Yet he couldn’t have avoided the High Farrow Yulemas Ball even if he wanted to. He knew he had eyes on him, and it would only rouse Orlon’s suspicions if he failed to attend. Still, he didn’t plan to stay long; would only make an appearance to satisfy the king then retreat back to his rooms where he knew Faythe would be safe and sound opposite his door.
He hated that even being away from her for this short amount of time set him irritably on edge. But he had sworn an oath to protect her. To his king.
When presented with the proposition, he had at first objected to being sent back to the north. After all, he was Rhyenelle’s top war general, not a babysitter. Yet his king had plead there was no one else he could trust with the task of watching over the potential heir to his throne. It seemed impossible to believe, and Reylan found himself often forgetting who she was—who her father was—when he was around Faythe.
Reylan had wanted to tell her, but the coward in him didn’t want to rain more world-shifting news over the woman who already shouldered so much burden. He wanted to protect her, and it terrified him to admit that as much as he tried to fight it, deny it, through all the horror he’d learned and finding Faythe at the forefront of every danger…he was developing his own deep need to ensure her safety over and above the orders of Agalhor.
The recall of the day he arrived back in Rhyenelle following the kings’ meetings made him shudder.
“Orlon’s spymaster?”
It was easy to put the pieces together. Lilianna had been gifted as a Nightwalker, which astounded Reylan as she was a human. Coming across Faythe with the immense power she held, he could only assume two Nightwalkers had produced such an anomaly.
Reylan’s answer to the king’s question was a grave nod.
Agalhor turned away from him, and he saw he was trying to process the life-changing news. Not only for himself, but for the kingdom. He had no other children, and since Lilianna had refused to seek the company of another to marry and produce more, this made Faythe the one true and rightful heir to the throne of Rhyenelle.
There was only one problem: she was human, and no kingdom had been ruled by a human monarch in thousands of years. There was a high chance she would never become queen with her mortality, but whatever children she bore would continue to be the next in line after Agalhor’s reign if he didn’t produce another heir before then.
“You need to go back to High Farrow,” Agalhor said, though he still seemed deep in thought.
Reylan jumped in to protest. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, if Orlon and Varlas are gathering forces against us, I’m better served here.” He sounded a little too desperate. He had no interest in going back to the north. He didn’t particularly like the lifestyle and arrogance of the kingdom. Their fae were pompous, and they treated their human subjects like outcasts. It was a stark contrast to the freedom and unity of the people of Rhyenelle.
The king met his eye then, and his own were haunted as he said, “If they discover who she is, they will kill her.”
Why did that strike a chord in him? He didn’t know her, didn’t think he held any feeling for her. Yet he dreaded to think of her life ending.
He wouldn’t wager on Faythe feeling the same about him.
He’d taken her ability against her will and used it to get the information he needed. It was a desperate act as he could see she wasn’t willing to trust him enough to disclose what she saw in the Olmstone king’s mind, but he knew she could do it. The king was smart and would have shielded himself against her to keep up his illusion of kindness and friendship. But Faythe was brilliantly intuitive and had caught onto every slight hint he gave her to be wary of the monarchs.
“You want me to bring her to Rhyenelle?” He could do that, as grueling as the round trip would be.
The king shook his head, and Reylan’s stomach dropped. “I won’t force her here. She has a life in High Farrow. How can I take that from her?” he said sadly.
Reylan knew the king wanted nothing more than to meet Faythe; to look into her gold eyes and make no mistake she was Lilianna’s daughter.
Then he asked, “Is she treated well?”
Reylan was conflicted in answer. She was fed and housed, but he doubted her station as the king’s spymaster was entirely of her own free will. Faythe was too…good for such an invasive position. His fingers subconsciously curled as he imagined what Orlon might hold against her to keep her in his service as a weapon.
“As well as can be expected,” he said.
Agalhor’s only response was a sad nod before he turned back to the white rosebuds.
“What exactly am I to do in High Farrow?” Reylan dreaded to hear what he already anticipated.
“Protect her. Find out if she is happy, and when the time is right…tell her. Tell her how I loved her mother and would have done everything to keep her safe. Both of them.” He looked to him as he finished. “Then let her make her choice.”
Reylan blew out a breath at the memory of Agalhor’s broken plea.
It was the one thing on his mind that hummed every time she was near. He needed to tell her. She deserved to know who her father was. But he couldn’t bring himself to throw the news down upon her. It wasn’t a simple piece of knowledge. Far from it. She was the daughter of a great king and could inherit a kingdom if she decided to embrace her heritage. Every day, Reylan saw her more for what she could be—for what she should be: an heir to Rhyenelle.
He stood awkwardly by the side of the hall, antsy as he counted down the minutes until it was acceptable for him to leave. Watching the flamboyance and declining several ladies’ offers to dance—it was draining. He had to wonder about the talent of High Farrow’s suitors to have so many attempting to engage with the most deterring face in the room. He kept hold of a goblet more to occupy his bored hands, giving the wine more attention than he gave a single soul at the hideously over-the-top ball.
