Chapter 32 #2
“Let’s get it over with,” Glo says, placing a steady hand on Brynn’s shoulder.
“I suppose you’re right,” he responds.
Jasmeen and I blink at each other.
Brynn gives me a smile that’s meant to be reassuring, I think, but it’s impossible to tell. The honey liquid of his irises has stilled, as though the fire within has been doused.
Glo leads us through the crowd, some of which has started dancing, and I again take Jasmeen’s hand. Asan has not taken his eyes off me, and it prickles my skin. He gives us a hint of a bow when we are close enough.
“Nice to see you again,” he purrs. Both Glo and Jasmeen curtsy to Asan and I follow suit. I regret the entire glass of brinewine I just slammed. Brynn ignores his half-brother.
“Father, Larnie, these are my friends—Thea and Jasmeen. Tonight’s esteemed guests.” It feels rather informal for him to call his stepmother, the Queen, by her first name yet us mere mortals esteemed guests, but I suppose this is appropriate because no one else mirrors my alarm.
“Your Majesties—King Kerron, Queen Larnie—it’s an honor and a pleasure to meet you.
We appreciate your hospitality in opening your palace to us,” Jasmeen says as she bows to each of them.
Her hand grips mine so tightly that I’m pulled down with her.
Thank goodness, though, because in my tipsy nervousness, both speech and decorum have abandoned me altogether.
Jasmeen’s voice is strained, but practiced, as if she has researched exactly what to say in the presence of fae royalty.
I nod, rather stupidly, but my only other instinct is to say thank you—which may be suitable in the mortal world, but not here.
“We are so glad to host you,” Queen Larnie says, her voice much warmer than expected.
King Kerron’s focus shifts to me and I muster the sweetest, most innocent smile possible.
His eyes, though dark like Asan’s, have that same hypnotic, smoldering quality as Brynn’s.
I avert my gaze. Perhaps it’s a trick of the magic wine.
“Yes, do enjoy yourselves tonight,” King Kerron says in a low tenor, turning his focus back to Jasmeen. “My Queen will take any excuse to throw a ball.”
It’s possible that this is just a meaningless exchange of pleasantries, a fun poke at his wife’s frivolity and love of parties.
To me, it has the tone of a carefully crafted insult.
Any excuse. Even one as inferior as two visiting mortals.
This time I drag Jasmeen into a parting bow with me—to hide the unpleasant scowl on my face.
“Thea,” Asan starts as we rise, and I flinch at the sound of my name on his lips. “Would you like to dance?”
I glance at Brynn, who has gone rigid. His face says absolutely not, but his mouth says nothing. Asan follows my gaze to his brother.
“With me, preferably,” he tries again.
“I—yes, of course,” I say, hoarse in my hesitation. Jasmeen squeezes my hand before letting go. I cannot tell whether it is a silent warning or a quiet attempt at reassurance.
Asan wastes no time. He takes my arm, guiding me to the dance floor.
Once there, one hand slips to my hip and the other laces with my fingers.
I expect his touch to be frigid, from his overall air, but it’s remarkably warm.
I stare up into his face and again discern the use of spirit-amplified glamours.
What is he hiding? I guess when one is full fae, there may be some allure to looking like the only mortal around.
Jasmeen and I stick out here—two plain pigeons among a flock of colorful finches.
“So, what brings you to Sanctuary?” Asan asks after some silent twirling. Now that we are alone, his tone seems less haughty. The song is slow. I would prefer a quickstep, a more upbeat tempo, so that maybe we would not have to speak. Or be so close.
“I—I came to find my missing friend,” I blurt, unsure why I’m telling him the truth.
“Oh? A Sanctuarian friend?” he asks. He spins me away from him before pulling me in even closer, the hand at my hip squeezing with an unnecessary tightness.
I swallow hard. Brynn’s burning glare grabs my attention from across the way.
He shakes with fury. Glo and Jasmeen stand at his side, deep in conversation.
The king and queen have walked away to speak with more interesting guests.
Asan dares to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear, drawing my attention back to him.
His touch has the opposite effect as his brother’s.
My skin crawls. A dull unease grips my chest. I am half-dazed, my usual panic numbed by the wine.
“An old friend,” I respond shortly, offering a reluctant smile as though this bit of currency will compel him to drop the subject. An odd glint of comprehension flickers over his features, but it seems to work. His black eyes fixate on my lips.
“And you’ve been here—what? A tenday or so?” he asks.
“About—maybe two weeks,” I say, finding math difficult in my current state. He nods and tilts his chin toward Brynn.
“How did you and my favorite brother meet?” he asks with a cruel smirk.
“He saved me from an angry minotaur,” I say candidly. The way he searches my face suggests he expects me to lie. Like he wants me to and waits for it. I do not understand this game.
“That sounds like my brother,” he says, his tone contemptuous again. “So chivalrous.”
I say nothing as we sway, and he twirls me again.
At least this time I anticipate it. His hold on my waist grows painful.
My bruise aches. It alarms me that I can no longer discern if the floating globes of faerielight that surround the darkening gardens are real or a hallucination brought on by the combination of brinewine and spinning.
Asan leans into me, his mouth too close to my ear.
“My brother has always had a soft spot for mortals in need. Must be in his blood,” he whispers, his velvet voice full of vitriol. I pull back from him, my skin chilling. My pulse quickens with anger rather than fear. Asan says at his usual volume, “One of his many weaknesses.”
The song ends and I am surprised to find a livid Brynn has materialized at my side. Asan releases me with a sneer and bows—quite patronizingly—to us both. He slips back into the crowd without further comment.