“She cares for you even though you’ve been an idiot. Come clean now, claim your female, defeat the king, and then give me nieces and nephews I can spoil.”
Tempest cuddled into his side, and his heartbeat faster. If only it could be like this always.
“You’re being weak.”
He glared at Briggs. “This is not just about me and my wants. My decisions affect an entire nation of people. She’s working with the enemy. I cannot fully trust her, even if I wish to.”
“You’ve mistrusted everyone around you for so long that you’re going to miss out on the greatest gift anyone one of us could receive.” His friend blinked at him slowly and then sank back into his chair, continuing to rock. “Tempest is special, and while I might not be interested in her, there are others who don’t have your reservations. She will be snapped up by another from right beneath you if you tarry.”
“Are you done?” Pyre asked, his tone cutting. His claws lengthened, and he tried to breathe slowly to calm himself.
Briggs nodded. “I’ve said my piece.”
Pyre glanced away and then back to the female in his arms. “I knew you were trouble.”
Twenty-Six
Tempest
Whatever miracle Briggs and Nyx had created, it did the job. Tempest had never recovered so quickly. The next two days that followed passed by in the blur. Tempest did her best to blend in with the goings-on of the palace, listening to conversations and gossip and taking note of every person who came to stay for the masquerade. By the time the ball itself was mere hours from starting, she’d learned three things.
First: she wasn’t alone in her doubts about the Jester. Several people were of the same opinion as her—that he was too brutal, that he had no plan past taking the throne from Destin. They wanted a concrete strategy for after the war was over, but there was none. Others, by contrast, thought Pyre wasn’t being brutal enough. She’d have to look out for the bloodthirsty ones. They were a slippery lot.
Second: not a single person was willing to do anything about their feelings of dissent. They were content to grumble and bicker in the shadows.
Third: supporting the Jester was their best—and, seemingly—only option. Which meant she had only to provide a viable alternative, and she could likely steal a chunk of his allies, maybe his whole operation.
That both pleased and unnerved her. Were people so easily turned, so easily won? And if so… how easily would they sell her out?
She shuddered.
“Temp?”
She turned at the sound of the voice. Nyx stood there, a gentle smile on her face as she held out a hand for her.
“What is it?” Tempest asked. Only then did she realize how low the sun was through the open balcony. “Oh. It’s time already.”
“Yes.” Nyx laughed. “It is time to get ready.”
“I… did not bring anything to wear,” Tempest replied, bashful and somewhat ashamed. She had felt so proud, standing up to the Jester by refusing to bring a dress. But this masquerade was more than simply an opportunity for him to show her off; she needed to look like a calm, collected, striking queen if she was going to rally people behind her, not a tired and bedraggled girl in worn leather trousers.
Nyx grinned, her eyes dancing. “Trust me, I expected that. As did my brother. Come, follow me. I have a surprise for you.”
She swallowed a gulp as Nyx led her to the bedroom.
Here’s hoping she has good taste.
Twenty-Seven
Tempest
She had no words when she saw the dress laid out on her bed, waiting for her. Tempest stared at the garment, then at Nyx, then back at the dress again.
“This is—wow, Nyx. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” she replied, an amused glint in her eye as she handed Tempest something she very much recognized—an elaborate, bone-white wolf mask. “This was all my brother’s doing. Do you need any help getting dressed or would you prefer to be left alone?”
“Alone,” Tempest said, a few seconds too late, so absorbed in the idea that Pyre had picked such an unearthly beautiful dress for her to hear the question properly. Nyx squeezed her shoulder and exited, the door closing quietly behind her.
It was stunning.
The dress she’d been given to wear to her Hound coronation ceremony had been elaborate, but it did not hold a candle to the work of art gracing her bed.
It was sleeveless, with a tight bodice and a flowing, feathery, voluminous skirt that split down the front and would trail behind her for several feet. It was made of layers and layers of impossibly light, translucent blue and silver material. The bodice itself was constructed of dozens of interlocking snowflakes and was cut low in the back. Beside it was a pair of silken hose and a formal pair of snow-white boots.
Feminine and fierce.
It was too beautiful.
She ran her fingers along the fabric. To wear such a dress required more than putting it on. Tempest strolled to the vanity and sat. She cleansed her skin, the perfumed water causing her skin to tingle. She applied salve beneath her eyes that made her seem dewy and alert. Carefully, she used some silver from a pot to line her eyes and flutter through her eyelashes. It wasn’t anything like the court fashions, but it was her.
Once finished, she unwove her braid and brushed her long hair, the waves tumbling along her shoulders. Tonight, her hair was her crown jewel of beauty. She’d not hide who she was. She pulled pieces up here and there, and finally decided to implement a series of small and thickly woven braids at the crown of her head, leaving the bulk of it to flow free and wavy down her back, and a few pieces to frame her face.
She glanced at the balcony. Someone had been in her room earlier to add new fuel to the lanterns, but they had also strung garlands of tiny snowdrops and bluebells across the balcony. Wandering over, Tempest plucked a few of the flowers and returned to the mirror, threading them into the braids. That would have to do.
Standing, she moved back to the end of the bed and eyed the dress. How in the blazes was she supposed to get it on?
You should have accepted Nyx’s help.
Quickly, she shucked her clothing and slipped on the painted hose. Winter’s bite, they were soft and comfortable. If only it were acceptable for her to wear them all the time. Her uncles had vetoed the garment years ago, claiming them to be indecent on a woman. Eyeing the mirror, she understood why. They clung to her every curve.
Next, she stepped into the gown, which was easy enough, but lacing the back was a bloody nightmare. It was only with some clever finger work—and constant glances in the mirror—that she managed to secure the dress in place.
When she caught her reflection, she hardly recognized herself. A creature of snow, ice, and liquid silver stared back at her.
“That is… really me,” she breathed, touching the glass with her fingertips. The kitsune had done well. While the gown was the loveliest thing she’d ever beheld, it was also practical. The split at the front of the skirt made movement easy and gave glimpses of her painted hose. The boots felt like butter and hugged her calves and knees. There’d be no pinched toes or twisted ankles tonight from impractical shoes. A huge smile graced her face as she discovered hidden pockets with slits. The perfect way to get keep her daggers on her.