Page 53 of The Bound Mage
“I knew it would,” Eloria said, her voice light and unmistakably smug. She swept in at precisely the wrong moment, her green skirts whispering across the stone. “I hope you’re happy with it, Araya.”
Araya flushed, her hands twisting in the folds of the skirt. “It’s very beautiful,” she said politely. “Thank you for lending it to me.”
“Consider it a gift,” Eloria replied, her smile widening as her gaze flicked to Loren. “Can I borrow my brother for just a moment?”
Loren groaned. “What do you want, Eloria?”
But she was already dragging him away, her grip surprisingly firm. “That looks like it’s going well,” she said, not bothering to hide her delight.
“Don’t read too much into it,” Loren muttered, though his eyes betrayed him as they slid back to Araya. “Where did you even find that dress?”
“I had it made,” Eloria said, clearly pleased with herself. “For the future queen. I donated several of my older gowns to the cause.”
“She doesn’t want to be a queen.” Loren scowled at his sister. But he couldn’t hold onto his anger as Araya laughed, shaking her head at something Galen had said. A smile lit her face, wide and unguarded. She looked…happy.
A pang of longing hit him at the sight of it, his chest tightening. Goddess, what he would give for her to have that always.
Eloria jabbed him lightly in the shoulder, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “You don’t look too bad yourself. Very regal. Almost… kingly.”
“Don’t make me regret coming,” Loren warned, tugging at his too-tight collar with a grimace. A part of him—the part he had spent years burying—wanted to believe it. That he was home. That they had never stopped waiting for him. That they wanted him here.
But he wasn’t the savior they so desperately wanted to believe he was.
Eloria followed his gaze, her teasing smile fading as her eyes tracked the sight of her brother’s mate standing so easily beside her own.
“I know you want to protect her, Loren,” she said. “But if you want this to go anywhere you have to start treating her like your queen and not your ward. If you want her, give her a reason to stay.”
Loren bared his teeth, the shadows hissing at her words. “That’s rich, coming from you,” he snapped. “Enjoy the celebration, Eloria.”
He turned on his heel, intending to walk away and not speak to his sister for the rest of the night, but he didn’t even make it two steps before Eloria chased after him.
Loren sighed, not bothering to hide his irritation as he turned back to face her. But his sister met his ire with a knowing smirk, pressing a crown woven from wildflowers and soft green leaves into his hands.
“There will be lots of dancing tonight,” she said over her shoulder as she breezed away, heading for her own mate. “I hope you have someone to ask.”
Loren scowled after his sister, but his heart did a flip in his chest when Araya glanced up. Her gaze caught his, her shy smile hitting him light a bolt of lightning.
He could tell himself over and over again that she deserved better. That she would never choose him. That she would leave—that sheshouldleave—and he had no right to ask otherwise.
But he didn’t want her to leave. Not Eluneth—and not him.
He wanted her to stay. He wanted her to keep looking at him like this, her eyes bright with wonder and her laughter warm and unguarded. But so much of this had started wrong between them. Even if he’d fought at every step not to take her choice away any more than he already had, he still hadn’t told her the truth. And once he did…Loren wasn’t sure she’d ever look at him like that again.
But there was only one way to find out.
Loren took a deep breath, the delicate perfume of the flower crown filling his lungs as he stared down at the tiny blossoms. Maybe, for once, Eloria had the right idea.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
“So?”Galen nudged her arm, a grin tugging at his lips. “What do you think of Lumaria?”
Araya shook her head, at a loss for words. “It’s…amazing.”
Long tables stretched across the hall in neat rows, groaning under the weight of mismatched platters and steaming trays. Salt-crusted fish and smoked eel shared space with dark, hearty stews, their broths heavily spiced to mask the gamey tang of preserved meat. Ornate dishes that wouldn’t have been out of place in a palace sat beside chipped, hand-thrown bowls, all of them polished to a mirror sheen.
Fae of every age and class darted between the tables, straightening cutlery and making last-minute adjustments, all of them smiling and laughing like the act of preparing this feast was as much a celebration as the meal itself.
