Page 6 of Destined for the Fae King

“Right. For like the next hour.”

Chapter 3

As I’d hoped, theair on the balcony is a touch cooler, and a slight breeze does wonders at calming me down.

“Exactly.” But even as I say it, I find myself turning my head to glance inside at the dais.

My shoulders droop a little when I find it empty. I kind of hoped I had his attention somehow, but maybe I was just imagining things.

Either way, I’ll be introduced to the royal family soon enough. As part of the opening ball, all the candidates will appear before the royal family one by one and declare their intention to compete for the king’s hand. The king will accept each one, inviting them to try to be his queen. It’s all a formality, or so I was told, part of the ritual that begins the competition, but that brief moment and presentation will be more important for me than all the rest. It will be my first impression, my first introduction. God help me if I trip on my dress and fall or something. Knowing my luck, that could totally happen. At least I don’t have some long speech to memorize. I just have to say a few simple words and perform a ridiculously formal curtsy straight out of the history books.

Yeah, good thing I didn’t keep drinking that wine.

We wander back inside a few minutes later, lured by the fae music. Uncle Mathias finds us there, drops some comment about looking for us everywhere, and shoos us toward the dais.

“It’s almost time for the presentation,” he says while expertly weaving us through human and fae alike in search of a closer spot.

My chest grows tight, and suddenly I wish Ihadkept drinking the wine.

A hush rolls across the assembled. My uncle appears not to notice—either that or he ignores it—but for me, the change in tone and mood is impossible to miss. Even the hypnotic music quickly falls away to nothing. Hostage of the sudden quiet, I follow the direction of the crowd’s attention toward the dais. All thoughts vanish from my head.

Standing front and center is a male whose presence I could never miss or mistake, even without the golden crown reaching toward the ceiling in wavering points with the rubies slotted into it. In person, Vasilius, King of Fire, is even more regal and imposing than the portrait I studied, and that’s saying something. The art alone was mesmerizing. Vasilius’s strong, square jaw is tilted up as he regards the assembled, a half smile playing about his lips. The hair that falls around his shoulders is a shade brighter than Lysandir’s and even more varied with streaks of gold and burnt umber that make it look like living flame. And then there’s his stature, tall even for a fae and broadly built in the action-hero sort of way that screams rippling muscle and bulging biceps, even if I can’t see much of his golden skin with the pristine attire he wears—similar to Lysandir’s and yet somehow more, though I can’t say exactly how their outfits vary. Maybe it’s simply the way the king fills it out.

A flush creeps up my neck.

This is the man I’m supposed to marry.

Share his life, his bed.

I squeeze my thighs together to stifle the sudden warmth there. Being queen certainly would come with perks if I got to wake up next to that every morning.

The king is not alone on the dais. Lysandir is back, standing just off to the king’s side and a few steps back, next to an older woman wearing a crown as well. She must be his mother. And though the little I’ve learned puts her age in the nineties, from this distance, she still seems strong and hale, even leaning a bit as she does on what might be a cane—it’s hard to tell from my vantage.

Two lines of fae guards in their full crimson regalia descend from the wide dais into the crowd before the king. I stretch onto the tips of my toes and lean around the people in front of me to try to catch a glimpse of whatever they’re doing.

“What are they up to?” I whisper.

Uncle Mathias steps up next to me. “Preparing for the acceptance ceremony.”

Now that he says it, I realize the guards have been moving people back to make a wide-open space before the dais.

“Are you ready?” my uncle asks, barely a whisper.

It’s time then.

In minutes, I’ll enter the contest for the king’s hand.

I pull my shoulders back and give a stiff nod. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Good,” he replies. “Let’s move closer to the front.”

Aunt Dalia has joined us, and the four of us continue to weave through the crowd until we’re almost to the edge of the open space before the royals. The press of bodies is thicker here, so much so that I can barely move without touching someone and my head is swimming from the riot of perfumes I’ve drifted through to get here.

No sooner are we there than the king lifts his hand, calling for silence. Not that he needs to. The quiet is so unnaturally oppressive already no one in their right mind would break it with more than the swish of fabric, click of heel on the marble floor, or breathy whisper.

The king’s smile broadens before he lowers his hand and begins. “Thank you all for coming today.”

His voice is rich and warm like the air of his court, the kind that’s pleasing to the ears and feels like it should be heard over a glass of whiskey while seated near the fire.

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