With a sharp breath, he looked away.
The softest of giggles came from her, quickly stifled. “Something the matter?”
Quite the opposite. “Just an uncommon sight.”
“Breasts?” she teased.
He cleared his throat. “The dress.”
Her dark eyes gleamed as she blinked, long black lashes fluttering. How had he not noticed her strange beauty? She had dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin—outlandish among his people. No fangs, no claws, a soft—too soft—body. She was human. So different from dark-elf women, from the most beautiful of them, but…
It didn’t make her ugly. No… Among a sea of stars, she was the moon. It was as though he hadn’t looked up until now.
Those dark eyes weren’t the amber of his people, but how they gleamed as her mind worked, sparked when she had an idea, softened when she looked at him, held mystery like the holy Darkness. And her hair wasn’t white, but its shade was like the Deep, mystical and mesmerizing, and contrasting with the olive tone of her skin.
Her skin—sometimes when he looked at her, it pinked, turned such a delicate shade of rose on her cheeks, and she didn’t have to speak her thoughts when they were so clear on her face. No shades of blue and purple and gray, but pinks. Like the Bloom protecting Nozva Rozkveta. The more he looked at her, the more she reminded him of home.
Her arm, looped around his, curled closer as she stroked his bicep softly. He carefully covered her hand with his as two men opened the tall double doors, and a third announced them.
“His Highness, Prince Veron of Nightbloom, and Her Highness, Princess Alessandra of Nightbloom.”
The low din of conversation in the great hall quieted as he led in Aless, the crowd parting and every face turning to them. Wide eyes blinking, manicured eyebrows rising, painted lips parting. A spectrum of colors swathed the hall, where on the other end, a woman sat in a throne-like chair behind a massive head table. Dressed in a golden gown, she had a little emerald adhered high on her cheek, and blond hair pinned elaborately with a peacock feather adorning it.
This woman would have clad herself in all the wealth of Nozva Rozkveta’s mines, and yet her smile seemed entirely genuine. The duchess. It was the promise of her friendship that they’d have to earn here tonight.
Beaming brightly, she stood and began a slow but confident clap, which the rest of the assembled guests joined.
“Prince Veron and Princess Alessandra,” the duchess said with a ringing pleasantness. “You are most welcome. I thank you both for your bravery in defending my people.” She curtseyed gracefully, and a ripple of bows and curtseys followed.
“We are honored, Your Grace,” he replied, inclining his head with Aless as befitted their station.
“To the happy couple.” The duchess raised a goblet of wine, as did everyone, except for a tall, large man near the duchess, who raised a glass of water and nodded to Aless, tattoos peeking out from under his sleeve.
Aless smiled warmly, inclined her head, and then tightened her hold on his arm. Someone she knew, then.
The duchess motioned to the musicians, who struck up a winding tune, and the hall’s conversations resumed as she approached them.
It was already a far warmer reception than he’d expected.
A troupe of vividly dressed dancers filed in, claiming the hall’s center in an elaborate routine of swinging hips and fluttering silk.
At any dark-elf queendom, now would be when the traditional games would begin, light sparring testing one another’s prowess. There was honor in challenging formidable opponents, in accepting, in winning, and even in losing, but above all, it was fun, and sometimes—as in the case of the humans’ dances—a courtship.
“Some entertainment to celebrate your visit and your union.” The duchess’s green eyes twinkled. “There will be dinner, dancing, fireworks in the garden, and then a private party in my salon until the sun rises.”
“The promise of the famous Duchessa Stroppiata’s parties does not disappoint,” Aless said as a young man brought them two goblets of wine. She must have spent a lot of time reveling in the royal court. Vibrant, energetic, curious, witty—she had no doubt shone brightly.
“I am an admirer of all things beautiful,” the duchess said, looking him over with a slow smile. “It is not every day that I have the unique privilege of hosting dark-elf royalty. Hopefully not the last.”
