by Emily Inskip
Amara pursed her lips and considered it. “I don’t think so.”
Enid’s face fell at that, the light guttering from her features. Amara could sense the guards glowering at her now, as though she had physically struck the girl.
Amara glared back.
“Please, you’ll have so much fun!” Enid pleaded, not seeming to notice the standoff between Amara and the escorting sentries.
Instead, she only stuck out her bottom lip, folding her arms tightly across her chest in protest. This was exactly why Amara couldn’t stand children. Stubborn little beasts.
Frankly, she couldn’t think of anything worse than spending another unnecessary evening with a crowd of royals. Especially a whole room full of them, rowdy with excitement after the news of their win.
Amara opened her mouth as if to snap a reply, but paused, closing it again. She took one look at Enid’s wide gleaming eyes and blushed cheeks . . . It had been so long since she’d seen an expression so pure. There was so much promise there. So much hope. Like a single flower blooming amongst the ashes of a war-raged battlefield.
Amara sighed. “I suppose I could attend—”
But Enid had already cut her off, throwing her arms around Amara’s waist. Amara stiffened at the contact. At the girl’s tight embrace. Her discomfort, she was sure, was written across her face. Amara blinked, staring down at the human thing clinging to her, face pressed against her stomach. She could have sworn she heard the guards around her huff a laugh as she awkwardly patted the girl on the shoulder, easing her away.
But Enid didn’t budge, only hugging her tighter.
“I knew you’d say yes.” Her small voice was muffled against Amara’s gown.
When Enid finally pulled away, it was an effort not to look relieved. That was enough human contact to last her a lifetime. An eternal lifetime.
But Amara smiled tightly at the girl. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Of course!” Enid chimed, already skipping away down the remaining corridor.
Amara watched after the girl in silence until her tiny red head disappeared around the corner.
Curse you, child, she thought as she reached to open the door, then realised she was smiling.
14
Getting ready was slightly more of a difficult procedure than Amara had first imagined.
As soon as she made the servants aware of her intentions of going to the ball, Amara was immediately bombarded with fine gowns and jewels the size of eggs.
A whole band of women soon gathered in her room, clutching different brushes and carrying boxes of gems and fabric and pearls. One of the maids practically shoved her in a chair before setting to work on her hair, braiding it half-up and curling any loose strands that escaped. Amara almost growled in displeasure as another servant began powdering her face with cosmetics, smudging her eyes with kohl and painting her lips a dark red. A crimson that matched the fabric of the gossamer gown they forced over her head and tailored to her body.
At first, Amara had protested, complaining that she could do it herself; it was all she could do to stop the bustling women from touching her. But when she finally caught a glimpse of her appearance in one of the wall-length mirrors hung in her bedroom, her eyes widened with surprise.
The servants had worked miracles. So much so, she’d even convict them of witchcraft. Amara looked good. Better than good.
She had never seen herself look so . . . she didn’t have words to describe it. Instead, Amara ran her hands down her dress, smoothing out the pleats. The material wasn’t like her other dresses, it was lighter, hugging perfectly to her narrow waist before pooling to the floor.
She smiled, admiring her reflection, even as the servants still pottered about, fetching last-minute jewellery and whatnot. But there was no sign of the girl from before, Nadia, she said her name was. Amara hadn’t bothered to ask for her whilst preparing for the dance. She didn’t blame her for wanting to miss out on this. No, not in the slightest.
“It’s time, milady,” one of the older servants murmured from behind her, her grey hair shimmering in the candlelight.
Amara nodded silently, surveying herself in the mirror for the last time before whirling around to leave. Maybe she could get used to dressing up once in a while?
“Just one last thing,” the older woman said, hobbling towards her.
A dainty silver comb adorned with shimmering rhinestones sat in her withered hands, hardened by labour.
“Here.” She reached up, sliding the comb into place within Amara’s braid. It gleamed amongst the dark strands.
“You look perfect,” the servant marvelled at her own work.
Amara smiled. “Thank you.”
She had never had female friends in the past. Never had people to braid hair with, share secrets and giggle like schoolgirls. She’d never really thought about it that much. Even as a human, she had been locked in the dark, rarely allowed to leave the house. And after she escaped . . . those sorts of trivial things were the least of her worries. She hadn’t even been able to bring herself to laugh in the years after Fassar, after she turned—became a monster in her own right.
So Amara smiled now at the servants gathered around her. She smiled to remind herself that she was free. And she’d be damned if that liberty were to be taken away.
∞∞∞
Amara had found her way to the refreshments table perhaps a bit too quickly. She had already drained her first glass of wine before the string orchestra in the corner of the hall had even finished with their opening number.
People were buzzing with excitement and cheers. They had finally won the long-waged battle in the north, claiming back their borderlands from the rival country. A kingdom set amongst the coldest mountains, living within the hollows of rock to withstand the brutal chill. But as the winters became worse they began to push south, into Esteria’s milder fields. As imagined, it didn’t end well.
