Chapter 33 The Banquet #2
I snap my eyes open just in time to see Keiren—the real Keiren—seize the empty cloak of the man in my arms and hurl it aside.
The figure I was dancing with shimmers violently, his form rippling like molten gold poured into water.
Gasps echo through the hall as the illusion collapses.
Where a man stood moments ago now hovers a radiant, winged fairy, no taller than three feet, skin glowing like hammered sunlight, gossamer wings beating in frantic bursts.
“Y-Your Majesty,” he stammers, darting backward midair. His voice is suddenly thin and chiming.
Recognition ripples through the court as they take stock of the sparkling crown atop his head.
A fairy prince?
Keiren’s fury is incandescent. “Reverse your spell.”
The fairy bows sharply in the air, wings flickering. “Forgive me,” he squeaks. “I meant no harm. My mother wished to know if the final Chosen was true of heart.”
The words land like a struck match.
“Truth,” Keiren repeats coldly, “is not determined by deception.”
The fairy swallows. “We only wished to see if she would chase power… or remain herself.”
Silence stretches—tight, dangerous.
Keiren steps forward, every inch a king.
“There will be no more testing her,” he says, voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. “Not by you. Not by your mother. Not by anyone.” He turns, gaze sweeping the room. “The festivities have concluded. Leave. Now.”
The magic recoils. Lanterns dim. Fairies scatter like startled sparks.
Heat floods my face. My chest tightens.
Before anyone can speak, I turn and flee—past marble pillars and stunned guests—into the night, roses and moonlight drawing me toward the garden’s quiet shadows.
I slipped through the moonlit roses, their crimson buds trembling against the thorns. I reach to coax one open and yelp as a thorn bites deep into my palm. Warm blood wells against my skin.
“Don’t you know better than to force a flower open, Fire?”
I spin around, cheeks aflame. Keiren is standing at the garden’s edge, cloak pooling like shadows around him.
“Once again, Your Highness, you succeed in startling me.”
He steps closer, gaze unwavering. “If you try to make a bud bloom before it’s time, you’ll kill it.” Another step. “You’ve been avoiding me all night.”
I press my wounded hand against my side, voice brittle. “I wonder why.”
The space I try to keep only collapses beneath his gaze as he gently takes my injured hand and lifts it to his lips.
I gasp as he kisses the scratch with such reverence that I almost forget the sting.
The echo of his warmth lingers on my lips.
Then he pulls a strip of silk from his cloak and wraps my finger, gently tying the makeshift bandage.
His other hand brushes stray curls from my face, his fingers lingering at my temple. “Beautiful,” he whispers again, eyes dark as storm clouds. He leans in and brings my hand to his lips, grazing each knuckle with feather-light kisses.
A soft snap draws my gaze. In his other hand is a different rose, already in full bloom.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, averting my eyes. “And dangerous. Like me.”
He smiles, and something flutters in my chest. I watch as he pinches away each thorn with his bare fingers. Not one pricks him.
“Every rose has thorns,” he says softly, leaning closer as he tucks the bloom behind my ear.
I close my eyes and breathe in his familiar scent. He’s so close I can feel the heat radiating from him.
“You are light and warmth,” he murmurs, pausing as his lips brush my ear, his breath like silk against my skin.
“And the only way you should ever be touched… is in a caress.”
I shiver at the contact and can almost hear the question behind it—Will you let me in? The night holds its breath with me.
I move first, closing the distance between us. Unable to bear it any longer, I press my lips to his.
The kiss is soft, unhurried, like a spark catching on rain-damp wood. His touch is warm, careful, reverent. When he pulls back, I almost chase him.
He laughs quietly, the sound roughened by disbelief. “You’ll be my undoing.”
He cradles my face as though it’s something sacred. A curl slips free, but he quickly tucks it back behind my ear, his eyes searching mine as if trying to memorize what he sees.
