Page 33 of A Crown So Cursed
Moreover…she had been too long without a lover—without him, and she had no intention of ever wasting another moment. Emboldened by the wine, she slid back her hand and said. “I am quite famished…” And she was, but not for food. Somehow, as it was the first time she’d visited this place, hunger was not a thing to be borne. Food was consumed only for pleasure.
A low rumble bubbled from Málik’s chest, and a slow smile spread across his face.
Gwendolyn recognized the look of desire and thrilled.
“Perhaps we should retire?” he murmured for her ears alone, his voice thick with lust, and Gwendolyn squirmed in her seat. Briefly, she considered kissing him here and now, but the moment was thwarted.
“Majesty,” interjected yet another courtier, this time addressing Málik, “Won’t you regale us with the tale of how you and Lady Gwendolyn first met?”
As his partner had, the Fae lord had not used Gwendolyn’s title—neither her new one, nor old—but, by now, she was accustomed to such insults. There was a time not too long past that her own people had been reluctant to address her as sovereign, despite that she’d earned it.
“It must be quite the story…to tempt a mortal into our hall.”
This lord bared his porbeagle teeth, and a hush fell over the room.
The music faded, the air suddenly sharpened as Lirael Silvershade rose from her seat, raking her chair back, seizing the opportunity.
Tall and lithe, draped in a gown of midnight blue, the girl’s eyes glittered with barely concealed malice. Her gaze fixed upon Gwendolyn as she addressed the dais, and now, having captured everyone’s attention, she raised her goblet belatedly.
“Yes, Majesty,” she purred, her voice dripping with false dulcet. “Please do…regale us…How did you come to meet your sweet mortal bride?”
Gwendolyn felt it, the prickle of a thousand eyes, cold and bright and hungry, waiting for her to falter.
But this was Málik’s story to tell, not hers.
She wondered for a moment if he would answer—if he would tell them some sweet tale simply to placate them, or if he would seize the moment to assert his authority, to define their narrative in terms that none could question. Or even if he might reveal the truth of their bond.
But that was not what they wanted to hear. He knew, as she knew, they wanted a spectacle. They wanted to see Gwendolyn squirm. And so she braced herself, as she always did, for whatever would come next.
Beside her, Málik’s eyes burned with an unseen fire, surveying the hall—every courtier, every attendant—before returning to the expectant face of Lirael Silvershade.
ChapterTwelve
Now it begins.
All night, I have watched the High Lord Minister’s viperous tongue drip poison through my court—every word laced with dissent and betrayal. The taste of his duplicity is bitter on my tongue, and I curse beneath my breath as his daughter—his lovely, loathsome minion—abandons her seat.
At my side, Gwendolyn tenses, the line of her jaw taut as a drawn bowstring, but there is only so much I can do to shield her. This court must not perceive my affection as weakness. The choices I make tonight will dictate whether she is fated to live out her days sequestered with the Druids, or as a free member of this court.
So much as I love her—so much as I long to hold her close—I will not keep her prisoner, nor will I watch her die with a knife pressed to the reins.
No, tonight must mark a change, for better or for worse.
Gwendolyn’s fingers tighten about my thigh, but the gesture is not flirtatious. I find her hand beneath the table, and squeeze, a silent promise that whatever storms may break tonight, my commitment to her is unyielding.
And then, I turn to catch Lirael’s eye.
She approaches the dais with practiced grace, her every step a performance.
Of course, it is.
This is what that harpy was bred to do—what a vision she is, too, a would-be queen worthy of the Fae, a beautiful nightmare in twilight hues. Her gown shimmers like midnight rain, every clap of her heel a warning of the storm to come. She is the very embodiment of elegance and deadly intention.
Behind her, Lord Elric watches with the patience of a spider who has at last felt the tremor of prey in his web.
“My king,” Lirael says, spinning with her goblet in hand—her inflection on the wordmyso pointed it could draw blood.
I brace myself for a dose of her father’s poison. It comes, as I knew it would, her voice sour as bitter grapes. “Esteemed members of our court—” The wordour, too, is stressed, accompanied by a baleful glance toward Gwendolyn. “I stand before you now to address a matter of import.”
