Page 22

Chapter 21

N octium marked the end of the Season. Emillie woke with a strange knot in her stomach at the thought. She should have been waking in Armington with Alek after planning the Season-closing ball and spending her early evening cooking up something delicious alongside the estate chef.

Instead, she stared at the ceiling of a tent, reliving everything that had brought her to where she was: in a small fae town with a family who had taken her in as their own and sworn to help her find her sister. She did not deserve the kindness they had shown her, yet without them, she would have been returned to Loren long ago.

Emillie could not fathom what it would be like waking up to Loren Gard as her guardian.

“Up you get!” Edira opened the tent and stuck her head in, hazel eyes sparkling with excitement. “We have places to be!”

Sitting up, Emillie rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stretched. “Where are we going?”

“The fields.” Edira said nothing more before disappearing back out of the tent.

Emillie pushed the blankets away and crawled over her bedroll to the small sack of clothes she had been gifted. Fields did not give her an accurate description of their duties tonight, but she assumed it would be some of the same: traveling. Only this time, perhaps they would leave L’Oden Forest.

When she emerged from the tent carrying her bedroll, blankets, and traveling pack in plain brown trousers and a green shirt—the best Noctium colors she could find in her limited, borrowed wardrobe—she found herself nose-to-nose with Luce. The beautiful woman had one arm outstretched as though reaching for the tent to get something for herself. Her golden eyes widened slightly at their close proximity before she lifted a lip in a wolfish sneer.

Emillie side-stepped, her heart giving a little flip as she did so. Staying out of Luce’s way had been her plan since their introduction. After learning about Luce’s reason for her curse, she kept an even wider berth. The last thing she needed was to enrage a lycan who already hated vampires.

“To what fields are we going?” Emillie asked as she slipped her traveling items into the wagon where they belonged.

Pol adjusted the wares at the back of the wagon after the day of selling. “There are farms nearby for us to help for Noctium. One of my favorites is here!”

Looking between the fae, Emillie asked, “You celebrate Noctium?”

A snort of disbelief sounded behind her from Luce as she reemerged from the tent, her own personal effects in hand. They had purchased a new bedroll and several sets of clothes for the lycan upon her release. Emillie had been privy to those festivities, even if Luce had not wanted her there.

“Everyone celebrates Noctium,” Luce said, shoving her bedroll and blanket beside Emillie’s. “It isn’t just for the privileged.”

Emillie chewed her lip. “I did not mean it that way.”

“Yes, we celebrate as everyone in Myridia does,” Edira said, shooting Luce a strange look. “But our customs are different.”

“No fancy balls,” Luce added. “At least not for the common folk.”

Well, Emillie could not deny that the ball was a particularly fun part of the holiday. She enjoyed seeing her friends while avoiding all contact with the final potential suitors of the Season. At least until her father forced her onto the dance floor.

Before the familiar crash of grief would overwhelm her, Emillie shoved it away. “How do you celebrate, then?”

“We go to the fields.” Haen clambered into their spot on the wagon.

Pol, finished with his organization, lifted himself onto his horse. “And help with the harvest. We can then take back some of what we helped with to make a meal and offering for Ern.”

Emillie considered this. “Alright. To which field are we going?”

“A few.” Edira mounted her horse next and turned to face them. “We planned to split up and bring back different contributions. Would you like to join one of us?”

She hesitated, heat creeping up her neck and cheeks. “I would like that.”

“We’re going to a wheat field,” she said as she began ticking off the locations on her fingers, “a vegetable farm, fruit orchard, and herb garden. Where would you like to go?”

Considering her limited knowledge about anything related to food, Emillie said, “The herb garden sounds nice.”

A heavy sigh sounded from behind her, and in an instant, Emillie knew she had made a grave mistake. She had hoped Haen would have been most interested in the herbs, seeing as they were so knowledgeable about how to use them for cooking. Alas, she had been mistaken.

The lycan glared at her when she turned. “You’re with me, then.”

“If you would prefer I go elsewhere,” Emillie said cautiously, “I understand.”