“I’ve lived lifetimes inside these walls,” he murmurs. “But this… this feels like the first one that’s actually real.”
My throat tightens. I want to tell him I feel it too, but all I can manage is a tremulous, “Then don’t waste it.”
His mouth crashes into mine, stealing the air from my lungs. The second kiss is deeper, more certain, the passion undeniable.
The world narrows to his warmth, his heartbeat, the scent of his roses pattered by rain. My arms wind around his neck. His hands caress my face with a tenderness that feels almost like prayer.
“Never,” he murmurs, planting kisses on my cheek, my brow, the tip of my nose. He huffs a laugh, and our gazes catch, two souls meeting.
I tug him closer by the collar, fingers threading into his hair. The world blurs, dizzy with mist and desire, and then he kisses me again.
“Stars, Fire…” he breathes against my mouth, “you don’t know what you do to me.”
“Maybe I do.” My voice trembles, but the words feel brave.
He laughs softly, shaking his head, resting his brow against mine. “We should stop now, before I forget every shred of chivalry and virtue I have left.”
I smile against his lips. “Maybe I want you to forget them.” My fingers toy with the collar of his tunic.
He stills. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
Yes, I do.
How dare he think I don’t know my own mind? I want this. I want him. He’s seen me in ways no one else ever has. I kiss him in answer, pressing closer.
“Fire…” He whispers my name like a plea.
“Please,” I breathe, not even sure what I’m asking for—only that I can’t bear the distance between us any longer.
He exhales, half pain, half wonder, then sweeps me up effortlessly and carries me to the stone bench beneath the roses, layered with cushions and shadow.
I’ve never been held like this before. Never been seen so completely. And in his eyes—burning with restraint and reverence—I feel the ache in my chest finally quiet, as though the part of me that never stopped running has at last found somewhere to rest.
He sits, still holding me. I deepen the kiss and shift in his arms, trying to turn so I can face him fully. My skirts catch on the edge of the bench, tangling around my legs, and I wobble—half rising, half sinking—searching for balance.
A quiet laugh rumbles out of him. Before I can right myself, he adjusts his grip, firm and careful, guiding me back down so I’m still seated on his lap, turned toward him but kept just shy of straddling. Deliberate. Controlled.
I swat his shoulder in mock offense. “Bastard,” I mutter between kisses.
“I’ll make you regret those words, darling.” His voice drops low, almost a growl—so deep it barely sounds like him.
“No,” I whisper, kissing him again. “No more regrets.”
My fingers trace the edge of his jaw, the roughness of the stubble he’s let grow over the past few days. I follow the line of his collar, loosening the top button. Then the next.
Before I can go any further, he stills—brows knitting together as though he’s in pain.
I brush my lips against his, my own brows furrowing. “Is something wrong?”
For a heartbeat, everything softens—the world, the air, the space between us. Then his expression shifts. He studies me as though memorizing every detail, something old and wounded flickering behind his eyes.
Gently, he takes my hands and lowers them to my lap.
“We can’t,” he says, easing me off his lap and settling me beside him on the bench—careful, reverent.
“I don’t understand,” I say, confusion tightening my chest. “I want you. And I know you want me, too.”
“This isn’t about want,” he says quietly. “It’s about what’s right.”
The words cut deeper than I expect. I swallow, guilt catching behind my ribs. “Keiren… I can feel how much you need me—”
He shakes his head, his voice barely above a breath. “You give me enough just by breathing.” One hand cups my cheek, his thumb warm against my skin.
We hold there, suspended between apology and longing, between who we were and who we’re still becoming. He opens his mouth to speak again when—
A flutter of wings. A startled cry.
On the far side of the garden, fairies tumble into view, searching for their master. I jerk back, suddenly aware of where Keiren’s hands are.
He rises at once, smoothing the folds of my gown with quick, practiced care before they can see. His composure settles back into place like armor.
“Your Majesty!” A blur of gold light slams into us. “Come quick!”