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“Aegonar . . . he told me you were hurt,” he said, running a hand through his hair.

“He’s wrong. I’m fine.” She crossed her arms. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her skin, the warmth that had burned between them just hours ago. She couldn’t think like that. It had meant nothing.

“Thea—"

“Is there . . . is there something I should take?” she blurted out, cutting him off. “You know, so I won’t get pregnant . . .” She trailed off as she noticed the look in his eyes. Endreth looked remorseful, as if he regretted it. It hurt . . . and the feeling surprised her.

“You don’t have to worry about it. I am taking a concoction for that,” he answered, looking at the Virens. “All royals do, to control the lineage.” He glanced at her again and took a step closer, his blue eyes searching hers. “If I was too rough with you?—”

“You weren’t.” She cut him off, not wanting to hear the rest of the sentence. “I didn’t tap three times, did I?” She held his gaze, forcing herself to remain calm.

“No, you did not.”

Anthea turned her eyes back to the Virens, not wanting to see the expression on his face.

After her brief encounter with Endreth on the deck, Anthea retreated back to the solitude of her cabin for a late lunch.

Once she finished, a soft knock alerted her. The elf, standing on the other side of the door, handed her a bag. “Prince Endreth has asked me to give you this. We’ll be arriving at the Cattleya court soon. You should dress.”

“Thank you.” She took the bag with a nod.

This was it. They were here, and there was no turning back.

She carefully poured out the contents of the bag onto the bed. Anthea held up each dress, one after the other, examining them closely. They were beautiful, no doubt, crafted meticulously. But each one had been designed to reveal, to accentuate, to tease. The cuts were strategic—low necklines and backlines, the high slits on the skirts, all purposefully designed to display the wearer, to display her.

With a sigh, she finally settled for a deep burgundy dress that covered her a little more than the others.

As they disembarked, Anthea couldn’t help but be reluctantly awed at the extravagance of the Cattleya court. Gold and glitter seemed to be the theme, with an almost obscene display of wealth at every turn. The ships, the ones the other courts arrived in, were tied to gleaming golden arches. Three large ships with midnight black sails were docked at the very front of the pathway to the castle. Anthea guessed the High King had the privilege of having the best parking spot. Farther back, she could spot green sails and even farther away—brown sails.

The pathways that led to the castle were lush with vibrantly hued flowers, a riot of pink and lilac bushes lining each side. Even the cobblestones underfoot seemed to sparkle in the fading light, iridescent as a dragonfly’s wing.

Anthea stood still, listening to the waves lapping against the docks, the salty sea breeze brushing against her face. Two Crimson company warriors stood beside her—Kaelan, the elf who had made a bet with Aegonar—surprisingly in her favor, which had secured him a soft spot in her mind, and Haldrian, an older looking elf. Both warriors wore expressions that gave nothing away. Their stances were alert, eyes focused forward, guarding her without any discernible emotion. Anthea wondered if they knew who she really was, or if they thought they were guarding Endreth’s slave. Their expressions told her nothing of their thoughts. But then again, Kaelan had bet on her favor—he must have known something. Either way, they didn’t feel threatening.

The castle gleamed in the distance, making her unease grow heavier. Its structure was a beautiful chaos of ornate spires and domes, each more dazzling than the last. The central dome stood out the most, crafted entirely from what looked like crystal. It was difficult to reconcile the exquisite beauty of the surroundings with the cruelty of the king who ruled it.

Endreth and Aegonar got off the ship, walking briskly, their royal maroon cloaks billowing with each stride. Endreth’s eyes met hers as he approached, a flicker of regret crossing his face.

She looked away, keeping her eyes on the castle.

The warriors fell into step beside her as she walked behind the crimson princes.

When they got closer, the already over-the-top grandeur only seemed to intensify. Huge statues made of what looked like solid gold lined the entrance way, each depicting a different creature in the midst of a battle. Sparkling fountains gushed water high into the air. Vibrant flowers Anthea had never seen before adorned the gardens. Each detail screamed luxury, right down to the smallest mosaic tile under her feet. It seemed King Icarion had never heard of the concept of a less is more. It was an amusing thought, one that brought a fleeting smile to her face.

Endreth and Aegonar departed to meet with Icarion, leaving Anthea with Kaelan and Haldrian. The two warriors walked her through the crowds, their presence creating a small protective bubble around her.

Their assigned guide in the castle was a human slave. The girl was young, barely out of her teens. She was clad in a white lace corset, the bodice hugging her delicate frame snugly. A sheer lace skirt clung to her hips, its translucence leaving nothing to the imagination. Anthea’s eyes were clued to a network of faded scars on the girl’s back—the sight made her despise Icarion even more.

When they finally reached the designated quarters, Anthea turned to face the young girl. She was undeniably beautiful—her raven hair cascaded down her shoulders in a river of darkness, and her green eyes were as serene as a pond tucked away in a forest, concealing the depths of her story. “What’s your name?” Anthea asked gently.

The girl hesitated, her eyes flickering nervously to the two warrior elves escorting them.

“They won’t hurt you.” Anthea glanced at the two warriors. Their faces remained impassive, their eyes fixed forward.

The girl’s green eyes were wide in her pale face. “Mila,” she finally whispered, the word barely audible, as if the act of naming herself was an act of rebellion.

“Nice to meet you, Mila.” Anthea made a mental note of the name—she would remember it.

“Good, you have settled in,” Aegonar said, casting a cursory glance around the room.