Chapter 10
“Would you hurry up and decide?” Felda nagged. “Are we doing the dress or not?”
I didn’t want to glare at her for griping. I wanted to glare at myself, because I’d been staring undecidedly at the two outfits before me—a leather top and a dress—for an absurd amount of time.
For the last twenty-two years of my life, it would have been an easy decision to make.
But for the first time, a small part of me wondered what I might look like in a dress.
And I was certain it had nothing to do with what Callen had said to me three days ago in the garden, about Harthon being human and why he really turned Ana down.
Skies, I was so full of horseshit.
“I’m about to make the decision for you,” Felda declared.
I studied both options for the thousandth time.
Both were the same deep hue of purple with a lower, more feminine neckline than I normally wore.
Both laced up the front. Both were embroidered with gold and silver threads and would accentuate my eyes before the crowd of guests, which was apparently rather large.
It was just that one had a skirt, while the other came with a pair of black trousers.
“Okay—”
“Not the dress,” I finally said. If we were attacked, the long skirt might lead to my death. Looking pretty meant nothing if a dagger landed in your heart.
Felda and Frannie made quick work of helping me dress, the old woman tightening the laces of my bodice more than I would have.
“Can we make it looser?” I asked, struggling to fill my lungs.
She tied a neat bow three eyelets down from the top of the garment, stepped back, and admired her work. “If I made it looser, your breasts would disappear. Now, you look like a proper woman.”
A little dumbstruck, I faced the mirror and stared at my breasts—my very lifted, very in-your-face, breasts. Well, as much as they could be with their small size. They peeked out from the neckline, a shadow of cleavage showing between the unlaced halves of fabric.
Felda appeared in the mirror behind me, a satisfied smile on her face. Frannie crept in next to her.
“Like I said, a woman,” Felda repeated. “One who’s fit for a Conquering Day celebration. Frannie?”
The shy girl nodded, a soft smile on her lips. “You look beautiful.”
I slowly turned in the mirror, scrutinizing my form.
The top was beautiful, the tight laces molding the supple fabric to my figure, dipping in at my waist and flaring out at my breasts.
The trousers were perfectly fitted, giving the illusion that I actually had hips.
With my hair pulled back in a series of braids that knotted at my nape, I couldn’t help but agree with Felda.
I looked womanly. Not frilly, but feminine in a fierce way.
Though I supposed that ferocity had more to do with my eyes than my clothing.
My unearthly irises were accentuated by the violet top and the sun-kissed pink upon my cheeks that’d come from sitting in the garden.
For a girl who’d participated in a fight to the death just a week ago, I looked damn good. And I was surprised to like that as much as I did.
A knock on the door pulled me from the vain thoughts.
Then most of my other thoughts vanished, because Harthon entered the room, sucking all the air from it with each lazy step.
Black leather boots gave way to onyx trousers that hugged his muscular thighs.
His fitted jacket was the same midnight hue, darkening his irises and the hair that was left half-down around his shoulders.
It was his standard regal Princeps attire, except this time, the metallic embroidering along his jacket was woven with purple thread, and the braids along his scalp were capped with a gold crown I’d only seen him wear once.
He held a second crown, a ring of intertwined vines adorned with the occasional flower.
His eyes raked over me, and I didn’t think I imagined the way they lingered on my breasts. I certainly didn’t imagine the warmth that unfurled along my skin.
The corner of his lips quirked as he approached. “Seems I win.”
I settled myself with a breath. “Win what?”
“I bet you’d choose the trousers. Callen bet you’d choose the dress, though I can’t imagine why.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’re practical.” He lifted the crown in his hands and placed it atop my head. Focus etched his features as he fiddled with its placement and murmured, “And since you would look beautiful in either option, it makes the most sense for you to choose this one.”
My cheeks warmed. “Easier to fight in. Why the headpiece?”
“It’s a formal event in front of the largest audience we host.” He finished tinkering and drew away, scrutinizing the crown. “Felda, it doesn’t look right with the hairstyle.”
The old woman bumbled over. “My hairstyle isn’t the problem. The angle’s wrong. It needs to sit further back in the braids.” She lifted onto her toes to shift the metal.
