Page 37 of The Hidden Fae Prince
Seren touches his shoulder instinctively. The memory of fangs stings.
Lord Midnight stole his brothers. The loss has been hypothetical to Seren. Yet for the other fae in this room, the threat is clearly real.
“High fae should not waste ourselves in pointless squabbles,” Gevain says, into a rapt and echoing chamber. “Lest we cede more of Summer to the nightlands.”
The speech is rousing. Emotional. Absurd—to place this unity on Seren’s shoulders.
Gevain bows deeply. “I offer my sympathy for your loss, Your Highness. Haelwen was both feared and loved. Speaking for myself, I will miss her. And I look forward to your coronation.”
He steps back without waiting for an answer, thank the gods. Seren can’t say anything in his flustered confusion. The dart of emotion is brief but clear. Someone in this chamber is attracted to Seren, with the strangest possible timing.
He can’t tell who.
Nevander parries a few more questions. Seren does his best to channel the Lord Guardian’s composure until the courtiers depart. Servants and guards leave too, at Nevander’s gesture. Relief loosens Seren’s shoulders. The performance is over.
And Nevander finally turns, bright as summer but cold as the snowswept mural behind him. “What were you thinking?”
Seren jumps to his feet. It doesn’t help; Nevander still towers over him. “She was humiliating him. It was cruel.”
“She had the right,” Nevander says. Patiently, like he’s teaching a child. “They decided the terms before their duel. Either Chamomile saw this coming, or he bargained poorly.” Then Nevander’s brow knits. “Were his emotions hurting you?”
“That’s not the point,” Seren says, flushing. “Do you only stop cruelty if it hurts you personally?”
“My duties do not concern cruelty, whether it hurts me or not.” Nevander regards Seren as if cataloguing every inch, from his too-fancy boots on up. “Attending this meeting was risky.”
“Would Lady Morana have stabbed me in front of everyone? Isn’t that your job to handle?” Realization punctures Seren’s righteous frustration. “No. You want to hide how pathetic I am.”
Nevander doesn’t deign to confirm the accusation. “Your strategy of saying little was smart, but silence is still a message.”
He doesn’t need to point out that Seren failed in that strategy.
“Absence is a message, too,” Seren counters. Gods’ spite, he shouldn’t care. This isn’t his palace. These aren’t his people. But Seren knows what people feel about him behind their calculated words. “Hiding lets them imagine the worst of me, and I learn nothing about them. About this place. So what if I show my inexperience? That’s the truth, and I assume fae enjoy being right as much as humans.”
Nevander’s lips twitch. “We are proud creatures. I should have remembered you would be no exception.”
Seren bristles, expecting an insult, but the words are warm with praise. Like pride is a value, not a flaw. Seren exhales, taking in the painted seasons. Winter is so beautiful when he can’t feel its bite.
“I’m lost,” Seren says. “All my life, other people have kept secrets about me. As long as I’m trapped here, I have to learn as much as possible. If that means looking like a fool at meetings, so be it.”
Nevander meets Seren’s gaze, unrelenting. “Far from a fool, my prince. I apologize for underestimating you.”
Seren has to look away. Nevander’s iron control makes the slightest approval unbearably sweet. He needs to remember his situation. “But you don’t apologize for blackmailing me to stay.”
“That would be a lie,” Nevander says. “I’ll consult you before any future audiences in your name. How do you feel?”
The soft question knocks Seren off balance. “Like I should learn shielding before I interrupt any more meetings.”
“Primrose should be in the tower library now.” Nevander steps towards the Summer door, then stops short. “One thing first.”
He removes his gauntlets, then pulls a small, gleaming object from his belt purse. The action is strangely mundane, after all the magical summonings and carryhold treasures. Nevander holds out a ring—an iridescent white stone set in rose gold.
“It’s lovely,” Seren says, resisting the urge to take it. His hands are too dirty, though he washed them after breakfast. The ring is too fine. It isn’t for him.
“You wanted a carryhold,” Nevander explains, and holds out his empty palm. “May I?”
Seren hesitates, then gives his left hand. Holding him gently, Nevander slides the ring onto Seren’s middle finger. This close, the white opal shines with flecks of blue and green. The band is a delicate braid, too large for Seren’s finger—until with a tingle of magic, it shrinks to a snug fit.
Yet Seren’s skin hums instead with the weight of Nevander’s touch. A nervous yearning holds him motionless. As if grasping Nevander’s hand would grant the security he’s never had.