Amara thought it was all a petty war between stubborn kings who didn’t know how to share. Frankly, she didn’t care who won as long as it would stop the squabbling in the north, and the entitled men who came home thinking they were owed something. Amara didn’t like giving sympathy. Especially to those who didn’t deserve it.
It had been a mistake to come here. Amara had known that the second she stepped foot inside the room. It was yet another grand hall complete with ivory pillars and gilded chandeliers. The only difference to this one was the shimmering reflection pool that flowed through the centre. Clusters of small stepping-stones hewn from white marble allowed people to cross over. Amara had done it herself in order to reach the vast array of sparkling champagne and wines. Even in heels, she skipped over the water stones without a thought.
A small reminder of the life she had left behind, the rooftops she could navigate blindfolded.
Amara was already beginning to sip from her next flute of bubbling wine when a warm hand slid to the small of her back. She instantly recoiled, slinking away from the touch just as Lord Bastion took up a place beside her.
“Good evening, lady,” he slurred, oblivious to the sneer she now gave him. “You look absolutely ravishing tonight, especially in that dress.”
His eyes dragged over her body, slowly looking her up and down, lingering on certain features for a bit too long.
But Amara only finished her glass, swallowing down the burn of alcohol. And as she did, Amara realised, she wanted to hit this man.
If it had been any other time, she would. But with so many people watching and a sterling image to uphold, Amara just shrugged.
“Oh, this old thing?”
He wetted his lips. “Yes, stunning.”
She was definitely going to hit him. Maybe even cut out that revolting tongue of his. Now that was a thing she would want to take part in.
But instead, Amara forced a smile before pouring herself a third, slightly larger glass of wine.
“Thank you, now if you’ll excuse me—”
“So what’s a p
retty little thing like you doing so far from home?” he cut her off, running a hand through his sweat-slick hair.
His eyes didn’t leave her. No, quite the opposite. They roamed freely over her body. It was enough to make her snap.
But Amara didn’t squirm beneath his gaze as she levelled a flat, bored stare at him. “I’m not little, or a thing. But I’ll take pretty.”
Lord Bastion raised a brow. “Oh, she bites.”
A low, warning laugh. “You don’t know the half of it,” Amara sneered, fully prepared to turn that man into bloody ribbons.
But just as the lord was about to reply, he froze, gaping as his eyes fixed over her shoulder.
“Lord Bastion, you’re not bothering our guest here, are you?”
Amara recognised that voice. The low, husky tone.
She felt a tentative hand rest on her elbow, and when she didn’t pull away, it tightened slightly in response.
Amara didn’t need to look up to know who stood beside her now.
The lord blanched. “I—uh, no Your Highness.”
He quivered beneath the dark gaze of the Prince of Esteria. A gaze that even Amara wouldn’t want to be receiving.
“I should think so,” Prince Aedric drawled, “now run along, I’m sure you’re needed elsewhere.”
The lord didn’t need to be told twice. He practically scurried away, not looking back before disappearing amongst the throng of people. Amara watched him carefully, her eyes like daggers on his back. The next time he decided to behave like a pig, it would be his last.
Amara smiled at the thought before turning her attention to the golden prince beside her. Gods, he was tall, perhaps half-a-foot above her. She had to crane her neck just to look at him.
“Prince Aedric, I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” Amara said, all too aware of his hand still on her arm. The warmth of it against her skin. She quickly pulled away.
He laughed, low and rough. “I’m afraid you’re right, even though you’ve not been able to keep your eyes off me. You think I didn’t notice you in the garden earlier?”
Amara scowled at that, heat beginning to stain her cheeks. Arrogant bastard.
She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eye. Instead, she dipped her gaze to the jewelled sword that hung around his waist, the stunning iron like a bolt of silver lightning.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, making an effort to slowly drag her eyes back to his. His throat bobbed. “You have an impressive sword. I have been merely admiring it.”
“You’d be surprised how many women use that line with me,” he said, cocking his head to the side.
Gods above, he really was insufferable.
Amara narrowed her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, princeling. Arrogance doesn’t look good on you.”
“Everything looks good on me,” he said with a wink before turning towards the refreshment table.
Amara watched as he poured himself some liquor, the muscles on his back shifting beneath the fine silk of his navvy jacket.
“You never stop staring at me, do you?” he quipped, not even facing her as he knocked back the glass and downed the entire contents in one. It seemed as though she wasn’t the only one drinking her way through the night.
Amara crossed her arms. “You didn’t need to step in before; I could have handled the lord myself.”
He turned to her then, dark amusement flickering in his eyes as he gave her a crooked smile.
“I know,” Aedric said, “but I didn’t want you scaring off all the guests before the buffet was brought out.”
Amara clamped her lips together in an effort to stifle her laugh. But as he stepped towards her, casually clutching the crystal-cut glass in his hand, she quickly fell silent.
Aedric watched her carefully, a half smile tugging the corner of his mouth. She could do nothing but stare back. The bar of amber liquid in his glass rippled as he leaned down to whisper in her ear.
“How would you like to dance, lady?”
His breath tickled her neck as he pulled away, making her toes curl in her shoes.
Damn this incorrigible man.