“My angle wasn’t wrong,” he argued.
“So that’s your weakness,” I said. For someone so confident to be knocked down a peg by hairstyles and crown placement was…well, it should have been laughable. But something within me softened instead.
His eyebrows slanted. “It isn’t a weakness.”
“Your Terrifying-ness is humbled by braids and tiaras.”
Felda chuckled as she worked. Frannie looked like she was waiting for disaster.
“As someone who wears braids and crowns, that is a lie,” he defended.
“It’s okay. All humans have weaknesses, Harthon,” I teased, widening my eyes in mock pity. “At least this is one that other Princepes can’t use against you.”
“If it can’t be used against me, it’s a trait, not a weakness. Though I’ll admit it’s good to be humbled every once in a long while.” He dipped his chin. “It seems the Lady magvis is in need of some herself.”
The dark note in his tone did the opposite of amuse me. Instead, its implication set embers smoldering low in my stomach. From the slight tilt of his mouth, it’d been intentional.
Skies. One conversation with Callen and my body had taken it as permission to feel again, to forget any reasons why I shouldn’t.
“There,” Felda said, her hands moving to my shoulders, turning me to face the mirror. The woven crown nested delicately in the braids.
“It’s too much.” Before, I looked like a powerful woman. Now, I looked like a stranger, an imposter.
I didn’t wear gold upon my head. That was taking the ruse of who I was too far.
“It’s not,” Harthon said, watching me in the mirror.
“I have the eyes and the nice clothes. I don’t need a crown.”
“A crown isn’t merely about appearances. As I’ve told you before, it’s also a weapon. A powerful one.”
He didn’t mean literally. There were no spiked tips on my crown like there were on his.
An excuse ran to my tongue, something about how this wasn’t my weapon to wield. But as I stared at the image in the mirror, I decided that maybe it could be.
Domus knew I needed as many weapons as possible.
* * *
“Callen told you what to expect, yes?” Harthon asked as he led me to a foreign part of the Citadel.
I nodded. Feasting, drinking, dancing, and the like with cabinet members, soldiers, and various wealthy and common citizens who’d been invited by lottery.
He stopped me before a set of guarded double doors with a light hand on my arm. The hum of hundreds of voices permeated the wood.
There was a brief pause before he said, “The way I was at the justice hearing—it’s going to be the same today.”
As in, he was going to be the hardened, merciless man he was rumored to be. The statement wasn’t regretful, but warning. It wasn’t necessary. His reputation was essential to his power.
“I shouldn’t call you Your Terrifying-ness in front of everybody, then?”
That almost earned a smile. “No.”
“Noted.”
His lips parted again, but he swallowed whatever he was about to say. The hesitation instantly put me on edge. Harthon was never one to stutter.
“What is it?” I asked directly.
He nodded at a guard who began opening the door.
Placing a hand on my lower back, he ushered me in before I could press him.
Rather than leading, he kept me at his side.
A cavernous circular room stretched before us, ornate arches trailing up stone walls, converging in a jeweled chandelier that descended in the middle of the space.
Red and green gemstones glowed in the candlelight that emanated from the chandelier and torches lining the windowless walls.
That was all I was able to take in before the room quieted and I was struck with the weighty attention of countless eyes.
We’d entered at the head of the room, upon a raised stone dais that overlooked the space. A grand wooden table, an extravagant throne, and several other seats were all that shared the platform with us. There was nothing and no one to hide behind as hundreds of people stared up at us.
Chin up. Shoulders back.
It was an effort not to cower behind Harthon as we stood in the silence. My eyes trailed through the crowd, seeking out a friendly face. I found it in a leather-clad Callen, who stood near the platform with Ana.
He offered a wink, and my shoulders relaxed a touch.
One by one, heads descended in a wave as every guest bowed.
Harthon didn’t give any signal to release them.
Instead, he made them wait there, knees bent and backs hunched in submission as his hand guided me toward the table, where he pulled out a tall chair beside the throne.
With imaginary grace, I sat, and he carefully pushed it in, the sound of wood scraping rock echoing through the room.
He took his seat on the throne and settled into the cushions, legs spread in possessive ownership.