“And you would bet my life upon your skills?”
“Yes.” Fury lights within his eyes. “I wish you would trust me.”
There it is. The crux of the matter. I don’t. I don’t entirely trust anyone. “But I—”
Everyone’s head turns as the bride appears. The ward evaporates, but silence falls over the guests, the entire room settling with a single hush. A stream of natural light falls over the entrance, highlighting Belladonna.
My breath catches.
She’s beautiful. Stunning. The red of her dress is cut to accentuate her waist, and the bodice caresses her full breasts, making more of them. The fae are rarely curvaceous, but Belladonna’s curves threaten to spill out of her dress.
A single split up the center of the skirts reveals creamy white legs, and the train of elegant red ruffles is almost ten feet long.
A girl could kill for a dress like that.
Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.
The Lord of Mistmark cuts a look toward his bride, the muscle in his jaw tightening imperceptibly. And then his lashes shield his eyes, but I know his attention is shifting to the side.
Toward the shadows that linger between the enormous columns that support the roof of the amphitheater. And the lean figure that stands there.
Falion.
His assassin.
Shit. Maybe Belladonna isn’t the only one who’s been plotting to stop this wedding in its tracks.
Stalking toward her betrothed, Belladonna’s eyes find me in the crowd. Her eyebrow arches challengingly, as if to demand whether I’ve fulfilled my part of the assignment or not.
I roll my eyes. The second Mistmark left his rooms, I went through them. There was no sign of a map to the horn, but when I placed a piece of paper over his desk blotter and scribbled graphite over it, words showed through.
Mistmark has a letter tucked in his pocket revealing the whereabouts of the horn—presumably to give to Malechus the second the vows are said.
Except, I also know the contents of said letter.
And I’m going to get there first.
I just need a distraction.
The priestess steps forward wearing a gauzy white gown, roses bedecking her hair. “Goddess bless thee.”
“And thee,” intones the gathering.
“Who stands before Her Holiness today?” she calls.
There’s a long drawn-out moment before Mistmark clears his throat. “Alaric of the Summervein, Lord of Mistmark.”
She turns to the bride. “And thee?”
A clear voice rings through the grotto. “Belladonna of the Blood Lily, Lady of Mariangettes.”
The priestess settles into her usual spiel about the goddess’s blessing. Belladonna’s voice is quiet as she repeats the words she needs to say to make her pledge—too many people might recognize the slight changes of timbre in her voice.
Mistmark’s cool tone is almost a shock after her quiet words.
The priestess summons her page forward, and he presents a dagger on a plush velvet cushion. “By blood I bind thee,” she calls, taking the dagger and slicing a nick into the tip of Mistmark’s finger.
Holding his hand over a golden goblet, she forces three droplets of blood to mix with the elderberry wine within.
She repeats the gesture with the bride and then presses the cuts together, mingling their blood. A velvet ribbon binds their wrists together—if they remain bound until the following morning, it’s said their union will be blessed with bounty. To strike the cord early means drama and strife.
“Drink and Goddess bless,” she says, lifting the wine to Mistmark’s mouth and then the bride’s.
“Ready?” Keir murmurs.
“Wait,” I urge, tucking my arm through his elbow.
He’s giving me a look, as though he’s starting to suspect I’ve another plan up my sleeve. “Not until after the ceremony,” I caution.
Thick lashes shield his eyes from view. “Just what are you up to, Mira?”
“I don’t want to bring misfortune down upon this hall,” I whisper. It’s said the goddess watches each blessing, and to defy her will is to draw her attention. “Just a few moments more. Once it’s done, the goddess will turn her face away.”
“I didn’t know you were superstitious.”
“A good thief doesn’t invite bad luck.”
He nods, thank the goddess.
“By Blood, Ash, and Cord, I name thee bound before the goddess,” the priestess calls, dipping her thumb into a pot of ash, before she paints it between each of their eyes. “Goddess bless this union.”
Everyone leans forward in anticipation, because this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. A single kiss to seal the ceremony.
The Lord of Mistmark steps toward his bride, his lips pressing together thinly as his face lowers toward hers. There’s no sign of distaste upon his face—Mistmark’s an expert at keeping his horses well in hand. I’ve met him several times this past week, and I still don’t know a cursed thing about him.
It’s the bride who hesitates, casting a slightly stricken look toward the crowd as if searching for a particular guest.
Come on. Come on.
Play the game. Do your part….
I squeeze my fingers into a fist even as the bride does the same.
Even as she tilts her painted red mouth toward her new husband’s.
Their lips meet.
It’s a breathless moment as all the guests shift, some of them leaning forward hungrily as if in search of a hint of discord, and some of them merely curious.
Instead, the bride slides her hand behind Mistmark’s neck, hauling his mouth against hers. Her hips tilt toward him, a hint of unexpected longing echoing in the curve of her spine.
Malechus allows a dangerous smile to stretch across his face.
But it’s Mistmark I didn’t account for.
The groom draws back sharply, touching his hands to his lips and staring at his bride’s face. Confusion draws his brows together.
My heart
