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Wren was speechless. There was no way she could get out of it; of that, she had no doubt. Soren’s hand pressed against the small of her back, and he wasted no time in capturing her mouth and kissing her. Wren stayed stiff and lifeless, pressing her lips together. A shudder of disgust went through her body when his tongue touched her bottom lip.

Not even kissing on the cheek, but on the mouth!

Everything about the king felt slimy and wrong. He was a snake if ever there was one.

“My turn,” the prince said, his tone somewhat bored.

Wren gasped as Arrik pulled her away from the king and into his arm. Soren chuckled behind her. “Enjoy your new wife. I did.”

Repulsed, she lifted her left hand to wipe her mouth when the prince caught her wrist. She glared at him and then frowned when he gave her almost an imperceptible shake of his head. What the devil?

He moved closer, his thighs pressing against the gauzy fabric of her black dress, and lifted his hand to her face. Arrik ran his thumb over her bottom and then top lip. Her eyes widened. It wasn’t a caress. He was wiping away the king’s kiss. Her breath stuttered as he dropped her left hand and cupped the other side of her face. The prince drew closer so that they were breathing the same air. She stared into his ice-colored eyes that seemed to have grown warmer despite his impassive expression.

“Don’t think,” he whispered. “And don’t bite me.”

Wren’s pulse thundered in her ears as he pressed his lips to her own but made no other move. They gazed at each other, and he gently pulled her to his chest. She splayed her hands across his torso as the kiss went on, but never progressed further than lips pressed against lips. There was no passion, no desire.

He pulled back slowly and she stared at the column of his throat as he straightened. Bawdy cheers filled the air but she didn’t focus on them. She’d seen something in his gaze and the way he’d kissed her…the prince wasn’t a decent man, so perhaps he wanted her cooperation as much as she wanted to escape. If that was the case, then maybe they could come to some sort of agreement. They could be allies.

Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

She yanked her hands from his person and wiped them on her dress, causing the king to laugh raucously at her reaction. It was clear as day to anyone watching that all this was a farce meant purely to entertain. Even if the prince could be swayed to be an uneasy ally, she would never forgive him for what he did. He’d murdered her family.

“Let the celebrations begin!” the king announced.

The doors burst open, and servants filed into the room, carrying golden trays of food. The elvish highborn moved to the low tables and reclined against the pillows on the floor as the food was placed on the tables. It was just as opulent and over-the-top as the Verlantian people were.

Arrik led her to a table on the dais and she woodenly sat down as the king, queen, the princes and their consorts began to eat from the table. A servant approached Wren and poured wine in the goblet.

“Thank you,” she murmured, trying to catch the girl’s eye.

The servant froze for a moment and quickly backed away.

Wren frowned and then glanced back at the table. The eldest prince who sported silver beads in his jet-black hair smirked at her, and her stomach bottomed out when she realized everyone else was snickering.

“They are not to be spoken to,” Arrik murmured.

And they called those from the isles barbarians.

She ignored her new husband and focused on the food. Wren couldn’t even begin to name half of what was on the table, and though she had previously been starving, she found she had no appetite for such unknown things. The bright colors and shiny appearances of most of the food made her think of poison, so she reached for her goblet of wine and swirled it around as the royal family feasted and gossiped. Wren listened, storing little bits of information. Who knew what would be useful? The queen tried to goad her into eating, but she politely refused. Today wasn’t a day for feasting and celebrating.

Time dragged by and the evening deepened.

The music changed and the elves began to dance.

Wren had always loved to dance. Her mum used to say that it was in her bones. But not this day. Though she got away with not eating, she couldn’t escape the dancing.

The king and his sons all led her through their dances. Some with veiled threats, others with lurid offers and promises. Then she was passed amongst the highborn. Much to her chagrin, not all of the elves were horrible. In fact, she’d met an older elf, who, under different circumstances, she’d have liked to have played chess with. He was witty and smart.

Then again, it could have been an act.

Once again, Wren was yanked into the arms of her husband, who pulled her through a series of intricate moves effortlessly. She stumbled and he caught her. Humiliated, she jerked away and he hauled her against his body. His left arm wrapped around her waist and she squeaked when he lifted her until her toes brushed the tops of his boots.

“Put me down,” she gritted out.

“No, you’re dragging this out for both of us,” he muttered.

“What?” she gasped, outraged.