Page 97 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

“Fae.”

“Like you?” She smiled up at him.

Azriel hesitated, face paling. For an instant, he looked to the door as though considering a quick exit. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded. “Yes. Like me.”

“I am sorry.” She pulled him to a halt and touched his chest with her fingertips, wineglass teetering precariously. “I know it is not something of which you wish to speak.”

“One night, we will,” he said with a grim smile. He took the wine-holding hand from his chest and kissed her fingertips before letting her go. “For now, I wish to…play the part as much as possible.”

“Understood.” Ariadne sipped her wine again as she slid her hand down his arm and across his palm to entwine their fingers—a motion she had not made since Darien. Only here, beside Azriel, did she feel comfortable and safe enough to express her feelings so openly in public.

As they continued their turn about the large ballroom, pausing here and there to accept congratulations and speak with the Councilmen still analyzing Azriel, she could not help realizing how very new and strange all of it was. On top of knowing very little about her fiancé’s past, their previous conversations had been so brief and superficial, she could not even pinpoint his favorite color or preference between white or red wine. Aside from their tense, almost competitive interactions, she had no reason to have chosen him over the General of Valenul.

Except, perhaps, his keen observations of her—almost as though he saw into her very soul. He sensed her shifts in emotions, knew when and where to touch her, and protected her with more care than anyone. Even Darien. As much as she trusted Madan, Azriel kept her safe and saw her as more than a woman.

It was clear, long before she realized her feelings for him, that Loren had been right. Azriel loved her and would do anything for her—even leave so she may marry the General. Until he knew she would not be safe with him.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly after setting her empty glass on a table in passing.

Azriel’s brows furrowed. “For what?”

“Keeping me safe.”

His face relaxed again, and he turned to face her, taking both hands in his to press his lips to them. “Since the first moment I saw you, it’s all I’ve desired. But it’s you, Ariadne, who’s kept me safe.”

“From what could I possibly keep you safe?” She took in, not for the first or even fifth time that night, his broad shoulders and muscular arms. His massive frame held enough strength to defeat any adversary—even dhemons.

“Myself.”

Ariadne’s heart sank. She recalled the pain in his eyes the night of her engagement ball when he told her he had to leave. He could not live through watching her marry another man.

“Well,” she said with a small smile, “we need not worry about it anymore, no?”

He swallowed hard. “I need not worry about anything so long as you’re by my side.”

“Until the very end.”

The corners of his mouth curled at the same words he once said to her. He kissed her fingers again, then released her hands. “Until the very end, Miss Harlow.”

“Well, well, well,” said a crooning voice behind them.

Ariadne turned as Camilla slid between them. Her pale hair fell in waves of curls from a braided crown to hang around her bare shoulders. The light green dress, cut to her usual scandalous specifications, revealed more skin than a handful of Caersan women in the room combined. She appeared to have stepped straight from a painting of the fae.

“Good evening, Camilla,” Ariadne said and hugged her friend with a grin.

“I have never seen either of you quite so happy.” Camilla curtsied to Azriel, who bowed in response, before turning back to Ariadne.

“I have never felt quite so happy.” Ariadne’s cheeks heated.

“That necklace looks good on you.” Camilla winked at Azriel. “Much better than red lace.”

Azriel’s gaze snapped over their heads as Camilla made a disgusted face. Ariadne turned to follow his line of sight to find Loren watching them again. The General set his jaw into a hard line at her sudden attention, then turned back to Nikolai beside him.

Were it not for Azriel standing behind her, Ariadne would have wilted under the General’s angry scrutiny. She rubbed her wrist absently, the memory of his grip an echo on her skin.

“Agreed,” she said quietly after a moment. “Much better than red lace.”

Every second of the ball sent Azriel’s nerves over the edge. While Ariadne may be more accustomed to the eyes following her—for better or worse—he hated it. Blending into the shadows and drifting unseen, inconsequential, put him at ease. To have his movements analyzed and discussed churned his stomach. At least the last time he’d been the center of attention, the speculation and gossip faded before he’d been well enough to return to his guard duties.

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