But her golden eyes narrowed, face softening. “Why would I prefer that?”

The question took Emillie off guard. How was she supposed to respond to that without revealing that she knew of Luce’s past? She had been backed into a corner. A good thing, then, that she had learned to be eloquent when lying. The risk of being beaten by her father had been a quick teacher. “I have merely noticed that you keep your distance from me. If that is what you wish, I will not join you.”

Pol made a face at Edira before turning away to hide his expression. Unlike their sibling, Haen remained neutral. Edira, however, elbowed her brother and hissed something in high fae to him. Whatever she said only had him covering a chuckle with a cough.

It was not often that Emillie was the butt of someone’s joke. Certainly, Belina Fletcher or Dierdre Kolson had an affinity for making her life miserable at any opportunity, but they had not tried to hide it. This made Emillie’s guts twist with a fresh wave of uncertainty.

“No.” Luce’s expression shifted to that strange look of endless hunger. “Come with me.”

Emillie resisted the urge to squirm under her gaze but nodded nonetheless. They circled the camp once more, cleaning up as they went, before Haen left to the south for the vegetables and wheat alongside Edira. Pol nodded to them and moved west, farther into L’Oden Forest, where their vibrant orchards were grown. Luce, then, turned into a wolf, her fae magic whisking the clothes she wore into an unreachable void.

When the previous full moon had ended, Emillie had been quite startled when Luce returned to her lycan form. More curious had been the sudden disappearance of her clothes. Edira explained it as private pockets in space, capable of storing a limited amount of items at a time. As it were, Luce called upon such pockets to store her clothing when not in use.

“Why do you not use it for your spices?” Emillie had asked, considering how much simpler it would be to travel without the wagon.

But Edira shook her head. “Small items and not too many. Most fae would struggle to hold anything more than a basket of apples in the void.”

It made sense, then, that they would keep only that which they deemed most valuable. For a shifter such as Luce, spare clothing seemed like pertinent items to keep close at hand.

Following Luce from atop her horse, Emillie remained quiet as they marched through the fae town. Most slept, though she was pleased to see they would not be the only ones awake and harvesting at what most fae would consider an odd hour. Quite a number of folk were out in search of fields and farms to lend a hand.

When they reached the oddly high walls of the herb gardens, Luce resumed her fae form with the same clothes she had tucked within her void pocket and spoke with who appeared to be one of the head gardeners in high fae. After scrutinizing Emillie for a moment, the woman waved them in. What lay beyond the gates brought Emillie to a standstill.

The garden was massive. The walls, she realized, were tall for the benefit of many climbing plants. Rows and rows of herbs stretched out before them. Some plants she could name for their culinary uses and others for medicinal, but even more were new to her. Not for the first time, Emillie mentally reprimanded herself for not having studied more fae medicines.

“This is incredible.” She gaped at the moonlit garden, hardly resisting the urge to walk the aisles and run her hand through the fragrant leaves.

Luce tilted her head. “Do you know much about herbs?”

“Some.” Emillie crouched beside a strange plant with long, soft purple leaves and inspected it. “But there are many here that I have never seen.”

At first, Luce did not move. Almost hesitantly, she stepped forward and joined Emillie. “We call this one Rabbit’s Ear. It’s used in balms rubbed on the chest to clear coughs.”

No wonder Emillie had not heard of it. Vampires rarely fell ill. Any medicinals that were used were to help clear potential infections on particularly nasty wounds that were difficult to close even for their fast healing. An illness typically meant impending death like aegrisolis.

“Do fae often get sick?” She rubbed the plant between her thumb and forefinger, enjoying the texture.

“Often? No.” Luce stood again, her long, strong legs stretching out in Emillie’s periphery.

For a fleeting moment, she imagined running her hands up the inside of the lycan’s thighs, spreading them wide to—

“But it happens,” Luce continued, snapping Emillie from her thoughts. “We do our best to catch it early and eradicate it.”

Standing alongside the lycan, Emillie did her best to keep her eyes off Luce’s muscular form and temper the warmth growing in her face. The last thing she needed was for the woman before her to ask why she was blushing. “And if you do not catch it early?”