Knocking back the last of its contents, he turned and set his goblet down. His hand halted around the jug he intended to refill it with. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers from around the handle, forgetting everything as he felt it.
Felt her.
He turned and looked up. His eyes didn’t wander, didn’t have to search, as they landed exactly on the gold orbs they sought—bright even from atop the grand staircase across the hall.
Yet it was not Faythe’s eyes this time that made everything around him distort in a blur of motion, blocking out the loud music.
She met his eyes too, standing proudly above everyone else like a blazing firebird.
Like a Phoenix.
Dear Gods. She had no idea what that symbol alone screamed right in the face of every unwitting and ignorant fae in the hall.
She was fire and ice and all destructive contrasts, much like the storm that stirred inside him at the sight. She was not a human citizen of High Farrow; she was not Orlon’s spymaster…
Tonight, she was Rhyenelle’s daughter.
And the gut-wrenching irony was that she didn’t even realize it.
His feet moved of their own accord as he felt compelled forward. A part of him flared in anger at the thought of anyone else making it over to her before him. He convinced himself it was simply to protect her. On Agalhor’s orders.
Yet he knew in his heart he’d developed his own deep need to ensure Faythe’s safety, not only as a potential heir to Rhyenelle or as his king’s daughter…but as something else. Something unexplainable.
He glided through the masses of revelers, and she descended the stairs. Her eyes lit up against the red of her gown like blazing beacons of amber fire. He dared to let himself believe she was the single most magnificent thing he’d ever seen. Strong and beautiful, but she was also real. What lay within was always as equally admirable and mesmerizing as exterior beauty.
Reylan didn’t care that she might reject him the moment he got close enough. Each step was built on the thrill, the need to be near her. As much as Faythe tried to push him away, he just could
n’t seem to listen.
Chapter 47
Faythe
Faythe’s eyes knew where to find the general, as if she understood the sight would offer a moment of absolution. He stood idly by the side of the party, and the flamboyance around him became distant, irrelevant, as she took in nothing but the sapphires that beckoned her. Reylan stared at her for a long moment before he started to walk toward her.
She descended the staircase. She looked at no one else, perhaps out of cowardice, but she vaguely noticed the clamor of voices hush slightly with her first steps into the hall.
She’d wanted the attention, and she certainly got it. She didn’t have to avert her gaze to know the king was also staring from his position on his great throne in the ballroom, likely blazing at the sight of her disregarding his direct orders.
She kept her chin high in a mask of confidence, and when she got to the bottom, Reylan’s deep blue eyes became the calming source to tame her racing heartbeat. His hand was poised for her to take, and she did without hesitation, sliding her trembling fingers into his cool, calloused palm without breaking eye contact.
In that moment, she forgot she was supposed to be keeping her distance from him; was supposed to deny that she had any feelings for him. Allowing herself one night to be selfish, knowing it could be her last, she let Reylan lead her onto the dance floor.
His hand glided across her waist and stopped on the small of her back. The other clasped her own. His skin against hers sent soothing shivers up her arm to embrace her heart, sedating its erratic tempo. Tenderly, the arm that held her pulled her to him so there was no space between the spymaster and the general. She couldn’t ignore the warmth in her chest at the movement and relaxed in the invisible shield of safety she always felt when she was close to him.
Faythe didn’t know any of the steps, but somehow, she knew Reylan would carry her through it. It was slow, and she found it easy enough to keep up with his guidance. The party faded into background noise, and she forgot the stares, forgot her worries, forgot her fears—all of it became inconsequential while she lost herself in the sea of sapphire and stars.
“I didn’t take you for one to participate in such dances,” she said quietly, almost breathless. She was spun around with the next movement, her dress fanning around them and encasing his legs in her flames of fabric.
“I’m not,” he said, his voice thick, when they came together again.
Her heart skipped a beat at the look in his eye, but she couldn’t quite be sure what it was. Not lust or love. Not admiration or appreciation. Something…more. And it sparked dying embers inside her.
The heat from his body radiated onto Faythe even through the thickness of his formal jacket. Every time she spun away from him, a new thrill pulsed through her when they joined again and moved together as one.
An ache clenched in her chest like nothing she’d felt before, but she wouldn’t get the chance to tell him. Tell him that all this time she’d pushed him away—even before the damning knowledge from the Dresair—she was only doing so to suppress her real fears. She had come to deeply care for Reylan and couldn’t stand the thought of exposing him to the danger that followed her every turn if she let him in.
“The color suits you.” His voice brought her back to the dance.
A small smile crept onto her lips. “You’re duty bound to be biased toward this shade of crimson, General.”
He shook his head. “Blue drowns you, but you’ve never looked more alive in red. You woke every dreary face in this room the moment you stepped out here tonight.”
Something in the way he spoke didn’t attach the compliment to physical appearance alone. When Reylan looked at her, it was as if he could see right down to the very core of her soul, and he didn’t shy from everything she was and all that she wasn’t. Feeling so exposed through a mere look should have left her recoiling, but instead, she held onto those sapphires. Held them as if they were her anchor to this world.
She swallowed her building nerves. “It might have had something to do with the human crashing their extravagant fae-only ball.”
