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She tasted like incense.

Like old books and the ticking of clocks from some faraway room.

She tasted like time , like memory, and days later, Skye still couldn’t get enough of the perfect taste of her magic.

Standing in front of the mirror in his closet, he pulled back the collar of his black dress shirt, unable to keep the grin off his face at the fading bite mark.

A souvenir from that morning. He’d shifted the blood flow to keep the wound fresh, but it was healing now, slipping away despite the effort.

He’d always known that Taly would end up killing him.

With her temper—and his delight in provoking it—death was an inevitability.

But after the sparring match, after seeing her fight, magic and skill so effortlessly aligned—after having the mighty warrior bent over the table screaming his name as the perfect taste of her aether bloomed in his mouth…

Well, at least now he knew how she would do it.

She’d ride him like a tornado, and he’d spin apart so completely there would be no hope of ever finding all the pieces. And he was okay with that. After all, how many people got to go their graves smiling?

He made quick work of his black silk tie, straightening his cuffs before pulling on a matching coat.

Tonight, Ivain had called a town hall. The time had finally come to reveal the Curse to the public.

He’d been nervously pacing the halls and practicing speeches under his breath all week.

They’d seized the infected flour and started draining the cisterns, but the Curse was still spreading.

This week alone, five more Fey had been confirmed to have the Shaking Fever, and the healers were already preparing for more.

Ivain needed to take drastic measures. He needed help from the other noble families to quell what could quickly become widespread panic. And while that flock of preening harpies rarely gave anything they didn’t have to, they’d agreed to meet—for the performance, if nothing else.

Giving his tie one final tug, Skye appraised himself in the mirror. He wore a full suit, well-cut and slim, made from expensive black fabric with silver embroidery along the cuffs and collar. A simple diadem made from braided gold and silver cut across his brow, a diamond starburst at its center.

The crown of the heir to Ghislain. Sarina had insisted.

“Hey Taly,” he called, grabbing a large wooden box from his dresser before making his way down the hall. “Have you seen—”

He stopped in the doorway to their bedroom, his breath catching.

“Well?” she asked, a bit unsure. Her eyes found his in the closet mirror. “Is it too much? Sarina wouldn’t let me look until she was done and… It’s too much,” she said. “Your face is saying that it’s too much.”

Skye swallowed. He knew how to woo a woman, knew all the right things to say, but in this particular moment, all he could come up with was a simple, whispered, “Wow.”

Her hair had been braided and teased away from her face, gathered into a wild knot of curls over her right shoulder, and secured with diamond pins.

Dark kohl lined her eyes, and though her glamour rounded out her features, a faint blush contoured her cheeks.

It was the same color that softened her lips to a pale, perfectly kissable shade of pink.

His eyes dipped lower. To the dress…

He’d never seen her in anything like it.

The bodice could’ve been painted on for how lovingly it clung to every curve and hollow.

Made from sheer gauze and encrusted with thousands of tiny gold crystals, she sparkled like the inside of a geode.

The neckline grazed her collarbone. The sleeves were long and fitted.

It might’ve been modest if not for the way it plunged down her back.

Her skirts exploded in a spill of gauzy, white feathers that trailed along the floor.

“Skye?”

“Listening,” he murmured, not quite able to tear his eyes away from that dip along her spine. Not bare, he realized. More crystals twinkled over a nearly invisible panel of mesh.

One corner of her mouth lifted when she saw how thoroughly she’d captured his attention. “So, I take it the dress passes inspection?”

He finally found his feet and stepped into the room. “That depends.”

“On?”

“How long it takes me to get it off you.”

She rolled her eyes, but he still caught the heat curling beneath it. “You were looking for something?”

“I was?” he asked.

“You were.”

“What was it?”

A huff of laughter. “How would I know?”

Maybe he’d remember in a moment. Right now, there was only Taly—that dress and what looked like 27, no… 28 little buttons down her right side. He could undo them one by one. Or he could tear the whole thing apart and deal with the consequences later.