Luce raised a brow. “Then, depending on the ailment, we could die from it.”

That did not sit well with Emillie. She worried the inside of her cheek for a moment. “What herbs do you suggest we bring back with us? I fear I do not know how to harvest them or what is of use.”

For the first time since their meeting, Luce looked almost…pleased with her. Her golden eyes swept over Emillie from head to toe and back, her scorching gaze leaving a trail of heat in its wake. It kicked Emillie’s heart into a pattering race, and she had to look away or be forced to meet that fiery stare.

“I will show you, then,” Luce said before doubling back to the gates and collecting two baskets. “We must help harvest that which is ready, and from it, we will choose what to take back.”

Accepting the basket the lycan held out, Emillie asked, “How do you know so much about herbs?”

To her surprise, Luce remained receptive to the question. Emillie had expected a snarky remark or some form of irritation. Instead, Luce said, “My father was a priest of Silve a long time ago. He performed many different rituals, and most required herbs of some sort or another.”

Luce returned to the Rabbit’s Ear and demonstrated how to harvest it by carefully pinching off the top leaves. Before Emillie could pry further, Luce continued, “There was one in particular that I’d watched him do many times for young fae to connect them to Silve and the heart of the forest. Plants are, of course, something that brings us closer to the goddess, just as rainwater is to Bastien or fire is to Sora.”

Following her down the row, Emillie’s mind raced. She would have never thought of Luce as the daughter of a priest, but that was not what caught her attention. Instead, it was the next herb in the row—a plant with broad, dark green leaves that grew in groups of three. She stared at it for a long moment.

“The Heart of Silve.” The words returned to her like from a long-forgotten dream.

In response, Luce nodded. “You’ve seen it before?”

“Only a sketch.” She studied it as the lycan carefully harvested the three leaves together. Mimicking the movement, Emillie continued, “I found a book written in a language I could not read but had many notes in the margins. It detailed the curse put on vampires and a ritual that included these leaves.”

A light sparked in Luce’s eyes. “That’s the one! The one that ties our souls to Silve. I think I’d like to see this book of yours.”

Emillie grimaced. “I left it back home.”

And just as quickly, the gleam sputtered out. “I would wager it has many similar rituals and spells written in it. By mages or fae, perhaps.”

“I have never seen the language before.” Emillie moved along the row a little more, adding the leaves in neat stacks to her basket. “The book itself was very old.”

“Many books are very old,” Luce noted. Her fingers brushed the back of Emillie’s hand as they reached for the same herb, yet she did not jerk back as Emillie would have predicted. Rather, she slowly curled her fingers, drawing out the touch before separating them completely. “I’m sure someone alive could read it. Maybe one day we’ll go find it.”

At that, Emillie paused to look up at the lycan. Her umber cheeks flushed, and she busied herself with the herbs. Had she let slip something she had not meant to? Warmth bloomed in Emillie’s chest at the thought. Luce made it seem as though she meant to keep her around, and something in her wanted that very much.

By the time they left the herb garden, the moon hung low in the sky, and their baskets were heavy with fresh additions for offerings to Ern, Edira’s homemade medicinals, and Haen’s cooking. They wove through the streets of the town where fae of all ages roamed despite the late hour, the silence between them easier than it had ever been before.

Until Luce’s pace slowed, and her golden eyes flared as she inhaled deep. Emillie turned to track the lycan’s keen eyesight across the market to where two crimson-clad men made their way past the few night stalls in business in their direction. The pair stopped, spoke with the fae, then continued to the next.

It took Emillie a shamefully long time to realize who the men were. In fact, it was not until Luce took her hand and yanked her off the main street that Emillie’s mind caught up with what was happening. Her heart lurched.

“Are those—”

“Valenul soldiers,” Luce finished, her face taut with focus as they shoved between fae at market before coming to an abrupt halt.

Emillie turned her focus again to find another pair working their way in the opposite direction as the first. Her breath hitched.“Luce, I cannot go back.”

