Page 37 of Upon the Riven Throne

She pressed a single finger over his lips. “I fear, dear prince, that you are about to deliver insult with that line of supposed flattery.”

His jaw flexed.

She let her fingertip trail slowly off his lips, then whispered. “If you’d like, you may try again. But I warn you, a princess does not blush easily.”

Alder’s gaze never left hers as he slid a hand over hers where it rested on his chest. Then he lowered his mouth to hers.

Mireille’s heart thundered, all thoughts of pretense abandoning her. His lips were real, and warm, and drowning out every sense of the crowd around them. She was kissing the Prince of Rivenwilde, an unquestionably deadly fae in possession of ancient power and, fate help her, she liked it. Bergamot filled her senses, her fingers curled into the material of his jacket, and Mireille melted against him. He had managed to bring heat to her skin, that much was certain, but worse, he’d brought it to her chest, where her fool heart lived in an ocean of hope.

When he broke the kiss, drawing back with an unsteady emotion that may have been surprise, Mireille had no notion of what he might find in her own expression. An instant later though, he seemed to remember himself, and it was all erased by a charming smile. A smile meant, surely, for the fae queen alone.

They returned to their seats, and Mireille’s flute was the first to be filled. A pungent liquor scent rose from the glass, and when Alder leaned toward her, his nearness sent an awareness through her she was not quite prepared to face.

“I don’t recommend you drink that,” he said against her ear.

Bait, she remembered. She was meant to drag the queen from her perch. And with the lingering sensation of Alder’s kiss still upon her lips and the terrible sensation of having softened toward the fae, she would need to keep her wits about her more than ever.

CHAPTER16

The festivities wore on past nightfall, with Maeve’s agitation seeming to increase by the hour. By the time Alder stood to escort Mireille to her chambers on the pretense of her needing rest—not entirely a fabrication as she was utterly exhausted from the day’s nerves—Maeve was watching the pair with open hunger. She would most certainly take the bait.

Mireille took Alder’s arm, avoiding Maeve’s sharp gaze as they walked past. Beyond the enchanted doors that shut out the sounds of revelry, they walked in silence until they reached the entrance to Mireille’s suite. “Do you think she’ll?—”

Alder held a finger to her lips, and it immediately recalled when she’d done the same to him, and the kiss that followed. She had to bite down a curse at her foolish heart, picking up pace in her chest. He did not care about her. He needed her only to trap the queen.

He said, “I vowed to protect you. You are safe.”

She stared up at him, aware they were standing far closer than was necessary. None of it was real; it was only a pretense, a show for the queen. “Of course.”

His brow furrowed at her curt reply, but she stepped back, slipping into her room and closing the door behind her.

Despite asking Thomas to trust in her judgement, she hadn’t been certain he would give way easily until she found the room empty. Suddenly, Alder’s plan seemed like a terrible idea. She glanced at the closed door.Safe, the prince had said. As safe as she could be, under the circumstances. Midnight would come, and perhaps she would visit the tree. Perhaps she would once again know her father and their people were safe as well.

Or perhaps the queen would come to call instead.

Removing the formal gown, she wrapped herself not only in a nightshift, but a thick silk dressing gown, then crawled into bed. The land and its law and the prince’s vow might protect her in the waking world, but the safety of dreams was not as faithful. Heaviness fell over her.

Mireille walked barefoot down a corridor she recognized, only it was not quite the same as it had been before. The walls seemed to breathe with the pulse of magic and the silver embroidery of her black gown shone unnaturally bright in the moonlight that streaked the stone floor. It was a dream, not the mindless midnight wandering she’d done under the queen’s power. But Alder was nowhere in sight. And weren’t they supposed to be laying a trap for the queen? She could not quite remember.

Her feet continued forward despite her concern, compelled to bring her to the familiar door at the end of the hallway. Unlike the other wanderings, Mireille was entirely aware of the fear gripping her heart, and yet, she pushed open the heavy door.

The hourglass that centered the room seemed brighter than before, and there, in the dream, Mireille understood it was a curse clock, counting down until the terms would end. Less sand rested at the top than when she’d last seen it, and as she watched, another grain fell. It glowed, ethereal in the shadowed room, like a shell dropped through water, sunlight catching on its nacre. The fall of sand had sped. The prince was running out of time.

“Perhaps Ishouldhave made you my spy.”

The queen’s voice was playful, but it turned Mireille’s blood to ice.

Maeve stepped from the shadows, still wearing the crimson gown. Foxglove and lilac clung to the scent of her magic, as if trying to hide the power that pricked Mireille’s skin. Maeve said, “You already know this room, else you would not have found the way.” Her gaze turned speculative. “But Alder would not have shown it to you.”

“You cursed him.” Mireille’s voice revealed no hint of tremor, though her body felt sick with fear. It was true, she could feel it. The queen’s magic was everywhere, but it centered on the clock.

Maeve tilted her head, one corner of her wide mouth tipping up. “No.” Then she leaned forward. “Let me tell you a story, Princess, like they do in Westrende. Once upon a time, a handsome prince of the fae was trapped in a curse he did not create. The land was broken, his father was dead, and the prince was desperate. Tragic, really. Suffering all around. You know the way. But one day, a beautiful queen appeared with an offer. And that poor prince, well he had nothing left to lose, so he gambled it all. Twice the cost of the curse for a slim nothing chance to break it.”

The queen straightened. “You humans love to believe that the noble-born are noble of character, but the fae never do. You see, pet, he was not cursed by me. He accepted my bargain of his own free will.”

Her gaze traveled over Mireille. “For a time, he held out hope that he would beat me, but he has obviously grown desperate with this—” she waved her hand disdainfully in Mireille’s direction, “charade.”

Mireille swallowed hard, at both the explanation and the accusation. She knew well enough why the queen had come for her. It was not simply to win Norcliffe. “There is no charade. We will wed, and he will win.”

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