Page 20 of Cruelest Kiss and Fairest Blood (Tales So Wicked #2)

Maybe if I dart away now, I’ll catch everyone off guard.

I could be hidden away in my secret garden before they’ve dispatched a proper search party.

This dress is getting heavier with every step.

My feet are throbbing, fingertips burning, ribs aching.

This isn’t how it should feel to walk into your own engagement party.

“Are you well, Princess?” Gestin steps forward. I hadn’t even noticed him standing there. His face is lined with wrinkles as his brow creases.

My gaze flits toward the hallway on my left then back to Gestin.

This is my last chance to make a run for it.

But what will I do afterward? Hide out in the garden until I starve?

Seal myself up between those weathered stone walls, allowing my bones to crumble alongside the bones of all those animals I couldn’t save?

That’s what I am right now, an animal, frantic and frightened.

I’m cornered, trapped by my inescapable duties.

“Princess?” Gestin takes another step toward me.

“I—” The doors swing wide. A double line of trumpeters lets out the royal anthem and all heads turn my way. Too late to turn back now . Gestin nods for me to go first. I swallow, my throat feeling as dry as garden dirt in a summer drought.

My first step into the Great Hall forces the air from my lungs, the pressure of so many stares sitting heavy on my chest. An invisible force squeezes my throat.

The tightening of a social noose. The Great Hall is overly warm, a combination of the roaring twin fireplaces and too many bodies crammed into one room.

The patrons are all masked, their identities hidden behind black velvet cats and white tufted rabbits, yellow-lace bird beaks and blue-feathered peacocks.

Some cover just their eyes while others obscure the entirety of their face.

My own mask presses against my face, leaving sore skin around my eyes.

It’s a beautiful mask. A white and pink butterfly, lined with golden feathers and inlaid with real rubies.

My mother said it’s meant to depict my metamorphosis into a woman, a soon-to-be wife.

More like a soon-to-be doll on a shelf .

My parents sit atop a dais, their crowns making them recognizable despite the matching sapphire masks that cloak their features.

Next to them sits my future husband. The King of Honenbrie has chosen the mask of the golden eagle.

Its gilded brilliancy contrasts with the muted grey and black of his neatly combed hair.

His mouth is hidden beneath the mask. It’s a relief, for surely he won’t expect a kiss if his lips are unreachable.

I do wish I could see if he’s smiling under there.

A friendly gesture may put my heart at ease.

Without being able to see his face, I can only imagine it’s a true mask of revered stoicism, cold and unreadable.

My own mouth is exposed for all to see, to scrutinize the quiver in my lower lip as I approach the dais steps.

King Hoff rises as I reach the top, untying his mask and setting it on the table beside him.

“Princess, how lovely you’ve become.” He takes my hand, dipping down to plant a kiss on my fingers.

It takes a substantial amount of willpower not to jerk my hand away.

If he notices the dried blood on my brittle bitten nails, he doesn’t show it.

Like all men, he only sees what he wants to see.

Maybe imperfections only exist to those of us who want an excuse to hate ourselves each day. Or who are pretending not to.

“Your Highness.” I don’t think I can bear to fake a compliment about his appearance. He is a handsome man, with a stern face and closely set hazel eyes, but I’ll only ever see him as my father’s friend. “How kind of you to make the trip to Roseheart. I hope your travels were pleasant.”

“The trip was well worth it.” His gaze slides along my body.

All kings are the same, ruling with their crowns but leading with their cocks.

I turn in on myself. My discomfort must be evident enough for my mother to step in.

She passes pleasantries back and forth, nodding for me to take a seat.

Our table is placed in front of us by four servants who look ready to keel over after carrying the heavy oak table up the steps.

Dinner is served, an exorbitant array of furred and feathered beasts.

Food is usually my comfort but between the stress and restrictive dress, I can’t eat.

I’ve been sick to my stomach since I walked in.

Instead, I sip my wine in silence. When my mother nods to my plate, I raise a fork, using it to press through the center of a yellow pear.

