He came to a stop by one of the many arch ways that overlooked the throne room. Down below the guests laughed and talked and danced and fucked. There was a fire that had returned within the people. A fire that had been gone too long. But it was not a fire that could or would return to him.
A prickle along his spine told him someone was watching. Dorian scanned the crowd and then the archways above on the second and third floors.
For a split second, he saw something.
Something strange.
Something that didn’t belong.
Something that couldn’t be.
It was only a flash; so fast it could have been a trick of the light.
Dorian stood there, staring at that spot where he’d seen a flash of purple and the barest glimpse of eyes. The air around the space did not stir. The image did not warp.
Dorian stared for another few moments before sighing.
It must have been the melancholy taking hold. His age-old demons and the wounds that he never healed from. With love and happiness thick in the air, it would be expected that his mind would play tricks on him now. Not thinking more on it, he returned to his shift—still feeling phantom eyes on his back as he went.
Amelia
She smiled from her spot on the second-floor balcony overlooking the throne room. A glimpse of him. That’s all she would allow herself—and him—before turning invisible once more.
He walked away ever dutiful, her Dorian. She ignored the gnawing in her gut at the slump of his shoulders. She missed those rough hands, that deep voice, those dark eyes.
A long time had passed. So long that things were not the same. She was not the same . . . though she would be again.
Amelia turned away. She walked down the long hallway to the stairs and took them down to the main floor. Hooking a right and going the way Dorian had come from, she strolled to the end of the hall. Her feet were silent against the tiled floors. The cold nipped at her skin, but she’d grown used to being cold in the many forms she took. Just as she’d grown accustomed to being alone.
No one stopped her. No one spoke to her. No one even saw her. With the wave of her hand, she was invisible and not a soul but the one she’d let briefly see her even had an inkling who was here.
Amelia pulled a vial from her pocket and uncorked the end with the nail of her thumb.
She turned it over, dumping its contents on the door handle and lock.
A hiss ran through the hall, quiet as the flame that flickered in the night.
A fizzle started as the metal disintegrated, creating a hole in the door.
She pushed the wooden panel open with one tap of her hand.
The prisoner’s quarters was decorated lavishly. A moderately sized bed, two end tables, a writing desk, and bathing chamber were all included for this charming captive.
For the Winter King, this was quite the luxury punishment. He’d grown soft, she mused. That would bode well for her plans. Amelia stepped through the door and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Get up. It’s time to go,” she said to the unkempt fae prisoner. He blinked, his green eyes sharpening.
“What the hell are ya’ doin’ here?”
Amelia smiled.
“I’m calling in my favor, Lou,” she said softly. “I want my necklace back.”