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He ignored her and they whirled around the room until King Soren cut in, taking over for the next dance. The music slowed and she shifted away from the elf king as he leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“Welcome to my family.”

“I am not part of your family.” She’d never be.

“You are bound to my son, thus making you my daughter.”

“Do you kiss all your daughters?” she quipped. “I’ve been told that is frowned upon in all parts of the world.”

He chuckled. She glanced up at the king, his shrewd blue eyes already watching her. His gaze moved from her face down to her chest and lingered, before moving back to her face. She blushed which seemed to amuse him.

Chin up.You’re a princess. You can do this. Just look him in the eye and hold your ground. He will not get the better of you.

“Is it wrong to appreciate beauty?” he mused.

“No, but coveting what is not yours is a sin, is it not?”

His fingers tightened on hers as he spun them around, her dress flaring. “Everything is mine to give and to take. Remember that.” He smiled and it was anything but friendly. “I’ve always loved wild things, especially breaking them.” Soren leaned closer. “That is something both Arrik and I share.”

With that parting remark, he passed her off to his youngest trueborn son, Kalles. Kalles shared the same blond hair and high cheekbones, but his eyes were a cerulean blue instead of glass and crystal.

He was a peacock that spoke entirely about himself, but at least his hands hadn’t wandered once. Five sons had sat at the royal table, including Arrik. They all resembled the king in some manner but what bothered Wren the most was that amongst the crowd, she’d seen more than one man or woman who could have been a sibling to the princes.

Base-born children to be sure. Just how many children had the king sired? Wren didn’t want to know.

“I can’t imagine this is what you wanted to be doing today,” Kalles murmured, pulling Wren closer so that he could speak directly into her ear. “It is not right to do something like this to someone of your status. It is humiliating.”

She blinked at him. What did he expect her to say? Was the man’s intention to lull Wren into trusting him, only to stab her in the back later on? She had seen all of Arrik’s brothers laughing when her marriage was announced. But perhaps that had been the show, instead, for the king. Wren had no idea what to believe.

She knew it was perfectly possible that Queen Astrid had been attempting something similar earlier—to get into Wren’s good graces merely to use Wren to her own advantage. But just as Wren considered breaking away from Kalles, the man slipped a stiletto down the front of her dress; it rested in her corset, cushioned by her breast.

Wren gasped and managed to mask her surprise. “What are you up to?” she growled. Anyone who looked closely would be able to see the top of the hilt.

“Mischief of course. Keep it or throw it away. I don’t care.” Kalles pulled a smile. “Arrik’s brides never survive very long.”

Brides?“What do you mean?”

He nodded toward a group of nobles looking their way. “Do you really think they’re all interested in you—the wild princess raised with dragons? You’re amusing to be sure, but you’re part of a larger game. They are betting on how long you’ll live.”

Ice trickled down her spine.

Kalles spun them as she caught sight of Arrik moving in their direction, his silver hair a beacon in the crowd.

“Why would they do such a thing?” she asked urgently.

“It’s the secret the court holds close to its chest.” A dramatic pause. “He’s been married three times. All of his wives died on their wedding night.”

Wren’s heart plummeted into her stomach. “All—all of them?”

Kalles nodded. “All of them. Get out of here while you still can.” He dropped her hand and tapped the top of the stiletto, pressing it deeper into her corset. “Use this if you must. Goodbye, princess. It’s been a gas knowing you.”

She stumbled back from the prince and ducked her head. Wren did not need to hear his warning a second time.

Before Arrik could reach her side, she fled the celebration, weaving this way and that, between the crowd, making it hard for anyone to follow. She bolted out into the corridor, throwing off the absurd heeled shoes she had been forced to wear, then ran on silent feet down one corridor and then another and then another.

Eventually, Wren realized she was following her nose. Before long, she reached a kitchen three times as large as the one in Lorne Castle. There was something savory and delicious and entirely unlike the smells of the food at the feast emanating from the fire, so Wren kept on walking until she reached the fire itself. She needed to think. Her belly growled. And she needed to eat.

“You—Princess,” a woman—one of the cooks—said upon recognizing Wren. She bowed her head. “What can I do for you?”