“No,” she said softly. “I suppose you do not.” She bit her lip. “But tonight, with me, you will.”
Mireille guided his hand to her waist, taking position. For a heartbeat, she only stared up at him, unsure whether he would play along. But the music rose far in the distance, and he took the first step in rhythm with the soft, sweet fae melody.
He was a fine dancer. Graceful and fluid, seemingly aware of her in a way that made her own steps easy. His grip was steady against her waist, his other hand a practiced lead. They spun through the ballroom, gliding over the polished floor like seabirds skimming smooth waters.
She had not danced in ages, her kingdom under threat and her people in fear. She had not stood close to a man who was not her guard, or her friend, or her father. Alder was very a much a man, despite that he was fae. Tall, strong, and competent, and not quite so prickly once he’d relaxed into the motions. His gaze fixed on her, and the ballroom seemed to fade away. The song came to an end but Mireille did not want to let go. She did not want to return to the way things were, to thinking about what was to come, the worry about her people and her family. When he began to pull away, she held fast, not stepping backward, her hand remaining clasped in his. She needed him. She needed this.
Their eyes locked. “Stay with me,” she whispered, though certainly she must have meant to addfor one more dance.
Something shifted in his gaze. Magic perhaps, some hint of glamour or power, flickering beneath the influence of fae music and moonlight. His expression did not change, but his attention was on her so thoroughly that the atmosphere did.
In the distance, a new song swelled, carried to them on sweetly scented air. Alder’s gaze remained on Mireille as his hand slid up to her shoulder blade, in preparation, she thought, for the new dance position. The cut of her dress was low, and a shiver ran through her as his gloved fingers grazed her bare skin. His lips parted, as if to speak her name, and Mireille felt herself tipping her head toward him. They were so close that the breath he released brushed over her skin.
“Your Highness.”
The voice from the doorway broke whatever spell had come over them, and Alder went suddenly stiff. He dropped his hands. “What is it?”
The uniformed fae bowed deeply, in a move that spoke of regret. “Apologies, Your Highness, but there is in issue that requires your attention.”
“I’ll be right there.” He seemed to shake himself before taking a step back from Mireille. Tone gone tetchy, he said, “I shall return you to your rooms, Your Highness.”
At first Mireille chalked his tone up to the shock of interruption. But his conversation was noticeably curt as they made their way to her suite, and the rigid posture and obvious distance he held between them felt more like a rebuke. Mireille had been so close to…something.
Her time was running out. She needed to uncover the prince’s secrets, and the secrets of his people, to find a way to save her own. She needed him to needher. And not merely because she was a princess.
But Alder was protecting himself and his secrets. It was clear he hadn’t meant to slip. He must have realized he had nearly let her in, and he likely had no intention of dropping his guard again.
It was clear that Mireille had just lost any footing she’d gained.
CHAPTER6
At midnight, Mireille rose from the wide, plush bed once more. Her booted foot slipped between the scattering of metal and glass trinkets Thomas had spread over the floor without a whisper of noise. With nothing in her wardrobe but flimsy night dresses and elaborate gowns, she had taken a pair of his trousers, rolled at the waist, and a knotted-up shirt. Still, they had been certain there was no means for her escape.
She stood in the darkness of the still room. She could feel the soft weave of the rug beneath her toes, could hear the slow steady breath of Thomas in his spot by the door.
Thomas was thorough. After the panel had been discovered, there were no other exits he hadn’t blocked. None aside from the passage meant for a queen—the door between Mireille’s suite and the prince’s that had been sealed by powerful fae magic. Magic a human princess could not break.
She moved soundlessly toward the door anyway. It was tall, half again her size, and carved with intricate vines and leaves. She placed a palm to the wood. Her pulse beat against its grain. For one beat of her heart, Mireille’s awareness of the room disappeared, then she was back, trapped in the state of semi-consciousness she’d been in before. The leaves seemed to have shifted beneath her palm, and the door fell open into a short, dark passage. Mireille’s feet drew her forward.
Mireille had not felt the fear that should have come when she’d nearly stepped into the night air off a balcony, and she did not feel the fear of stepping over the threshold into the room of the most powerful fae in Rivenwilde. She should have, she knew that, but it changed not a thing.
The room was finished in dark wood and trimmed in shades of green. Tapestries lined the walls, embroidered with deep green and gold, blue-green draperies hung loose over finely carved windows open to the night sky, and a pair of settees were scattered with velvet pillows. A single bed centered the far wall, empty of occupants. A plush chair rested in the corner, a bright strip of silk draped over the arm. Near the door through which Mireille had entered, halfway between her and a wide fireplace, sat a writing desk. Atop its surface, the flickering light of a single taper glinted off a glass inkwell and the silver blade of a paper knife. The taper was the only light aside from the blue-silver glow of the moon.
The prince sat in a chair near the empty hearth. Dressed in trousers and a loose shirt, the sleeves rolled up his forearms where he held a leather-bound book, he glanced up distractedly.
His gaze went dark.
Mireille could not decipher whether it was owing to the sight of the woman who was to be his wife in such a manner of apparel greeting him like a wight in the small hours or something more along the lines of a suspected assassination attempt, but the prince seemed to take either outcome as an a threat. He stood, the book he’d held sliding quietly onto the padded chair. He spoke not a word, but the warning in his gaze said volumes.
He was the prince of Rivenwilde. His power was so great that it could crumble the palace beneath Mireille’s feet.
Against every scrap of her will, all while knowing it would be her end, she felt herself press forward. In a few short steps, near the edge of the desk, her hand reached past the inkwell.
Her fingers curled around the handle of the paper knife.
The grip was slim, cool against her flesh.
The prince’s dark gaze tracked the movement, his own fingers curling tighter in tandem with hers. He held no weapon in his fist. Only magic. Fathomless power.