He could have laughed. Such attention wasn’t unusual among dark-elf women, but he hadn’t expected it here. “The privilege is all ours.”
The duchess held his gaze, a smile on her lips. What would it take to win her promise of friendship?
Flames shot high above them—a pair of fire-breathers weaving through the crowd.
Aless started, her eyes wide. Perhaps she hadn’t quite recovered from the harpies.
The duchess laughed heartily. “Do you like them? I invited them from Zehar. They’re quite talented.”
“They are,” he said to the duchess as he stroked Aless’s hand gently. “Your gardens, too, were beautiful from the window.”
The duchess swept a jewel-encrusted hand toward the doors to the courtyard. “Allow me to show them to you properly.”
He followed her, and Aless swallowed next to him and flashed a fleeting smile, holding his arm close. Did the harpy attack still affect her? Some air might do her good.
The silence was not like her at all. He’d become accustomed to battle, but that had been a lifetime of training with the kuvari and fighting alongside them, many of whom had made it into Mati’s Quorum. Aless, however, had been kept from all training and fighting, and today’s events had to have shaken her.
Footmen opened the glass-paned doors out to a colonnade. Beyond its arches, a scrolling pattern of hedges and flowers stretched far, lined by a border of trees, their dark-green foliage silvered by the stars. At its end lay a shimmering pool, steps cascading into its placid waters.
“My mother loved all things green,” the duchess said, leading them on the paths among perfect hedges, and she nodded to the abundant purple flowers. “Lavender was her favorite. When I married the duke, he was twenty-six years my senior, and we had nothing in common. I spent my time here, with the gardeners, planning this—my sanctuary. Even now that he’s gone, this garden is still where I find solace.”
By her face, she was still young, in her early thirties perhaps. The way her eyebrows creased together spoke volumes of her late husband, none of it good.
“It’s beautiful,” Aless whispered, releasing him as she curled over the lavender and inhaled, closing her eyes. She held still for a moment—one he wished to commit to memory.
The duchess watched her, that crease fading, and joined her. Her hands clasped, she cleared her throat. “I won’t mince words. Someone had the audacity to plan an attack in my city. That alone would have spurred me to side with the enemy of my enemy. But your heroism today, when you could have fled, makes me proud to offer you my friendship.”
She placed her right hand over her heart and bowed to them both gracefully. “Should you ever require assistance, you have but to ask.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Aless whispered, as he inclined his head.
The duchess searched Aless’s eyes, then glanced at him. “Enjoy the garden. Join me at your leisure for the feast.”
With that, she nodded to them, gold dress trailing past them as she strolled back to the hall.
As soon as the door shut, quiet settled in once more, only the muffled tune and voices from the hall, along with the trilling of insects and the occasional bird call playing the music of the night.
“My mother had a library. That was where she found solace,” Aless said softly, her eyes still closed. “I spent so much of my childhood there, with the scent of leather, paper, candle wax. Sometimes just opening a book will take me right back there.”
A special place to her.
“I’d like to see it someday,” he said.
Aless’s eyes fluttered o
pen, and she gave him a watery, sad smile as she straightened. “Papà had it destroyed.”
“Destroyed?” He shook his head.
Aless stroked gentle fingers over the hedges, meandering the path for a few steps.
“Tell me,” he said to her, and she looked over her shoulder with a half-smile, her gaze dropping, then shrugged half-heartedly. A fragrant night breeze swept through the trees’ canopy, curling the flowers to its direction, and she shivered as her dark ringlets swayed.
Undoing the toggles on his jacket, he approached her, then took it off and settled it about her shoulders. She covered his hand with hers, holding it there a long moment, and he pulled her to him, slowly walking the path.
“My mother adored books,” she said with an ephemeral smile. “They lined the hall to her heart, you see. My father built her a library and proposed to her there. She filled it with stories and ideas from around the world, from all time periods and cultures.