“You won’t.”

Again, they changed directions, this time to slip between broad trees and off the main street entirely. Emillie clung to her basket with one hand and Luce’s fingers with the other. The woman squeezed her hard, dragging her through the underbrush to the next street where a third set of soldiers stood mere feet away.

Luce jerked Emillie to a halt, startling a squeal from her that had the soldiers turning in their direction.

Heart hammering like a drum, Emillie locked eyes with the soldier just before Luce dragged her back into the shadows and pinned her to a tree with her hard, strong body. The lycan— gods , she was so close—pressed her free hand to Emillie’s mouth as she opened it to speak. To tell Luce that they had been seen. A shout from the soldier, then footsteps trudging through the bushes, had her whimpering against Luce’s palm.

“Quiet,” Luce whispered, her minty breath warm on Emillie’s ear before she set her basket on the forest floor. The footsteps drew nearer.

Words coming in a shuddering hiss, Emillie said, “They saw me.”

“Then play along.”

“What—”

Fingers drifting across Emillie’s jaw and neck, Luce yanked her hair out of its twisted confines so it cascaded over her face and neck. Then, before she could conjure even the slightest idea of what Luce planned to do, the lycan replaced her hand with her mouth.

The kiss was hard and consuming. Luce’s lips parted, urging her to do the same, and within seconds Emillie felt her tongue glide along her own. Fire shot through her veins—pulsed straight to the core of her as the woman pinning her to the tree shifted, her thigh pushing between Emillie’s legs to bring them even closer.

“You,” a man’s voice demanded somewhere beyond the ringing that had taken up residence in Emillie’s ears.

A beat of silence as Luce released a low moan against her lips, and then the other man hissed, “I do not think that is her.”

“Show yourself,” the first man said, closer this time.

Gods, Emillie could not think. Not as she melted against the lycan, deepening the kiss. She had needed this. Needed to know she was not alone—would not be alone forever.

But Luce broke the kiss all too soon, placing her head between Emillie and the soldier. She growled, the sound summoned from her lycan form, and hauled Emillie’s body closer to her so every curve pressed together. “Be gone, leech. She’s mine .”

Heat flared in Emillie’s core again at Luce’s claim on her, yet it simultaneously dimmed at the lycan’s choice of words. Leech . No one used that word except for those who truly hated vampires.

“Come on, Norm,” said the second soldier. “It is not her.”

“I swear I saw—”

“That is a lycan .”

Emillie searched what she could make out of Luce’s face, unsure how the vampire could possibly know her lineage based on what they had seen. To her shock, Luce’s eyes glowed gold, not unlike the night she first met the wolf fae. Moreso, however, it was the woman’s bared teeth that had her sucking in a sharp breath. Luce’s canines lengthened as though she were midway through transitioning into her other form.

“Alright.” The first soldier sounded farther away again. “My mistake. Have a blessed Noctium, miss.”

Luce did not reply, instead choosing to growl again and somehow pulling Emillie even closer. The footsteps retreated, then silence descended, and still, Luce did not release her hold.

It was not until Emillie shifted, ignoring the way the lycan felt against her, that Luce seemed to realize she even held her. Luce’s arms pried away from Emillie’s body,the motion strained and jerky.

“We should stay in the trees,” Luce said, her words slurred as the long teeth retracted again.

Then, all at once, the pressure and heat from Luce’s body disappeared. The sudden rush of cold had the skin on Emillie’s arms prickling as the lycan stepped back. At first, she did not move. She kept her back against the tree trunk and watched Luce ball her fists.

“Luce, I—”

“I’m sorry for doing that.” Luce blinked hard, and when she opened her eyes again, they no longer glowed. “Let’s go.”

Before Emillie could so much as respond, Luce turned and disappeared between the bushes.

String music soared from the castle’s ballroom below Loren. He stood at the top of the stairs, overlooking Laeton’s finest Caersans, many of whom he had slated to join his Court. This was where he should have stood beside Ariadne during their engagement announcement. Had all gone to plan, they would have descended the stairs, arm-in-arm, and greeted the awaiting members of Society at the behest of her father.