Amara swallowed. “Only if you’ll be able to keep up, prince.”
But he didn’t reply, waving an idle hand towards the gathering people in the centre of the room, the crowds divided only by that shimmering reflection pool.
“Lead the way,” he grinned.
15
He was a good dancer. Amara was beginning to wonder if there was anything this prince wasn’t good at. But she didn’t dwell on that thought for long. Aedric’s ego was definitely in no need of stroking.
“So, the rumours were true,” he said as they waltzed through the room. His steps were flawless. Even as she twirled in his arms he didn’t falter, didn’t miss a beat.
She raised a brow. “What rumours?”
The orchestra picked up their pace, but Aedric was ready for it, swiftly carrying her across the floor without a thought. People had parted to watch them as they glided and whirled by, his arm around her waist, the other clasping her hand tightly.
“You really can play the harp rather well.”
Amara smiled, following his pattern of steps, his careful movements as he guided her about the room. “What can I say? I never disappoint.”
Her onyx eyes gleamed as she tilted her head back to look at him. Amara brushed the lint off his shoulder as they danced. Her fingers were met only by corded muscle that tensed beneath her touch.
“You would have thought with such skilled fingers, you’d be able to successfully pour yourself some gravy?” he mused, before twirling her beneath his arm.
Amara allowed him to turn her, to grip her hips as they swayed to the music. But as she caught the wicked grin creep across his face at the memory of last night . . . She may have accidentally missed a step and landed on his foot.
Honestly, how foolish of her?
Aedric growled his displeasure, but his movements didn’t waver for a second. His smirk only grew.
“Well, next time,” Amara smiled sweetly as she gazed up at him, “I’ll make sure to spill it over your face.”
A deep, husky laugh. “You want to lather me in gravy, lady?”
He arched a suggestive brow that made it hard for her to think.
Amara simply shrugged. “I heard it was good for the skin.”
“Well, in that case, I’d like to find out.” His fingers brushed down the curve of her back, grazing over her dress, a sheer barrier between them.
It was the ghost of a touch. A silent suggestion. But Amara didn’t react, knowing how it would drive him mad.
Amara angled her head before stepping on his foot again, earning a surprised grunt. Good. Amara just looked cluelessly at him, amusement dancing across her features.
But that joy soon ebbed away as she caught a glimpse of a glowering woman leant against one of the crystal pillars. It didn’t take her long to recognise Lady Myria’s long golden braid, those chilling sapphire eyes lit with frozen ire.
Amara laughed beneath her breath, making sure Myria noticed the way she smiled at Aedric. The way his arms wrapped around her waist.
Playing with royals was a fun game.
“Perhaps you should find out with Lady Myria,” Amara finally replied, her attention still lingering on the woman behind them.
Aedric’s brow creased. “And why would I do that?”
“Because she’s currently staring after you like a starved hound.”
He grinned, looking not-so-casually over his shoulder. When he turned back to face Amara, stars flickered in his eyes. As the music dimmed, preparing to launch into the next song, Aedric stopped dancing, slowing them to a halt in the centre of the hall. Her chest tightened as she felt the weight of the room’s attention on them. Even the Queen sat upon the dais straightened in her throne.
If Aedric had noticed, or cared, he didn’t let on. That smirk of his, unfaltering.
Amara fr
owned. “Whatever you’re planning to do, I—”
He had her pulled against him in a heartbeat. Amara fell silent as their bodies pressed together. She barely had time to think before his grip tightened around her waist, his broad hand splayed as he dipped her towards the floor. The movement was so graceful, so effortless and fluid that she had hardly sensed it happen.
But now his face was so close to hers as she hung in his arms, her own fingers digging into his shoulders. Amara hadn’t realised she’d brought her leg up until it was clamped around him. For support purposes, she reminded herself.
Silence settled around them, hewn only by their shallow breaths as their eyes locked.
For the first time in two centuries, Amara didn’t know what to do. If she wanted to push him away, she could do so easily. But she made no effort to move. Even as he leant forward to whisper into her ear.
“You’re not the only one who can put on a show, lady.”
She felt his smile against her hair as he pulled away. Aedric tugged her upright in that same graceful motion, not bothering to take in the gaping crowd that had formed around them. Instead, his attention slid to her. Only her.
Amara smirked.
“I didn’t expect that from you, prince.” She trailed a finger down the collar of his jacket, slowly tracing over the silver embroidery and dark velvet. If he didn’t give a damn about people watching, neither did she.
His throat bobbed as that finger dipped lower, running down over his chest.
But before he could reply, Amara used the same index finger to force him backwards, causing him to stumble into the crowd. More specifically, into the scowling form of Lady Myria. The shimmering flute of wine in her hand jolted as he knocked into her, spilling the red liquid all over her cream gown.
The shock on Aedric’s face was priceless. In fact, Amara couldn’t decide what she took pleasure in more, his expression, or the furious scream of Lady Myria as she shoved the prince away.
Amara clamped her lips together to stop from grinning as Lady Myria spun on her heels and stormed out of the hall. Everyone had enough sense to stay out of her way.