“She wanted to share that joy and knowledge with the world,” she said, her voice breaking as her eyes teared up, shining in the lambent starlight. “Every week, she and her ladies-in-waiting would read to the local children in Bellanzole, and then teach anyone who wanted to learn. Many women learned, and they took new jobs and traveled, bettered their lives. A few years ago, a man came, saying he wanted to learn, but while she was teaching him, he blamed her for his wife leaving him… He had a knife… She died before anyone could do anything.”
He held her closer, and she stopped, rested her head against his chest. Humankind had changed, in every way but the ones that mattered.
“Papà banned her ladies from returning to read or teach,” she whispered, muffled against his shirt. “He destroyed every book in her library, and the place itself, blaming it for her death. I cried and begged him not to, but he had the Royal Guard restrain me while it was done. My copy of A Modern History of Silen was the last book she gave me.”
Tucked into his embrace, she went utterly quiet, leaning into him, brushing his chest with her cheek, so small and slight. Not the woman who’d ridden at his side with her head held high, regal and formidable, indomitable.
Those were walls she’d taken down for this, for him, allowing him to see the little child inside whose father had destroyed not just a library but the precious memory of her mother. That loss still had to hurt, and so did her own father’s coldness to her in doing what he’d done.
He shielded her from the breeze, his shoulders taut. He wanted to meet that coldness with warmth, that loss with comfort, destruction with creation. Nothing would harm her like that again, not while he drew breath.
Against a field of lavender, she gazed up at him, her face tear streaked, and he brushed the wetness from her cheek with a thumb, and leaned in. She raised her chin, and his lips met hers, so soft, her skin the smell of salt and summer flowers as she relaxed in his arms. Her palms glided up his back, her fingers pressing, no prick of claws, just her touch, her wanting.
She leaned into him, opening her mouth to his, the sweet bloom of a dark red wine on her exploring tongue, slow, sensual. Her breaths warmed his mouth as they fell into rhythm, longing, urging, and by Deep and Darkness, it was all he could do to cup her face, deepen his kiss, meet her tongue’s sensual taking with his own.
The muffled music from the hall stopped, and he pulled away just enough to watch her open her eyes and lick her lip, then smile as her cheeks flushed. He took her hand in his.
“Do you know of any other marriages between humans and dark-elves, Veron?” she whispered, searching his eyes. “I… I wonder how they work. And what would be expected of me as your wife?”
“I know there have been marriages between humans and Immortals, but I don’t personally know of any,” he answered, gently stroking her knuckles. “Our society expects dark-elf women to be fierce fighters and protect their families ruthlessly. But I didn’t marry a human only to expect her to be a dark-elf,” he said with a half-laugh. “Just be yourself, Aless. My only expectation is that you’re honest with me.”
She beamed, the smile reaching her eyes, but it began to fade. “Veron, I…”
He shook his head. “Really. Don’t change a thing.”
Her eyes brightened, and she nodded. “I won’t. But, Veron…”
Little lights blinked into existence around them, glowing all around them. Pixies.
She gasped. “There are… There…”
“Pixies,” he said softly, savoring the wonder illuminating her face. “Little winged people, no taller than your thumb. They love gardens, and live in the healthiest of them, thriving on nectar and pollen.”
Her lips parted, she very slowly reached up toward a tiny glow, and the pixie flitted closer to her hand, just out of reach, casting a gentle light on her skin.
“They feel a kinship toward those who love gardens as they do, will even fight to save them.”
“So little,” she whispered, her eyes wide.
“No one is ever too little to fight for what they believe in.”
She turned back to him then in his embrace, beaming a smile, her eyes shining, reflecting the ethereal glow in the starlit night.
His breath caught. Alessandra Ermacora was his wife, and he would do anything for her sake. And he knew it as clearly as the stars shone above them.
She lowered her gaze, her smile fading. “Veron, about the ceremony in Nightbloom...”
