Page 81 of A Bargain with the Fae King

He circles around me, his smile feral.

I hate the crowds, the eyes on me, but what I wouldn’t do for them now. It’s dark here. Shadowed. The twinkling fae lights haven’t floated to this section of the expansive courtyard. There’s too much space. We’re too far. I retreat until my back bumps against a stone wall.

“What if there was a way to break your bargain?” he asks.

My pulse hammers against my ribs. “Is there?”

“Nothing is impossible, but you wouldn’t do it, would you?” His voice grows sharper. An eerie blue glow alights in his eyes. “Do you love him? Is that it?”

He’s too close.

If I could crawl up the wall, I would. I look around, desperate to find Riven, Ambrose, anyone who might come to my assistance.

“No.” He leans into my line of sight. “No, you don’t. At least, not yet. You haven’t even let him mark you, though I’m sure he’s tried.” His tongue clicks in his mouth as his head swivels.

One hand plants against the wall near my head, and I gasp.

“But you love your sister.” He leans in closer, until the scent of pine swarms my sense. “It’s that love that makes your human spirit burn so brightly, so resiliently.”

Sigurd grabs my waist. The touch burns, and not in the delicious way that Riven’s does.

My mouth dries. I need out. Now.

A slap or punch might not do it. A kick between the legs?

A vine whips out from the wall with an audible crack.

Sigurd releases me and stumbles back a step, but his features are even, collected, almost as if he expected that.

Hands are on me, turning me, and then I’m buried in Riven’s chest, his scent enveloping me like a shield.

“What happened here?” The anger in his voice is palpable.

Is he asking me or Sigurd?

“We danced. We talked. Nothing more,” Sigurd says, not even the slightest off-note in his voice.

Riven pulls me back to look at me, holding my face in his hands, likely mussing my make-up.

“I’m fine.” The lie comes so easily.

The wavy aura around Riven flares. The crack of a vine snaps in the air behind me.

I capture his face in my hands and turn it away from Sigurd. I can’t let the goodwill they’ve built come crashing down. Not over me. I won’t destroy something else. I won’t delay May’s rescue.

Never again.

“I’m fine,” I repeat, more strongly.

Rustling, like a snake slithering through tall grass, echoes around us as the vines dissolve into leaves that flutter to the ground.

I breathe an inward sign of relief.

Ambrose and Galen hurry toward us. Looking past them, most of the crowd is oblivious to the altercation. Another good sign.

“Everything all right here?” Ambrose asks. His deep timbre demands attention.

“It is now,” Riven bites out.

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