I pressed against the wall, breathing deeply.
“I had hoped my lovely betrothed would join me at this moment, but it seems she’s enjoyed too much merriment and must have retired before she could wish me happy birthday.
” He strolled forward as a pair of servants pushed a wheeled cart into the room laden with the largest layered cake I’d ever seen.
“But I must thank all of you for attending this celebration, and, as is tradition, cut the first slice of cake.”
“Before we do that,” King Wystan cut in, “let me add one more thing. It’s unfortunate your beloved retired early, as she won’t be able to share in your congratulations either. But let it be known that a wedding date has been set.”
Wedding date? Last Archer had shared with me, he’d said that we needed to choose one. Not that he’d chosen one.
But when my gaze snagged on Archer, his eyes mirrored my own shock. He couldn’t conceal the way he’d stiffened, his smile freezing in place. He hadn’t known either. The king is forcing this on us. No wonder Princess Briar had been in such a flurry to make me prepare.
“Crown Prince Archer and his betrothed, Isoria Gildmere, will wed one month from today. Prepare yourselves, as that will be a feast even greater than my son’s birthday celebration, and I’m sure tonight will be one that will be…
difficult to remember after everyone has had their fill of our finest wines.
” He smirked, and I blinked, half-shocked the king was capable of jesting. “Carry on, Archer!”
Still forcing a smile, Archer reached into his jacket for the royal ceremonial knife, I pressed my fingers to my lips to keep my laughter inside, not wanting to draw anyone’s attention.
In my eagerness, I took a single step forward, not enough to leave the shadows, but enough to afford myself a better view.
Archer’s brow pinched as he withdrew a ruler, holding it aloft for all the court to behold.
For a moment, there was nothing but silence, reverent quiet shifting into confusion. Murmuring began as King Wystan shifted forward on his throne, displeasure etched into every hard line on his face.
Nearby, Princess Briar sniggered, tossing her auburn locks over her shoulder. “Too busy measuring your manhood lately to remember the knife, brother?”
This time, the court was divided: some burst into laughter with Briar, clearly entertained by her comment. Others, either afraid of Archer’s title or finding they favored him over his sister, either scowled in indignance or turned away to conceal their smiles.
My delight was so intense, it nearly blocked out the humiliation and anger I could sense building within the crown prince. Just the reaction I’d hoped for.
King Wystan, however, was quick to make his fury known. “I think we’ve had enough of your jests and amusement at the expense of our traditions, Archer. Go and make a mockery of yourself somewhere out of my sight.” He waved the prince away.
As Archer wove his way through the crowd, a fake smile plastered to his face, twisted delight shivered through me. I savored the moment, the sliver of sweet victory I’d seized for myself.
Until I realized his emerald gaze had me pinned, despite the shadows I’d concealed myself within.
Like he’d never lost me in the party after all, but had carefully tracked my location this whole time.
And he was making his way straight for me, his eyes searing until I thought they’d pierce straight to my soul.
Stomach clenching, I backed up in vain, smacking against the wall. The alcove was small, and it was too late to slip out and lose myself in the crowd now.
You thought I couldn’t feel your amusement from all the way over there? In mere moments, Archer was in front of me, glowering. Where is the knife, Feathers?
I bristled, my eyes instantly scanning the party behind him to ensure no one had overheard his low voice, before I remembered that he’d spoken only in my mind. No one was paying us any attention, anyway. “Stop calling me that.”
“It’s what you are.” My pulse rushed in my ears as the prince leaned forward, an arm on either side of me as he caged me in. “Now give me the knife, before I call you a thief next. Unless I need to search you for it?”
My laughter was strained, too high-pitched. “You wish.”
Archer pulled back, his lips twisting into a teasing smirk. “No, I think you wish. I saw the goosebumps on your arms when we danced.” His smile widened. You like it when I touch you.
I crossed my arms. “If that’s what you tell yourself to soothe your wounded pride.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.” He smirked, that wicked gleam back in his eyes as he searched my expression. He thought he’d caught me, leaving me as pinned verbally as I was physically, unable to lie and unable to twist my way out of the words without it being obvious.
I lifted my chin, injecting my words with every ounce of venom I felt. “I hate you, Archer Emberglade.” I shoved him, hard, but all I encountered was a solid wall of muscle. He didn’t budge.
When I scowled, he only continued to grin. “Prove it. Show me I was imagining those goosebumps.” He cupped my face, tracing my cheek with his fingertip. His touch was warm and gentle—and an utter lie.
And yet, it reminded me of the night he’d drunkenly reached for me. How he’d almost kissed me. Had it only been because he’d wanted a distraction?
It had to have been why. I wouldn’t let myself consider anything else.
“Easily,” I declared, and I took his face in mine and smashed my lips to his. I didn’t pretend to be tender like he had. I kissed him like I was fighting him—which, I supposed, in a way, I was. It was a battle of wills, and I was confident I could win.
Archer responded swiftly, seizing my waist and pressing me into the wall as he stepped closer, eliminating any space between us. His fingers dug in, making the fabric of my dress feel far too thin, making me all too aware of the warmth of his body and the strength in his hands.
Angry that I’d noticed, I bit his lip, and he responded by tracing the seam of my mouth with his tongue, coaxing it open. He tasted of wine, heady and dangerous.
Panting, I dropped my hands and pulled away, and he released his own grip on me.
When I met his gaze, there was a long, wild moment where we only stared at one another.
His eyes appeared almost glassy and feverish, his cheeks slightly flushed, his golden hair shimmering like flame in our shadowed corner.
I feared I looked similarly disheveled, equally undone.
“See?” I snapped, lifting my arm to show that the skin there was entirely smooth. “Nothing.”
His chuckle was low, vibrating in my chest. Because you’re burning up, he accused.
I swallowed. I’m always burning with my hatred for you. Eager to turn the attention away from me, I demanded aloud: “Prove to me that you felt nothing.”
I expected him to pull up his shirtsleeves to show me his arms, not to lift my chin with his fingers and press his lips to mine again. And then he was cradling my face in his hands, holding me firmly yet more gently than I’d expected.
My hand found his arm. In my haze, I meant to shove it away, but instead, my traitorous fingers curled in the fabric of his shirtsleeve. Angry that I’d reacted at all, I kissed him back, hard.
He smirked against my lips and swallowed my whimper, kissing me as feverishly as before, as if we’d never stopped.
My stomach was in my throat; my blood was pounding in my ears; my skin was aflame with sparks I feared I wouldn’t be able to hold back much longer.
His hands were in my hair, trailing down my spine, cradling my hips as he held me to him, his searing touches as clever as his lips.