“Wont I be wearing white?” I ask rather tensely.
Delilah shakes her head hard.
“Christian said no” Delilah says with a growing, wicked smile. “He said you’re not yet a true Promise and that if Daddy loves white so much he can kiss his white as?—”
“As I was saying, green it is,” The seamstress announces loudly over Delilah’s sharp words.
“That’s too bad,” Delilah whispers with a solemn shake of her head.
“Green is bad?”
I’m a redhead. Green is our thing. Above all else in my shit-show life do I count on the fact that I’ll look like an emerald-kissed goddess in any shade of green.
“It’s the color of the fae. Daddy hates the fae.” Delilah bites her lower lip slowly, and it’s then that I notice a sweet lotus tattoo hidden just behind the tip of her right ear.
Just like Seven’s.
“You’re Christian’s sister?” I tilt my head at her.
She nods. “The only full-blooded sister he has.” Her smile is large and proud.
Her father hates fae... and she is one. Whether the pompous Vampire King knows it or not. And Christian... he must be, right? Half fae, at least. I try to think back to the shape of his ears, but all I can picture is the sharp cut of his jaw. The fullness of his lips…
The fucking girl that was sitting in his lap.
My lips purse, and I force myself to think about the task at hand.
“We could try a black, maybe?” The seamstress lifts the sheer black fabric, but the idea of a simple color pissing off King Boris is too much to pass up.
“I’ll take the green, please.” A smile fills my cheeks despite both women wincing at the apparent idea of a green gown being made in this regal castle.
“Are you excited about the event tonight?” The young girl looks at me with pure curiosity.
Am I excited? To be given away as a meal to this woman’s daddy?
“Very,” I say with a nod and a plaster-perfect smile.
A heavy sigh shoves from the princess’s lungs. I didn’t think their kind needed to breathe. It seems it’s mostly for dramatic flair but I don’t question it.
“I’m dreading it,” she mumbles
Oh. The breathwasfor flair. Got it.
“Why?”
The seamstress comes toward us with a length of measuring tape, and we both stand. She circles Delilah first, pulling the white tape this way and that as she jots down numbers on the back of her hand.
And then it’s my turn. She moves my arms for me, and I stiffly oblige.
“I’m promised to the Thorn King.”
My head turns sharply.
“The Fae King?”
She nods without looking up from the floor.
“Your father promised you to his enemy?”
