Time to get to work. “How well did you know Maribel?”
“Not well. Maribel doesn’t think a young Elemental male is worth her time. Not even a pretty one,” he adds, wiggling his thick brows at me.
“Do you hate her?”
He ponders on this as he dips me.
“I feel bad for her. She hates so many people – lower-ranking factions, men, foreigners. I just happen to be all three. A heart full of hate is heavy.”
“So, you don’t hate her then?”
If ever I’m going to have the chance to ask the questions my mother needs answers to, it’s now. I like Rafi, but there’s been plenty of people I’ve liked that have ended up doing bad things. He does have the perfect motive.
“No,” he answers simply. I wait for the ping. It doesn’t come. “Are you using your powers on me, Saskia?”
His tone is light, but there’s an edge to his voice. “Isn’t that the very thing you fear in Luisa, that she will use her powers on you without permission?”
He releases me from his warm grasp, and just like that, the dance is over. Shadow flowers bloom across his hands like the first show of spring as he bows low, finishing the waltz with a cheeky wink.
Ugh, he’s right about Luisa. I’m being a hypocrite.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble.
“It’s OK.” But Rafi’s not looking at me.
I turn and watch as a beautiful woman takes the stage. Her glittering red gown shines against her dark skin, adorned in white lace and... movement? As I peer along with the crowd, I see that enchanted spiders are webbing her lace further, extending it, skittering in feverish patterns across her full hips.
Well, any arachnophobes in the room tonight are fucked.
She opens her mouth and begins to sing, an operatic melody floating over the crowd. But the sweet, delicate sound isn’t the only magical thing about her singing. With each note, wisps of red smoke rise from her lips.
Rafi’s mouth is close to my ear. “Watch. The blood smoke is telling the story of the opera.”
Scene after operatic scene comes to life around us, swirls of scarlet coiling through the air. We make room on the dancefloor as images of horse-drawn carriages, ballrooms, dancing couples, duals, and heartbreak, form and disassemble one after the other like a play made from red clouds.
The song concludes, and I join the room in thunderous applause.
“Is your dance card full, or are there still slots to be taken?” I hear a velvety Dutch accent behind me. I turn and come face to face with the Winter Court prince.
“My slot is wide open.”
His lack of a smile makes me immediately regret my lack of decorum.
Rafi gallantly steps aside, and the prince takes my hand. At the touch of his skin against mine, I feel a chill rise up my exposed arms. My nipples perk against my dress, but not in a pleasant way.
The prince’s eyes flash a glacial blue as he leads me across the ballroom. His gaze doesn’t leave mine, yet he somehow manages to avoid the other couples on the dance floor. Either he’s a trained dancer, or he’s used to people moving the fuck out of his way. I try to hide my panic and make my feet match his as he leads me into a waltz. His pearly hair is tucked behind his elongated ears, staying perfectly in place as if by frost — or a bucket of hairspray. His sharp cheekbones are framed by an even sharper jawline, and he has bow-shaped lips, which are slightly purple from the invisible cold pulsing through his veins. I’ve never seen the High Fae up close, and I’m scrambling for something clever to say.
He beats me to it.
“So, you’re the daughter of the famous Solina de la Cruz.”
The way he says it makes me uncomfortable. It’s not a question; it’s a statement bordering on a compliment. He already knows who I am, which means he invited me to dance for a reason, and not just because he likes my curves. Though I still catch his icy glare slip down to my décolleté.
“You’re thinking of Mikayla,” I correct him. “I’m Saskia. The daughter Solina doesn’t tell anyone about. The inconsequential one.”
The prince frowns slightly. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
You know nothing about me.
I bite back my reply. What, exactly, shouldn’t I be sure of? That Solina doesn’t talk about me? Or that I’m not inconsequential? I curse myself for showing my vulnerability. Knowledge is power, and I don’t need to tell some High Fae about my mommy issues.
He spins me around, and I stumble sideways. I guess this is what happens when you drink three glasses of magical champagne and don’t follow them with food.
“Sorry,” I say, righting my gown. “I think I’ve had too much to drink.”
He takes my hand again, and I feel a cold pool form in my belly, his eyes boring into mine anew. What is it with Fae and prolonged eye contact? The cold spreading through my veins seems infinite, a chasm, and yet I can’t look away.
His hold on me is strong, and he doesn’t let me stumble a second time. If his army garbs aren’t enough of a giveaway, then his rough, strong hands prove he’s a warrior and not just a delegate. A warrior who practices a lot. I’m guessing his blows are about as precise as his dancing.
“Liquor weakens the knees,” he says. “But pain slips freely from the tongue.”
He’s still weirdly staring at me. His eyes are snow globes, splintering with frost. I want to look away, but I’m frozen into place.
“Do all the Fae talk like ancient Greek gatekeepers? Or do you just have a flair for the dramatic?”
The prince smiles, and cocks his head appraisingly.
“You have a truthful tongue… and a wicked one.”
We sidestep three more couples. His riddled old-timey way of speaking is starting to get on my nerves.
“I