The pears were brought as a gift and were grown in my soon-to-be home.

I watch as the tender cream-colored flesh presses up through the prongs.

Pears are grainy, plain. I much prefer apples.

My mother said an apple tree blossomed in our courtyard on the day I was born. It produces the sweetest and most unusual apples. Their skin is as gold as a treasure trove. The tree only bears fruit twice a year. When it does, I gorge myself until my belly aches.

Commotion erupts from somewhere in the room. Raised voices reach us on our pedestal.

My father summons Gestin to his side. “What’s going on?”

“A disgruntled attendee. Something about a wandering wife. We’ve escorted him out as he’s quite enraged.”

I chime in, “It’s better to be pissed off than pissed on.”

I heard a stable boy tell that joke once. The men around him were riotous with laughter. Those surrounding me are silent. Apparently my comedic timing is still lacking.

King Hoff’s mouth hinges open while my mother stares at me in shock.

“Thank you for that, Lenore,” my father says, his jaw tight.

The only hint of a smile I get is from Gestin as he’s dismissed. I know if he weren’t on duty right now he would have roared with laughter.

Some of the roiling in my stomach settles when the food is cleared away. The same group of servants removes the table, struggling once again. I sigh, sinking into the seat as much as my gown will allow.

From my privileged seat above the rest of the guests, I’m privy to all manner of gossip and speculation blurted from over plumped lips and excessively powdered faces.

The chatter is a boring mashup of the disgustingly predictable affairs of powerful men, unexpected debts of those stupid enough to gamble away dowries and country estates, and of course, the distasteful fashions of whoever is deemed under- or overdressed in the present hour.

I don’t know why they don’t all just wrap themselves in wool and swap their shit-talking for a more fitting baa .

They’re sheep in a flock, fit for devouring. Too bad there aren’t any wolves nearby.

The only truly juicy piece of gossip arises when a new trio enters the Great Hall.

Whispers ripple across the crowd, talk of an unusual marriage from a mysterious kingdom.

Then two towering men and a much smaller woman stroll into the room with arms interlocked.

They stride directly toward the dais. Bowing gently, the three of them greet my fiancé and I.

The largest of the two men absolutely towers over us, even in our sizable thrones.

He wears a gilded lion’s mask that stops just beneath his nose.

Diamonds encircle the eye holes, glittering against the glowing blue of his cerulean eyes.

What strange eyes. It must be a trick of the light.

They appear to glow, as if candlelight burns beneath the glassy surface.

He offers me a brief smile and the hint of sharpened canines flashes between full lips.

Neatly combed golden hair that matches the ornate mask drapes along each shoulder, and atop his tall head sits an impressive ruby- and diamond-encrusted crown.

He is more bear than man. The finely stitched red and gold attire strains against his mountainous form.

A single red rose peeks from his lapel. Redder than any flower I’ve seen.

It puts the rubies embedded in my mask to shame.

The mass of delicate petals is in full bloom.

The woman next to him places a slender hand on his large bicep, stealing my attention.

Her dress is a vibrant yellow, with gold and white sparkles throughout.

Despite her generous curves, she’s chosen a style that’s tight to the body all the way down to the floor.

Such wide hips and full bosom are viewed as flaws here in Roseheart.

What confidence she must have, to flaunt her figure.

Her fair face is barely obscured beneath the most delicate of white lace masks.

The slip of fabric simply rings her mossy green eyes.

The rest of her face is fully visible. A smaller variety of those same red roses are braided into her chocolate-brown hair.

They sit in a splendid pattern surrounding a crown as beautifully delicate as her mask.

A raised, pink scar bisects the side of her face, marking her from temple to cheek. Noticing my attentions, she smiles at me, making the marked flesh even more noticeable. A creeping vine of jaded envy threads its way between my ribs. She wears her scar out in the open.

The high collar around my neck feels even more constricting than ever before. The two men take turns staring down at her adoringly. They don’t seem to mind her marred beauty or fuller figure one bit. What must it be like to be so fully comfortable in your own body ?