A smile slowly tugged at the corners of his mouth. “It has nothing to do with the shape of your ears. They see you, Faythe. I see you…and I hear you.” He didn’t just mean the glamor of her gown or the fact of her mortality. This was more than a compliment from Reylan; it was the flare of strength she needed.
He seemed to slow their dance, casting them off from the other pairs. Faythe didn’t care as she matched his stare that held something new. Something like need. Though it was formed around the small essence of pain that swirled in his irises. Reylan brought their clasped hands to his chest, leaving hers to hover over his heart while his gently poised under her chin. Her breath stilled, skin prickling delightfully at his touch.
Reylan looked over her face slowly, a slight frown of wonder disturbing his brow as though he searched for the answer to his mystifying question. Her quickening pulse as he seemed to inch closer cancelled out all other thoughts. His hand shifted on her back a fraction, enough that his fingertips grazed her bare skin from the low dip of her gown. His touch sent a bolt of warm vibrations up the curve of her spine, causing her body to lean into his tighter. That trail of enchanting desire was felt right to the tip of her spine, in her neck, parting her lips on a shallow inhale and tilting her face to be at the perfect angle for their mouths to meet. His slight crooked smile told her he knew exactly what he was doing.
“We might cause an uproar,” he mumbled, but his warm breath across her lips was enough to subside all thoughts of dissuasion.
“I’m already a point of scandal. What’s one more act to incite their blatant distaste?”
His wicked grin of agreement made her heart skip a beat. She didn’t care for the many eyes of disgust that followed their every movement. All she wanted was to damn everything, knowing she may never get another chance.
The distance closed in slowly. Torturously slow. Each second felt suspended, leaving a chance for either of them to deny; to stop what might become of them should the distance cease to exist. Faythe had no objections. Not now. Not even in the most disagreeable moments did she truly want space from him. With his persistence and protection, Faythe couldn’t be sure what it was about the general that sparked her want to live. To learn to see whatever it was that caused the flare in his eye when he looked at her. He saw a strength she didn’t know she held within. Saw it, and gave unyielding life to it.
His lips came close to grazing hers…
Then the lazy applause of nearby spectators snapped both of them back to their present surroundings.
Faythe’s disappointment weighed heavy in her stomach as Reylan pulled his face back, becoming aware of the attention. The dance had ended minutes ago for them, but as the rest of the party caught up, they no longer had the cover of song and bustle.
It was selfish of Faythe to want that kiss, and maybe he would have resented her for it once her life was claimed for the treasonous plan she harbored. Reylan deserved better. He deserved more than she could ever give him. And that fact was enough for her to swallow the hard lump of a lost promise. She looked past Reylan and found Orlon already staring at her, eyes livid. Once, it would have made her shrink in submission. Now, she had a spark of determination to end him, and with it, the hold Marvellas had on her home kingdom.
She cast her attention back to Reylan one last time, needing to tell him, “I’m sorry. For everything. You should know that I do trust you.” Her eyes searched his. Savoring them. “I always have.” Her hand fell from his firm chest as she stepped away from him, holding her skirts in a short bow to blend in with the other ladies who stemmed off to find new dance partners.
Reylan didn’t give her the chance to depart when he swooped in close again, hand going around her waist to lean his mouth against her ear. “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to do something reckless?” His voice was in her mind, but his breath caressed her ear as he moved his lips to appear as
if he were talking out loud. It sent a tremor of desire down Faythe’s back, but she breathed deeply to ignore it.
“Goodbye, Reylan.”
Those parting words split and cracked something deep within. Faythe was grateful for his internal conversation, not trusting her voice would sound steady otherwise. She didn’t give him the chance to stop her, and he wouldn’t risk attracting the king’s attention by making a scene to keep her close. She slid out of his grasp, feeling cold and vulnerable the second his warmth left her.
The spymaster drifted into the mass of revelers, losing herself and putting distance between her and the general who would surely move to stop her if he caught onto her plan. Faythe paused briefly to scan the crowd, looking for one fae guard in particular who held the key to her plan’s success—if he’d succeeded in obtaining it from her brilliant blacksmith friend, of course.
Her eyes found Caius at the edge of the dancers. He was already staring, waiting to catch her eye. The music quietened, and her feet felt unsteady as she beheld the look of panic on his face, followed by a short, subtle shake of his head. Her heart picked up in a wild sprint. She could attempt the assassination without the weapon, but the odds of success were severely diminished.
Every plan she had required quick reconsideration. Faythe turned to glean the King of High Farrow’s position, but her view was immediately blocked and her path obstructed by a tall figure. Her eyes trailed up to meet the emerald orbs of the prince.
“Dance with me.” He held out his hand, and she would have declined the seemingly innocent offer, but in his look, there was suppressed fear like she had seen in Caius. Faythe filled with heavy dread. This wasn’t merely an invitation to take part in the customary dance. The strange reaction made her listen, and she took Nik’s hand for him to lead her to the dance floor where they merged with the flow of movement.
A Queen Comes to Power: An Heir Comes to Rise Book 2 Page 37