He was still strategizing when she reached into the pocket hidden beneath her skirts and produced a small leather folio—his wallet. “You left it in the kitchen. Go figure.”

He caught it. “What would I do without you?”

“Never find your wallet.”

Coming up behind her, Skye dragged a hand down her spine, over that stunning dress. Taly gave him an equally appreciative glance up and down his body. “As much as I hate to admit it, a crown suits you.”

“Thanks,” he said with a smirk.

“Don’t let it go to your head. It’ll swell, and then the crown won’t fit.”

He pinched her rear, but she still looked enormously satisfied at her own cleverness. “I’m not sure you deserve this now.” He held up the box he still had in his hands between them.

Her face immediately lit up. “Is that for me?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he replied just as softly.

“I like presents.”

“I know,” he said and flipped back the lid.

Taly’s eyes widened, glancing up at him to be sure. He only nodded.

Because inside, resting on a bed of blue velvet, was a crown. Small and delicate with a diamond dragon roaring through a wild nest of amethyst ribbons, its golden tail swept out and around to form the band.

The Ghislain Dragon. Technically a firedrake, though the human colloquialism had made its way into the common tongue. Every noble house with a presence in Ryme would be sending a representative tonight, and tradition dictated that they wear the mark of their House.

Indeed, he wore the same symbol pinned to his tie. And while it was unusual for humans, even Feseraa, to wear a House’s crest, it would send a message. Signify that she was spoken for by a family with both wealth and power, who had claimed her as one of their own and would defend her as such.

The Fey were not often kind to humans. The women envied the children they’d never bear; the men saw them as objects that existed only for their pleasure, easily replaced once broken.

And given the news that Ivain had to deliver, some might try to assign blame and seek to hurt him where they thought him weakest. There was no point taking any risk.

Sarina had already ensured that the Fairmont Fox was painted along her collarbones in delicate lines of swirling golden ink. But House Ghislain had more reach, more influence, and he was its heir. Tonight seemed as good as any to start flexing some of that power.

Taly ran a finger along the band, eyes dimming a bit, as if she could read the intent behind the gift.

Silent, she turned. Tossing the box back on the bed, Skye slid the crown over her hair, arranging it so that the dragon scratched and clawed its way across her brow, its tail disappearing into the knot of curls.

When he was done, he rested a hand on her waist, pulling her to him. Together, they stared at their reflection and the image they made.

Him—tall and elegant in the trappings of his rank.

Her—an absolute savage beauty, with her wild hair and clear, human eyes. The dragon glinted on her brow. His symbol.

The Duchess he would’ve chosen if the world were a different place.

“This is going to be bad,” she said, leaning into him. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” he drawled, feeling the curve of her waist. 29 buttons. Damn, they just kept going. “I’m sure the constant threat of death via undead horde has made the nobility into incredibly reasonable, compassionate individuals.”

A single brow lifted. “Want to make a wager?”

“Please,” he huffed and pushed her towards the door. “I already lose enough coin to you during Pytchdrive season.”

Since there were no public buildings in Ryme large enough to house a citywide town hall, Ivain had decided to grow one instead.

People flowed into the North Square, crowding around the entrance of the massive dome of vines that now capped the entire area. Soft, warm light leaked through the gaps in the coils and into the misty gloom.

Just a spot of gardening , he’d been saying all week to anyone that would listen, far too pleased with himself.

Taly finally understood the joke.

Large, woody braziers filled with leaping bonfires grew along the outside of the circular structure.

Thick roots anchored the base. Its walls were a living braid of bark, branch, and vine woven into a dome that stretched nearly four stories high.

Light leaked from between the coils. Leafy awnings stretched from the upper levels, their broad canopies supported by columns of even more vines.

The pillars spiraled like muscle, taut and coiled, and their tips unfurled into wide fronds that fanned over the walkways below.

The consideration was evident—how the design had been catered to the people who spent their days here, living and working.

Tables and chairs grew outside the storefronts, and there were even spaces for gardens and a covered stage.

The sound of water ran throughout, directing the flow of rainwater to feed the structure.