60. Lilias
Lilias
MARRIED TO A PRINCE
“Hold on a minute,” Petrys says.
He steps into the shadows behind the big fountain with the little fox on top, and I follow him.
“Your hair is a disaster,” Petrys whispers with a frown.
“Sorry,” I stammer as my cheeks burn. “We, uh—”
“I don’t even want to know,” Petrys replies.
He steps closer to me, then begins tugging on strands of hair. I clench my jaw as he does whatever it is he’s doing to the elaborate hairstyle Doloros gave me. It seems to take a long time. Finally, he steps back, frowns, and shrugs.
“Good enough,” he says.
“Great,” I mutter. “Now I feel really confident.”
Petrys steps into the light. “I’ll follow you,” he says. “My lady.”
My heart screams inside my chest as I walk toward the open doors of the ballroom.
It’s a beautiful summer evening, and the night air is soft and cool against my skin.
Music and laughter float through the doors.
They’ve hung lanterns in the garden outside the ballroom, and their soft, golden light dances across the sparkles on my dress.
I try to smile like this is all normal, like my cheeks aren’t flushed and my hair isn’t a wreck.
Like the man I love isn’t escaping the palace right now.
I step through the door, smiling at everything and nothing.
The ballroom is hot, and the air is heavy with perfume and the deeper tang of sweaty human bodies.
The music is louder now, and the laughter feels wilder.
My hands twist together at my waist. This dress is heavy and hot, and far too tight across my chest. I feel like I can’t breathe.
I’ll just walk across the room, I decide, and skirt the dance floor. I just need to be seen. I nod politely at the flood of people I barely recognize and fight the urge to glance over my shoulder with every step, to make sure Petrys is still here.
Halfway through the room, I glance at the dark windows, but they only show the distorted reflection of the ballroom, dancers and musicians, elegant dresses and expensive wine. I glance down at my hands, then back at the far side of the room.
Has Zarek made it to the stables? Is Alia there? Are the horses—
Someone grabs my arm. I choke back my scream as they twist me around so violently I almost trip.
“Where in the nine hells have you been?” Blayne growls.
My breath catches in the back of my throat. Blayne turns to Petrys with a glare so fierce I almost expect him to start swinging punches.
“The lady was feeling faint,” Petrys replies. “I suggested she get some air.”
Blayne’s fingers dig into my arm as he drags me closer to him.
“Do you know how that looks?” he demands in a rough whisper. “Do you have any idea what people are going to say about me?”
Some of the men and women around us have stopped talking. They’re watching Blayne. Or, perhaps, watching me. They’re being polite about it, glancing at us and then back at their wine glasses, but they’re watching.
There’s always someone watching in this damn palace.
I try to pull away, but Blayne’s fingers squeeze my arm even harder. Rage burns in the back of my throat.
“Well, I’m sorry,” I hiss, under my breath. “If I’d known getting a little air would be such an affront to your honor, I would have just passed out on the dance floor instead.”
Blayne’s hand falls from my arm. He turns to face me, his features scarlet with rage. I recognize the look on his face; nine hells, I’ve seen it before. I know what’s coming.
I have just enough time to think I’ve made a mistake, I’ve pushed him too far.
And then he slaps me.
His hand hits my face with a sound like a pitcher full of water hitting a slate floor. I don’t even have time to react. My head rocks back, and my vision flashes white as pain explodes in my cheek. Tears rush to my eyes.
The music is still playing, somewhere, but all of the voices around us have gone quiet.
I blink; the world shimmers through a haze of tears. Blayne looks like he wants to spit on me. I take a step back.
“You bastard,” I gasp.
Someone close to me gasps. Blayne’s mouth falls open.
How he must hate this. He’s tried so hard to claw his way into this ballroom, using me as his stepping stone. He wants so desperately to belong here.
But he never will. I can make sure of that.
“You will learn to respect me!” Blayne growls under his breath.
“No,” I reply. “I will not.”
I swear that even the music goes silent. Blayne’s face goes from red to white. My cheek burns with the ghost of his hand. Everyone is staring at us now. They aren’t even pretending to be polite.
“You insolent bitch,” Blayne hisses.
I stand up very straight. Blayne is taller than me. Still, it’s easy to look down on a man small enough to hit a woman.
“I am the reason you’re here, Blayne Everard,” I tell him, twisting his name so it sounds like a slur. “I am the only reason you’re here. In this royal ballroom. You were useful to me, so I tolerated you. And I’ve just reached the limits of my tolerance.”
Someone whispers something behind me. I ignore it.
“You are my wife,” Blayne snaps. I’ve never heard those words sound more like a threat. “You will obey me!”
I pull myself up as tall as I can. My beautiful dress rustles around me. My face hurts, my eyes swim with tears, and the back of my mouth tastes like blood.
Gods above, I am so tired of this man.
“I am not your wife,” I declare, my voice cold and regal. “I am married to a prince.”
My skirts swish and whisper as I turn my back on Blayne. He calls to Petrys, something about not letting that woman out of your sight, but his words are lost in the sudden flood of a dozen whispered, scandalized conversations that rush in to fill the space I just left.
They’ll be gossiping about this for months. Hells, maybe for years.
I stare at the garden doors on the far side of the ballroom, focusing all my attention on the soft darkness on the other side. A woman I dimly recognize as one of Princess Acelina’s attendants comes up to me and asks if I need anything. I shake my head, then turn back toward the doors.
They’re closing.
I freeze. Two servants pull the doors closed.
I spin, turning toward the doors that lead deeper into the palace.
Those doors are closing as well. The room is still filled with conversations, loud and hot, but the music has gone quiet.
On the dance floor, the crowd is turning to face the dais. And the throne in the center.
Someone starts to cheer, and then applause ripples through the room, crashing against the closed doors like waves on the cliffs of Ethiria. Slowly, King Malrik climbs the steps to the dais. He waves and smiles, like a father indulging a spoiled child.
The cheering goes on for a very long time. I keep staring at the doors. All of the doors. All of them closed.
Panic closes around my throat. King Malrik makes a show of attempting to quiet the crowd, then laughs when his efforts are unsuccessful. Someone bumps my arm, jostling me as they move closer to the dais. I glance at Petrys. He nods, and we both move toward the far wall.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Malrik says, finally able to speak over the wild applause. “To Vsenrog. To all of us!”
He holds a silver goblet in the air, and another round of cheers erupts, filling the ballroom.
My heart screams inside my chest. I look at Petrys, then at the closed doors, and then at the rows and rows of tall, dark windows.
Could we climb out of those? How in the gods’ many names could we do that without being caught?
“And now,” Malrik says, forcing my attention back to the dais, “I have something to show you. Something incredible. Something that will change the fortunes of Vsenrog forever. That will make our mighty kingdom a legend in the scrolls of time.”
He grins, then waves at someone standing behind him. Varitan steps forward. There’s a scattering of applause, light and airy, as the tall elf raises his hands, his palms facing the crowd.
I press my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.