Page 75 of A Bargain with the Fae King

I refocus my gaze toward the doors on the opposite side of the room, all the while trying to school my face to remain casual, concerned only with the fae whose lap I’m practically sitting in. I tighten my fingers on Riven’s shirt as the knot in my stomach pulls taut.

Two sets of Riven’s elite guard, dressed in their customary attire emblazoned with Riven’s golden tree, step over the threshold and pull the doors wide.

A set of six guards march in first, dressed in attire resembling Riven’s guard but mostly whites and light grays. It looks lighter in weight too, almost airy. Pretty poor defense in a fight, but maybe magic helps with that too. On each one’s chest is a crest belonging to Sigurd. A white bird—no, an eagle—on a field of blue.

I examine each of them in turn. No obvious weapons, though they undoubtedly have an arsenal of magic at their disposal. Although their uniforms are the same, each guard varies in appearance, their hair and skin a combination of human-like tones. An even mix of men and women.

My brows arch higher. Point for Sigurd.

Members of Riven’s elite guard are scattered all around the sides of the room. I briefly catch Sylvie’s gaze. She gives me a small dip of her head in return, something that would be unnoticed by anyone unless you were looking for it.

I am, and it gives me comfort. Some of the knots in my stomach manage to loosen. A little bit.

The six guards separate, three lining up along each wall of fae standing on either side of the space. Fae lights float through the air, casting shadows on the doorway and the space on the other side, cloaking it in darkness. The center pathway from the door to the throne is open, inviting someone to walk down it.

Sigurd accepts that invitation and strides in from the shadows, a trail of brightly attired courtiers following him.

His attire today is much the same as it had been when we’d met him at the border. Simple, yet elegant. No crown adorns his head, yet there’s no mistaking the air of power and authority that hangs around him like an outfit all its own.

Riven’s fingertips continue to tease the material of the gown along my side. The playful amusement on his face never wavers as we watch our guest approach.

How easy he makes all this look.

Sigurd’s gaze roves over me as he crosses to the throne. It’s deeper, more intrusive, than any of the other fae. It’s so, so hard not to seem bothered by the fae king dissecting me with his eyes. Hushed silence fills the room, waiting, as he comes to stand in front of Riven. Magic hums in the air, thicker than normal, like high humidity that isn’t damp.

“Welcome, Sigurd, King of Air,” Riven announces, not rising or changing his posture.

I stifled the urge to sigh in relief when Sigurd’s eyes stop their close inspection and find a new target.

“I trust you’ve settled in well to my city,” Riven continues, ever casual, ever confident, despite the formal event and the tension zipping in the air.

A deep chuckle rumbles in response. “Of course. This city has quite beautiful scenery.” His head twists around as he takes in the attending fae. “It’s been quite a long time since we gathered like this.”

“Perhaps too long,” Riven agrees. “As such, I thought we should celebrate our joint efforts and allow our people the chance to get reacquainted. We have prepared a feast for you all, and there will, of course, be entertainment and dancing.” The last he adds as if that is obvious and expected. To these people, it may very well be.

Riven sets his wine glass on the arm of the throne and rises.

The colorful mass of fae fills the room like sardines in a can. Several crane their necks over and around one another, trying for the best view of the two kings. Or me. Maybe both. Too many of them stare at me, and all I want to do is flee.

Riven claps twice. The sound echoes through the space, much louder than it should. Guards flanking the wooden doors throw them open to the massive courtyard that lies beyond.

Now it’s my turn. Riven told me what to expect, the order of things. My part is so simple, but it takes ten times the effort it should. I link my arm through his extended elbow and embrace the protection and comfort he offers. My skin tingles where we touch, a reminder of the position we were just in and all the wicked, delicious things that transpired last night.

It’s only a few steps from the raised dais to the floor, but it takes all my concentration not to trip over the golden hem of the gown and tumble. That’d be just like me too. It’d probably go down in fae history. Clumsy human trips on her own gown and breaks her arm—the highlight of the reunion ball between the courts of Forest and Air.

Safe on level ground, Riven’s grin broadens as he addresses Sigurd once more. “You shall have the place next to mine at the high table this evening.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Sigurd replies. The cunning mind behind his disarming face peeks out through his trickster smile and twinkling, deep blue eyes. His serpentine gaze rests on me again, sending a shiver down my spine as he looks me up and down. “I assume your lovely companion will be joining us.”

As if he doesn’t already know that.

Then, Sigurd stretches out a hand to me in a courtesy greeting.

Do I take it?I flick my gaze to Riven, the question in my eyes, but his focus is still on the fae in front of us, his arrogant mask firmly in place for all his court to see.

My jaw clenches.

Reluctantly, I stretch out my free hand and placed it atop Sigurd’s. His fingers wrap around mine as his head dips to place another kiss. But his lips are not all that touch my skin. The unmistakable swipe of the tip of a tongue flits across my hand between barely parted lips.

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