So much changed the moment he had found her in the arms of another man. Something inside of him snapped at the sight, catapulting him onto the path to become Valenul’s King. The cheating half-breed bastard should have yielded the moment he lost his sword, and Loren would have put an end to that nonsense immediately. Permanently. Unlike that fool, he would not have given the horn-head a chance to take another breath. Had things proceeded as planned that night, so many things would have been different.

His kingship, for one thing. Marrying Ariadne as intended would have staved off his need to prove himself to Markus. Loren was, after all, a patient man when it came to many things. He could have merely encouraged Markus to step down from his role as Princeps earlier and taken his place as a rightful heir.

Things were better now, though. The kingdom was set right once more with Loren at its head and a blossoming Court to replace the nuisance of a meddlesome Council. All he needed now was the full support of the Lords, and to garner that, he needed the complete compliance of his betrothed once he rescued her from the filthy hands of that horned monster. Ariadne would remain the key to his indisputable seat on the throne.

Until he located her, of course, Loren needed to play the game correctly. Hosting the Noctium Ball and maintaining pleasantries with Ariadne’s closest friends were but small moves to make a big difference.

“Your Majesty.”

Loren turned to find Revelie curtsying low, her eyes trained on the floor at his feet and posture stiff. She wore a stunning yellow gown that shimmered in the candlelight, and her black hair was elaborately braided back where it gathered like a halo around her head. When he used his forefinger to tilt her chin up to look at him, her beautiful face remained neutral. Gold lined her dark eyes, and her deep red lips looked particularly ravishing.

Perhaps he had been too harsh on her. A heavy hand went a long way, just as it had with Ariadne. Perhaps a little more would put her on her back for him. He needed a release.

“Miss Ives.” The term madame seemed far too matronly for a previous Season’s Golden Rose. He urged her out of the curtsy by drawing his hold on her a little more. “You look positively radiant. I am most pleased to see you accepted my invitation.”

Something dark glinted in her eyes at that, but she smiled regardless. “I am most honored to be Your Majesty’s personal guest.”

“Your letters have been sent.” Loren held out his arm, which she took without hesitation. Good girl. She, too, was likely playing her own game. A pity that such things were not even in league with him. “I am certain Miss Harlow will be most receptive to your words of wisdom.”

Revelie did not so much as look at him as they began their descent to the ballroom. “She will see reason, Your Majesty. I am certain of it. Returning home to you is her most agreeable path.”

Nodding his satisfaction, Loren looked out over the guests below. They turned to watch their advancement to the ballroom, bowing and curtsying, and it did not take long for him to locate his next target of interest: Camilla Dodd. The other member of the little group of friends appeared far more reserved than usual. Where she usually held a glass of wine in one hand and a man’s cock in the other, she now stood with poise amongst the rest of the Caersans. Even her typical revealing attire had been exchanged for something more modest and respectable for a woman at the end of yet another unsuccessful Season.

“I believe you are correct, Miss Ives,” Loren said, refocusing on her. “Once I am able to break whatever enchantment has come over Miss Harlow, everything will be set right. I trust you will be of assistance with that.”

A beat of silence, then she said, “Of course, Your Majesty. I would be honored to ensure her acquiescence to a magnificent King such as yourself.”

“Indeed.” Loren paused for a moment, halting her on the step below him. She looked up with wide eyes. “I wish for you to stay close to me this evening, Miss Ives. I would hate for your other hand to be injured due to negligence.”

Revelie paled a shade. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

“And one more request, if I may?”

“Anything at all.”

Anything? Well, he could do a lot with an offer such as that. Nonetheless, he had an appearance to make amongst the Lords. Closing himself in the nearest room to indulge in such a fine specimen of a woman would not do well to win any favors.

Pushing the image of her legs spread for him from his mind, Loren said, “I would like to make an impression with Miss Dodd. Your assistance has been invaluable thus far, and I believe she could assist you in making quite an impact on Miss Harlow. After all, my future wife will need her friends nearby to assist in wedding preparations.”

