Chapter Two
Ayala
THE MOMENT WHEN MY impulse will either ruin or make me arrives on silent feet, though I feel it pound in my blood. Goosebumps break out over my arms, and my breath hitches as I wait, still and quiet in the distant doorway, glancing from around the rim into the Great Hall.
I should have peed first.
Across the enormous span, the king and his court sit at the High Table, talking and laughing, seemingly without a care in the world.
All of them wear ornate belted robes, specially crafted to be easily shed when shifting.
Spring colors ranging from violets and pinks to yellows and oranges provide a panoply of beauty against the golden stone of the walls and the starched, white-draped tables.
The gathered nobles look like flowers—the entire careless, insouciant, bang-on-stupid lot of them, good only for decoration, war games, and seduction.
Except the king, who wears a simple crimson gown made of a fabric that shines like heavy silk, and his First, the Earl of MacAvern, who is dressed identically in forest green. The two of them have hunter’s eyes as they surveil the crowds, all the while pretending not to hold a single care.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Risk is called risk for a reason.
I gnaw on the rough patch to the side of my nail as I steal glances at the king.
The spit dries on my tongue. Even seated, he’s a dark god in human form.
With pale skin, brown hair so dark it’s almost black, and matching black eyes, he bears death and mystery in every line of his hewn features.
The rest of him is all languid grace, with taut muscles and a lithe, tall frame.
If he stands under six and a half feet in human guise, I’d be surprised, for he towers over those around him.
Which means that in stag form, he’ll stand even taller, and with his famed twenty-four-point antlers...
Oof.
A shiver of desire rolls over my skin, and my core cramps from emptiness, as if I’ve missed a week’s worth of meals instead of just the day’s.
But I’m not alone. Judging by the way the rest of the does in the Great Hall set their fawning eyes upon him as they bite their lower lips, we all feel his magnetism.
But whereas they can dream of being chosen as his plaissance, if not his mate, I’m just looking to expand from vanilla.
I might melt right along with the strongest and fairest of his court, but I’m not daft.
I’m so far from his possible attention, I might as well live in one of the other realms. No point dreaming that way.
My spine stiffens and my breath catches as I watch Radmoor, the young servant with yellow in his hair, approach the High Table with the heavy gold tray.
The special cakes I made sit in artful, if bare, splendor.
I didn’t ice or decorate them. The last thing I want is to draw the king’s attention before he takes his first bite. Otherwise, he won’t.
It takes forever for Radmoor to move behind the king, and another eternity for him to slip the tiny dessert plate in front of His Majesty. Seconds become years become centuries as he delivers the rest of the dishes along the High Table.
But the king appears oblivious to the treat before him, hard in whispered conversation with the earl.
Maybe he doesn’t like dessert?
I can’t unpeel his expression. His beautiful face hides his thoughts behind a wall of amused calm.
He was always Cerf-Biche’s fairytale prince even before he challenged and executed King Charlin.
From the time he was a yearling, the seers in the Aurory named the warrior knight’s son a future king, which had made him both an outlaw and the star of every fawn’s fantasy.
When I was a girl, I kept a cheap copy of his adolescent painted image on my dresser, to the dismay of my parents, as the old king outlawed any images but his own.
He looks much the same, but now dominance peeks from behind his harder edges.
The boy in the portrait with the laughing eyes could never be cruel, but this man, this watchful, coiled hunter of a man. ..
Maybe I should have stuck with vanilla. If the king prefers vanilla, who am I to try to expand his palate?
Once more, he sweeps a casual glance over the entirety of his court, but behind the artfulness lie pikes, blades, and points. I feel his rack at my throat as his gaze skims mine.
This was a mistake. I wipe my hands on my simple blue sheath.
But really, what’s the worst that can happen?