Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
And then I see Amos.
He’s standing near the champagne table with a woman on his arm—pretty, dark-haired, leaning into him like he’s the sun and she’s been cold for years. She’s laughing at something he said, her whole body turned toward him, and he’s...
Bored.
His smile is perfect. His posture is attentive. But his eyes are somewhere else entirely, scanning the room even as he murmurs something that makes her laugh again.
Something about it makes my skin prickle. I can’t articulate why. He’s being polite. Charming, even. But there’s a disconnect between what he’s doing and what he’s feeling, and the gap between them feels...wrong.
I turn away—I can avoid him, I can definitely avoid him—and that’s when it happens.
A woman in emerald green appears at my elbow. Her smile is apologetic. Her eyes are not.
“Oh no!”
Red wine splashes across the front of my midnight-blue gown.
I stare down at the spreading stain. At the ruined silk. At three hours of careful preparation destroyed in a single calculated motion.
“How clumsy of me!” The woman’s voice drips with false sympathy. “I’m so terribly sorry, Your Majesty.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd. Murmurs. The distinct sound of people trying not to laugh.
“Queen Bailey.”
The voice is cool. Quiet. So low it shouldn’t carry, and yet somehow it cuts through the murmurs like a knife through silk.
A man suddenly shows up in front of me, and it takes me a moment to realize who it is.
Quinn Haydraugh.
The King of the North is beautiful in a way that’s intimidating. Silver-blond hair. Features so perfectly symmetrical they seem almost inhuman. Eyes the color of glacial ice—pale blue, nearly colorless, utterly cold. In this warm amber light, he should look golden. He doesn’t.
He photographs cold, I think absurdly. Like his skin rejects warmth on principle.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t offer comfort or sympathy. He simply inclines his head—barely, like even that small movement is a concession—and says, “Allow me.”
Before I can respond, his hand is at my elbow—not touching, just guiding—and we’re moving through the crowd. People part for him like water around a glacier. No one speaks. No one even seems to breathe.
He leads me to a side corridor. Summons a servant with a glance. Words are exchanged—quiet, efficient—and suddenly there’s a young woman at my side with fresh towels and what looks like an entire emergency dress repair kit.
“Thank you,” I manage. “I—”
I turn.
He’s gone.
I blink at the empty space where the King of the North was standing two seconds ago. The corridor is silent. The air still feels cold where he’d been.
What just happened?
“Your Majesty?” The young woman with the towels is looking at me expectantly. “I can help with the stain. It won’t take long.”
I shake off my confusion. “Yes. Thank you. That would be—yes.”
The young woman works quickly. The stain fades to something almost invisible, and when I return to the ballroom fifteen minutes later, I look mostly presentable again.
Coincidence, I tell myself. Quinn Haydraugh just happened to be nearby. He’s a king. Kings attend diplomatic functions. It doesn’t mean anything.
Definitely a coincidence.
Obviously.
THE SECOND INCIDENT happens forty minutes later.
I’m standing near the refreshment table, trying to look like I belong while simultaneously avoiding Amos’s too-watchful gaze, when a waiter approaches with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
“Would Madame care for a canapé?”
I glance at the tray. Tiny, elegant things that look like edible art.
“What are they?” I ask.
“Coquilles Saint-Jacques, Madame.”
Oh no.
That’s a lot of syllables. French syllables. At a party hosted by the wife of a French mafia king.
I pick one up, because refusing food is apparently also a social faux pas, and smile at a nearby cluster of noble women who are watching me with barely concealed interest. “These are delicious,” I say. “The, um. The co-quil-lays.”
Silence.
One woman’s eyebrow arches so high it nearly disappears into her hairline.
“I believe,” she says, her voice dripping with condescension, “it’s pronounced co-KEEY Saint-ZHAHK.”
My face flames.
“Of course. I—”
“Actually, I rather liked her pronunciation.”
The voice is warm. Golden. Like sunlight made audible.
A man materializes beside me—where did he even come from?—and the smile he gives the group is dazzling. Genuinely dazzling. Golden hair, golden skin, a face that belongs on currency or cathedral ceilings. In direct light, he’d overexpose. Too bright. Too much.
Skye Wyndham. King of the West.
“Co-quil-lays.” He picks up one of the canapés and pops it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “You know, I think that’s how I’ll say it from now on. We’re not native French speakers, after all. Why should we twist our tongues into pretzels?”
He turns to the cluster of women.
And smiles.
It’s the kind of smile that makes you think of sunshine and warm beaches and friendly golden retrievers, right up until you notice his eyes. His eyes are steel. Cold. The smile of a man who could break every bone in your body and make it look like an accident.