Surprise flitted across Revelie’s face, then the shadow of fear. “I would be honored.”

“I am most gratuitous.” Loren continued down the stairs at that.

Nikolai stood at the foot of the steps in his armor with a hand resting on the hilt of his sword, no longer permitted off-duty so long as Loren had public appearances. His friend bent at the waist upon his approach. “Good evening, Your Majesty.”

“At ease.” Loren nodded to him, then made his way into the awaiting crowd with the King’s Sword as his shadow.

The first to greet him were Lord Kolson and his wife. To his amusement, Dierdre Kolson glared openly at Revelie as she gripped her husband’s arm. Since losing his position as a Lower Councilman, Kolson’s status did not elevate them quite as much. For someone Dierdre considered lesser than herself, seeing a self-removed Golden Rose seamstress on the King’s arm must have infuriated her. Such pettiness thrilled him.

“An awe-inspiring celebration, Your Majesty,” Lord Kolson said with a bow.

Dierdre followed with a curtsy. “Most magnificent, Your Majesty.”

“Indeed,” Loren said as they straightened. “I am pleased to see you both in attendance.”

“We would not wish to miss this.” Lord Kolson inclined his head. “And we are honored by the personal invitation.”

A nod from Loren. “You are welcome. If you will excuse me.”

Another bow and curtsy from the pair, then Loren started off further into the crowd. One after another, the Lords approached either alone, with their wives, or even with eligible daughters in tow. Though many did not appear wholly impressed with him, they did not forget their manners.

In truth, they did not forget who controlled the army. If there was one thing that ensured Loren’s rule, it was the full cooperation of his soldiers. After decades of establishing their devotion to him, he had no doubt in his mind that any one of them would lay down their life for him—and that had been prior to his ascension to the throne.

The first dance began before he had made a full round through the ballroom. Loren swept Revelie into the waltz without asking permission. Unlike Ariadne, the previous Golden Rose knew each step by heart and moved with perfect grace. If it were not for Ariadne’s position in the minds of the Lords as his solidifying piece to being accepted as King, Loren might have considered taking the seamstress as his Queen instead.

As though he would ever allow Ariadne to escape him forever. She made a fool of him once—now she would make a true King of him in repentance. Breaking her to his will would be the most satisfying endeavor he had ever undergone.

The following dance, Loren passed Revelie off to an unwed officer. As he clapped the man on the shoulder, he added, “Enjoy this one. She moves most pleasantly.”

Fire burned in Revelie’s eyes as she accepted the officer’s arm and followed him back to the dance floor. She had done well in tempering her tongue since their last encounter. Losing a finger and being locked in a manor with no chance of escape truly did wonders.

Lord Zander Ravening, a previous member of Eastwood Province’s Lower Council, greeted Loren next. His long red hair was pulled back from his face with a thin crimson ribbon—a wise and subtle way of aligning himself with Valenul and its King rather than the previous Lord Governors of his home. Distancing himself from such traitors would only give him more power, and with Lords Knoll and Theobald missing, it put Ravening at a greater advantage for gaining control of the Province once everything settled.

“A splendid holiday, Your Majesty.” Lord Ravening bent at the waist, his deep bronze eyes glittering. “And with a most beautiful woman on your arm. It has been some time since I have seen Madame Ives take to the dance floor twice in a row.”

Loren followed Zander’s gaze to where Revelie swept between dance partners, her regal face stoic. “Indeed. She has become a good friend as of late, joining my Court in anticipation of my betrothed’s arrival.”

A nod from Zander. “Ah, yes. Have you any word of Miss Harlow’s whereabouts?”

“I have been tracking every lead with care.” Loren pivoted to stand beside the Lord and look out at his people. “When I uncovered the truth of that brute she had married, it was my intention to save her immediately. I underestimated the bastard’s capabilities and have paid for it dearly—her kidnapping is a deep regret.”

Zander’s eyebrows flew toward the ceiling. “Kidnapping, Your Majesty?”

