Power to power. Female to female. Governor to … Princess wasn’t the right word for the expression that came across Bryce’s face, the shift of her posture.
Another word formed on his tongue, but Hunt didn’t let it take root, didn’t let himself think of all the deadly implications that the other word would entail.
Bryce said, with that more-than-princess bearing, “I have no plans to fuck you over. Either of you.” She faced Hypaxia, who was giving Bryce that more-than-princess look, too. “We’re allies. Not only politically, but … as females who have had to make some shitty, hard choices. As females who live in a world where most powerful males see us only as breeding tools.” Hypaxia nodded again, but Celestina continued to stare at Bryce. A predator surveying the best place to strike.
Hunt rallied his power again. Bryce continued, “I’m no one’s prize mare. I took a gamble with this idiot”—she jerked a thumb toward Hunt, who gaped at her—“and luckily, it paid off. And I just want to say that”—she swallowed—“if you two want to make a gamble with each other, say fuck it to the arrangements with Ephraim and Ruhn, then I’m with you. We’d have to go against the Asteri, but … look what I did tonight. Whatever I can do, whatever clout I have, it’s yours. But let’s start by walking out of this closet in one piece.”
Silence fell.
And slowly, like a setting sun, the Archangel’s power dimmed until only her silhouette glowed with it. Hypaxia laid a hand on her lover’s shoulder, proof that they were safe.
Celestina said, setting her fine clothing to rights, “We weren’t without choices in this. When the Autumn King came asking for Hypaxia’s hand for his son, I was the one who encouraged her to accept. But who I love, who I am mated to … those are decisions that I am not entitled to make, as an Archangel.”
Hunt grunted. “I know how that feels.” At Celestina’s arched brow, he pointed to his branded-out wrist. “Slave, remember?”
“Perhaps there’s a thin line between Governor and slave,” Hypaxia mused.
Celestina admitted, “I thought that Hypaxia might wed the prince, perhaps in a political sense, and when enough time had passed, we could … resume our relationship. But then the Asteri gave the order about Ephraim, and I found myself with little choice but to say yes.”
Bryce asked quietly, “Did Ephraim …”
“I agreed to it,” the Governor said firmly. “Though I can’t say I found it enjoyable.” Hypaxia kissed her cheek.
That was why Celestina had seemed so unsettled before her first night with Ephraim, so haunted afterward—because her heart lay elsewhere.
Bryce said to the females, “For however long you want and need to keep this secret, we won’t breathe a hint to anyone. You have my word.”
And it occurred to Hunt, as both females nodded, that Bryce had somehow earned their trust—had become someone who people trusted unfailingly.
A more-than-princess, indeed.
Hunt smiled at his mate and said, “Well, we should probably leave. Before someone comes in and finds us all in here and thinks I’m having the night of my life.” Hypaxia and Bryce laughed, but Celestina’s answering smile was subdued.
Bryce seemed to note that, and looped her arm through the witch-queen’s, steering her toward the door and murmuring, “Let’s discuss how much this evening will piss off the Autumn King and how wonderful that will be,” as they left, leaving Hunt and Celestina alone.
His Archangel observed him. Hunt didn’t dare move.
“So you’re truly a prince now,” Celestina said.
Hunt blinked. “Uh, yeah. I guess.”
The Governor walked past him, toward where her lover had gone into the hall. “There’s a fine line between prince and slave, too, you know.”
Hunt’s chest tightened. “I know.”
“Then why accept the burden?” she asked, pausing.
Bryce seemed thick as thieves with the witch-queen as they walked arm-in-arm. “She’s worth it.”
But Celestina said, face solemn, “Love is a trap, Hunt.” She shook her head, more at herself than at him. “One I can’t figure out how to free myself from.”
“You want to be free of it?”
The Archangel stepped into the hall, wings still glowing with a remnant of power. “Every single day.”
Tharion tried not to glance at his watch—technically his grandfather’s waterproof watch, given to him upon high school graduation—as the night wore on. Bryce’s betrothal coup had provided five minutes of glorious amusement before he’d been sucked into boredom and impatience.
He knew it was an honor to be here, to escort the River Queen’s daughter, who was sparkling with delight and joy. But it was hard to feel that privilege when he’d been ordered to attend the ball at her side.
Tharion had waited at the docks by the River Gate at sundown, dressed to the nines. The River Queen’s daughter had emerged from the mists in a pale oak boat pulled by a bevy of snow-white swans. Tharion hadn’t failed to notice the sobeks lurking fifty feet beyond them. Sentinels for this journey of their queen’s most precious daughter.
“Is it not magical?” his companion was saying for the fifth time that night, sighing at the lights and dancing couples.
Tharion drained the rest of his champagne. She is allowed to have one glass of wine, her mother had said in her letter via otter. And she is to be home by one.
Tharion finally glanced at his watch. Twelve twenty. Another fifteen minutes and he could start ushering her toward the door. He handed his flute to a passing server, but found his companion’s expression had turned dangerously pouty.
He offered her a charming, bland smile, but she said, “You do not seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“I am,” he assured her, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“Your friends do not come to speak with us.”
Well, considering that he’d seen Bryce and Hunt slip off somewhere, that was no surprise. Ithan was chatting with Naomi Boreas and the Helhound at the doors, and the others … Ruhn and Cormac had bailed. No sign of Hypaxia.
Though the witch-queen had already come to speak with them. He’d had a hard time meeting her gaze throughout the awkward conversation, while she could see how stupid he’d been in tying himself to this female. But Hypaxia had been kind to the River Queen’s daughter, who herself had been all smiles. Tharion hadn’t dared call her Pax.
“My friends have a lot of glad-handing to do,” he hedged.
“Oh.” She fell silent, lurking on the edge of the dance floor as couples swept past. Maybe it was all the champagne, but he really looked at her: the dark eyes full of longing and quiet happiness, the eager energy buzzing from her, the sense that she was some creature crafted into mortal form only for this night, and would dissolve into river silt as soon as the clock struck one.
Was he any better than her mother? He’d been stringing this girl along for ten years now. Had held her back tonight because he didn’t feel like enjoying himself.
She must have felt the weight of his stare, because she twisted to him. Tharion offered her another bland smile, then turned to one of the bodyguards lurking in the shadows behind them. “Hey, Tritus, can you take over for this dance?”