Page 7 of Thief of Dreams
Soraya's teeth gleam, and suddenly I realize it's not just the princesses I'll have to keep an eye on. "Empty your own cursed chamber pot. You and I must work together, but don't forget that we're not allies."
I never do.
I learned that lesson in the training camps many, many years ago.
3
The Captain of the Guards watches me with the glittering attention of a hawk circling its prey from far above. In a sea of glimmering silks and tittering laughs, he knows I don't truly belong.
So do I.
Sweat drips down my spine as I hold the curtsy. Head bowed like a penitent, knees starting to shake, my hands sweeping the Lady of Greenslieves' fine silk skirts into a gush of fabric around me, I am the very picture of submission.
It's been years since I was trained for this.
I'm older than most of the other princesses, my manners stiff and ill-formed, like a thin veneer over the unpolished heart of me. Ismena hinted that she considers Greenslieves to be a backwater holding, so I'll use that to cover any gaffes, but I can't help thinking the captain looks at me longer than he does the others.
"Welcome to the Court of Dreams," calls the seneschal who accompanied us to the palace. "Tonight there shall be a welcoming dinner. In the meantime, please avail yourselves of the wine and candied sweetmeats, though you're quite welcome to use the time to refresh yourselves in your rooms."
Servants flood the courtyard, offering trays and goblets that are filled to the brim. The sweet scent of magnolias fills the air, and fountains splash and burble. As far as courts go, it's impressive. I can see the palace's domes over the golden sandstone walls that lock us in here, but so far the Court of Dreams has earned its title.
"Any sign of him yet?" I mutter to Soraya.
"Someone's watching us," she murmurs.
"No doubt surveying the flock of prizes that await him."
It's time to see if this ruse will pay off.
They say the Prince of Dreams can see through magic itself and pierce any lie with the cold, locking stare he's said to have perfected. Let's see if he can see through my glamour.
The herald raps his staff on the hard tiles and begins to call out Prince Keir's titles. Lord of the Morning Star, Prince of Chaos and Dreams, Master of Nightmares.... It's a mouthful, and I cannot resist rolling my eyes as the herald drones on. Who needs so many names?
I only have one: Zemira Az Ghul.
But once there were others, gifted to me by my mother upon my birth, before they were stolen by my father, along with the rest of me.
Zemira Ashburn. Gravekissed, the Black Hawk, Winterborn.
The fae do so love their titles. They collect them like rare antiques, and I can't help wondering if it's a means to hide other, ahem, shortcomings.
Bare feet whisper over the marble floors.
None of the other princesses notice, but I can feel the prickle of hot eyes watching me. Maybe it's just the thought of being caught out, but every nerve I own is on edge.
A thief knows when she's being watched.
I turn, and there's the Prince of Dreams himself, stalking toward me with sinuous grace.
Dark hair flows to his shoulders, but it's those thick, dark brows that give his green-gold eyes an intensity that almost makes me back away a step. He moves with the loose-hipped stride of a predator, and I can practically feel the coil of alien power simmering beneath his olive skin.
Skin that's very much on show.
His chest is bare, a long, loose robe of midnight flowing from his shoulders and a golden claw hanging about his throat. Trousers sit low on his hips, revealing the chiseled cut of muscle that dips into dangerous terrain. Every inch of him is expertly forged, and any female would want to explore.
Even me.
Sweet Mother of Mercy. I'd been prepared for a fae prince, but what I hadn't expected was the sheer primordial power practically spilling from his pores.