He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to it. “We’ll discuss it after the party.” Whatever she feared about the ceremony, he’d allay. It was different from human celebrations, but he’d prepare her. “Will that be all right? I think we’re due for the feast.”
“If you keep the duchessa entertained, I think it’ll go very well.” A brief glimmer in her amused eyes, and she nodded, turning to the hall with him.
So she hadn’t missed the duchess’s look. Of course she hadn’t. And she wanted to use it to their advantage. He wouldn’t expect any less.
And it would go perfectly.
His bride was human, and she felt the same way about him as he did about her. Nothing could ruin this night.
Chapter 12
Aless tried to slow her racing heartbeat to no avail as they entered the great hall, each step echoing in the vastness. It was as though she could feel every hair on her head, and every swish of fabric against her skin, every individual thread. Where Veron’s hand held hers, the barest touch, the merest stroke of his skin against hers tingled, warmed.
Holy Mother’s mercy, she wanted to marry him. She wanted to marry him, and she was about to meet with Paladin Grand Cordon Nunzio.
She wanted to hide, go back to that moment outside and tuck her face against Veron’s chest, shut out the world, shut out everything but him, and live there, in that moment, forever.
Nunzio probably wouldn’t even agree to her proposal about the library and teaching there. The Order of Terra didn’t want women so involved anyway, did they? It had been everything she’d wanted, and she’d been willing to try convincing Veron that they didn’t need that second ceremony in Nightbloom, that they’d be better as friends, but…
But she wanted him. Veron and her dream.
Say a prayer for me this time, Bianca.
Holy Mother’s mercy, if her dream had already been higher than she could probably reach, trying to take both would mean she’d need a taller ladder. A much taller ladder.
She’d just have to make one.
Maybe she could talk to Veron, and they could stay together and find a way to make the library happen together near Nightbloom? Maybe he’d be passionate about this, too.
And Veron… when she’d tell him tonight what her plan had been, he’d forgive her, wouldn’t he? She’d planned all this before she’d truly known him.
There had to be a way for their marriage and her dream to coexist. She would just have to find it.
Against a backdrop of myriad mirrors, the duchessa sat at the head of a long configuration of elabor
ate place settings, with two empty seats at her side. For them.
Her reflection caught in one mirror—a betrayer, a liar—and it reflected in the next angled against it, and the next, and the next, and the next, a crowd of betrayers, of—
“Are you all right?” Veron whispered to her as they approached.
Can we please just leave? Can we disappear into our quarters, into each other, and never emerge?
But even as the thought surfaced, it was impossible. They had the duchessa’s friendship, but they couldn’t abandon her party and her nobiltà without consequence. It was a victory lap, but a necessary one. She glared at her reflection.
As long as Nunzio didn’t approach her about the library while she was here with Veron, she could keep the situation from spiraling out of control.
She cleared her throat and forced a placid expression. “I’ll be fine.”
With a warm smile, he led her to the table, seated her, and then himself between her and the duchessa, who had taken an obvious interest in him earlier. That would work to their advantage. He could describe Nightbloom to her, his culture, his people, and as long as the duchessa’s curiosity held, the nobiltà would take her cue and support them as well.
A servant between them poured some bubbly white wine, and she tasted it.
“Princess Alessandra,” a man’s deep, gravelly voice greeted from her other side. “I received the plans you sent for your library.”
She froze. Holy Mother’s mercy.
No, not him. Please, not him. Not now.
As she caught the man with a peripheral glance, his eagle-sharp blue eyes met hers. That aquiline nose, full head of graying hair, cleft chin, and a build like Forza’s, wrapped in sigil tattoos.
Nunzio.
She swallowed the wine already in her mouth. “Paladin Grand Cordon,” she greeted, cordially but softly.
Slitting those eagle eyes, he leaned back in his chair, his gaze raking over her as if she were some ruffian he’d taken in for questioning. “Your proposal was quite… passionate.”
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