Hex barks a laugh. A sharp crack that echoes out over the table.
My face flashes in a reckless, ecstatic smile. I haven’t heard him make that sound before. Adding it to the list of noises that are now my life’s purpose to bring out in him again.
Everyone at the table has gone silent as they eye Hex, see nothing funny, then gradually go back to their conversations.
Hex’s cheeks are red and he takes a sip of water, mimics choking on something like that would explain what was clearly a laugh.
I have to put my hand over my mouth to hide my beaming smirk. God, I love seeing him like that, like he didn’t know he was capable of this kind of happiness and it’s shocking him as much as he enjoys it.
My attention tugs down the table, following the members of my court, even though every part of me wants to keep teasing him.
The moment my attention strays, though, I sit up straighter. Hex and I may be locked in secret relationship bliss, but the mood for everyone else is… well, it’s dull, that’s what it is.
I see one member of our court yawn.
There’s music playing but it’s like the elevator version of Christmas songs.
Iris keeps casting glances at her dad, her forehead creased with contemplative worry.
Kris is picking at his food and staring off into the middle space.
I honestly couldn’t name whose birthday it’s supposed to be—no one looks remotely celebratory.
It’s such a stark, jarring difference from North Pole City and all that sincere joy. And it’salwayslike this here; our events are strained with performative bullshit, because they’re meant to be formal displays of the best that Christmas has to offer.
It’s soulless as fuck.
Things are going to change, right?
They’re going tochange.
I slam my hands on the table and shove to my feet. “Let’s move to the next part of the evening, shall we?”
Dad whips a frown up at me. “Nicholas?”
He wants credit so bad for how great Christmas is doing. He wants to be the one and only recipient of our people’s adoration.
That’s fine by me, honestly. I’ve never cared about our public image. So if it’ll get us to where I want to go, he can have every ounce of credit.
“My father has arranged a surprise for us all,” I say. “If you’ll follow me.”
Dad grabs my arm. “What are you doing?” His face is all calm propriety, his words all hardened steel.
“Trust me,” I say down to him, hoping my voice doesn’t shake, but his grip on my wrist is tightening. “New Nicholas, remember?”
For a moment, my resolve goes slippery and weak under his critical glare. Even with everyone at the table watching. Even with a few reporters lurking, as always.
He doesn’t trust me and he has no reason to and that puts me in the worst position, and I already know how far he’s capable of pushing things, but there’s alwaysfurther.There’s alwaysworse.And every single one of those possibilities hangs over me as my mind goes blank in that incapacitating way where I’m a kid again and I realized that I need to start being afraid of my father because Mom’s absence changed something fundamental inside of him.
But then he says, “Yes. Let us adjourn.”
He lets go of me and stands.
My chest deflates. I start for the door, and gradually, the table follows, chairs scraping back.
Somewhere behind me, I hear a half-pitiful mutter of “But what about my birthday cake?”
I wince but lead us all out the door. Dad keeps close on my heels, his eyes burning the back of my skull as I twist us through the palace—
