Page 43 of A Dance of Water

Possession was etched into every line of his face; that wild sense of regality he held was like the flickering flame of a candle to a moth. She found herself staring up at him with unadulterated awe. And fear.

She saw the gleam of his tanned chest, revealed by the way the cloak hung around him. Each flake of cold snow that fell to his skin immediately turned to water, droplets sliding down and disappearing under the thick furs. She stopped her eyes from dipping further and following the wet trail the water left on his skin.

The crystalline, blue sheen painted the room as an inhospitable land forged in ice, casting them all as vicious and cold.

Luella felt the King to be the worst of them all, but as her head dipped and she saw a strand of her white hair dusted with blue shimmers and flakes of pure snow—not melting onherskin, she noted—she wondered if she was just as bad as them.

"The Chosen!" the King roared, gripping her hand so tightly her bones ached.

The exalted cries of the crowd would haunt her dreams.

She was quickly ushered out of the throne room, calls and cheers following after her, clinging to the very furs of the cloak she had been forced to don.

A fog had settled over her. She was not sure of anything anymore…

Sounds were too loud, and the fur against her shoulders scratched her skin. She was sensitive and shivering.

And barely flinched when she was forced into a dimly lit room, the door shutting firmly behind her, trapping her. With them.

Again.

Bastian’s face filled her vision, and she could not stop the faintest whimper that fell from her lips. Pained, he tore away from her; bereft, she looked away from him.

The warmth of the furs was tugged off her. Hands on her bare shoulders.

"We must continue with the ceremony." She looked up to find the Prima before her.

She was sitting… When had she sat down?

Anger softly simmered inside her soul.

"Okay," she replied without inflection. For once, she was the one without tone.

Their voices were a drone of sound around her, and she let herself sink into that floaty, deep space where she would not have to feel.

14

THE BINDING

THAREN

Tharen tried to temper the roil of emotions inside him.

Feelings,ugh.

He never did well with those.

But as he eyed the small fae Princess, he felt something akin to regret nip at his soul.

They were all inside the King’s rooms—allexceptthe demon—in a private sitting room with drawn curtains and luxurious chairs draped with many blankets and decorated with pillows. The Winter Solstice decor had not made its mark on his space, so the walls remained as gilded stone, warm amber flames casting eerie shadows over their faces.

She stared off into space, and he stood before her, resisting the urge to grab her and shake a reaction out of her.

"Prima," Vale ordered roughly. "On with it. We must complete the Binding before the moon reaches its peak and the new day truly begins."

Tharen nodded. "Right, right." He left her side to grab his instruments. Luckily, Graves and Bastian had the forethought to bring them here for him.

He collected his vial of magical black ink, a sharp tool with a hollow inside to use to tattoo the ink on her skin, and a bandage to place over it once he was done. The metal tray the itemsrested on also contained a leather bit, and his tanned fingers paused over it, contemplating—magical tattoos were not easy.

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