With a solemn shake of his head, Loren continued, “Quite. Her father’s negligence granted that half-breed access to her so that her mind may be bewitched with unfathomable fae magic. Then she was swept out from under me, leading to the Princeps’ death. He endangered the woman I love by assuming his rank and title were enough to protect her. I plan to set things right by bringing her home with haste.”

“Is there anything we can do to assist, Your Majesty?”

“Everyone must keep their eyes and ears open,” Loren said. His pulse raced—the Lord was eating the story from his palm like a starved animal. With any luck, it would make its rounds through the ballroom that very night and change the tides in his favor. “Miss Harlow must be terrified and feel so very betrayed by those she trusted most. I can only imagine what horrors she has endured.”

At that, Zander frowned. “And yet she is to be Queen?”

Lifting his chin, Loren leveled an outraged stare at him. “Miss Harlow is a Caersan of worth, and I will not have her name tainted by these disgusting circumstances or the actions of her father. She will return to me, and we will wed as was always intended.”

“Many apologies, Your Majesty.” Lord Ravening bowed, a hand flat against his heart. “I never meant to question your intentions or her worth. The Harlow line is revered by all Caersans—it must be protected.”

“Indeed it is and shall be.” Loren softened his expression. “I am most grateful that my future heir will bear the blood of such a prestigious family. Markus’s blunders aside, I am confident such traitorous tendencies did not poison either Miss Harlows’ minds.”

“Excellent to hear.” Zander looked out at the dance floor again. “Some Lords have begun questioning the family, but your reassurance will dissuade any further discussion on the matter.”

Loren let his gaze wander from guest to guest for a moment. “I would hope so. After witnessing first-hand the hypnotic effects the half-breed had on Miss Harlow, I am certain he had enchanted Markus Harlow in much the same way. The surviving Harlows should not be held accountable for their actions when they were poisoned against their wills.”

“An interesting take indeed.” Zander straightened a bit as the song concluded, the dancers thanked one another, and Revelie began weaving her way back towards them. “Would you be so inclined as to reintroduce me to Madame Ives?”

“ Miss Ives, if you will.” Loren held out his arm to the approaching woman. She took it without hesitation before tucking her mutilated hand out of sight. “Have you met Lord Ravening, Miss Ives?”

Revelie curtsied, though not quite as low as she had at the top of the stairs to Loren. Turning her dark gaze up to the Lord, she gave him a small smile. “It has been some time, my Lord. Since my debut, I believe.”

Zander inclined his head. “Quite.” He looked at Loren. “May I accompany Miss Ives for another dance?”

Tension radiated from Revelie at the way Zander spoke to him as her guardian. Loren enjoyed it. Without a father of her own, she had no one to speak for her. Now that she was a valued member of his Court, it was his responsibility to ensure she was cared for.

“I believe Miss Ives would enjoy that, yes?” Loren turned his attention to her.

Though she glared back at him, she quickly schooled her expression and fluttered her lashes at Lord Ravening. “I would be delighted.”

“Such a good girl,” Loren murmured in her ear, then, after kissing her knuckles, passed her hand off to Zander. “When you return, I would like to discuss your position in my Court, Lord Ravening. I am certain Miss Ives would enjoy having more Caersans around to keep her company.”

Zander bowed as the intermittent music between dances began to fade. “It would be an honor. Excuse me, Your Majesty.”

Loren watched them go. Once he had Lord Ravening in his Court and spreading the truth behind Markus’s treachery and Ariadne’s kidnapping, the rest of the Lords would flock to him. When they stepped onto the dance floor, he then turned his attention to the next influential piece for his game to continue on its winning path.

Across the ballroom, Camilla Dodd stood beside her father, hands clasped before her with a meekness Loren had never before witnessed from her. She was a spitfire and the trophy he needed to solidify Ariadne’s cooperation upon her return. With both her and Revelie in his Court, he would have everything he needed.

A good thing, then, that Lord Dodd had always been a close family friend. If anyone were to willingly give their daughter to a King, it was he. Of that, Loren was positive.