10. Thorne

TEN

THORNE

T he planning of the ball had begun. The feeling in the castle changed as quickly as a lightning strike from a general, steady day to one where every worker buzzed from corner to corner. The king was happy his staff were so quick on their feet. He trusted their efficiency and promptness to get what needed to be done in time to celebrate the new queen as twilight kissed the horizon.

There wasn't much for him to do once the declaration had been made. Samson sent the word out to the housekeepers to make way for potential guests and to change the linens in the king and queen's quarters, then alerted the chef and her sous chefs about the royal feast.

He could see them out of the window of his office, bolting out to the private garden to gather freshly harvested exotic fruits and delicacies. He knew his personalized butcher would be notified, and would be sure to slaughter the leanest cut of lamb and venison that blessed the farmland.

Event planners would be called as would decorators. Servers for the event would be on duty as the festivities ran late into the night. Vale and his team of enforcers would maintain a no- nonsense level of security. Everything would run as smoothly as a kitten's fur.

But in the meantime, Thorne was missing his mate. He was amazed by how much it physically pained him to be away from her. He had heard of heartache but thought it was all a metaphor. It hurt him to breathe.

He reassured himself, musing in his office chair, that it was all a temporary sensation. Soon enough, he would mark sweet Breya, and all of his yearnings would be satiated. His lion would be content. She would be his for the rest of his life, and all would be wonderful.

Still, his lion carped at him. It wasn't one to appeal to rationality, so the king stood and made his way to the queen's quarters, where his mate was being fitted for a gown.

He was stopped, though, by a man named Lyle, who stood outside the bedroom where Breya had been taken. He could hear her laughter inside, muffled but beautiful all the same.

"May I do anything for you, My King?"

Thorne was irked and spoke curtly to the tailor who had been working for him for over a decade.

"I'm here to see Breya. Take a break on the fitting."

There was no way that any of the royal staff was going to stand up against the king, but sometimes they knew better than to succumb to his whims. Lyle bowed his head, nudging gently with his suggestion.

"My King, I assure you that Breya is being pampered with the utmost care. I promise you that she is going to look every bit the part of your queen when she is ready. Please give us time to craft our masterpiece."

He considered barging into the room but thought twice about it. Her scent was crawling under the door, calling to him like a sneaky enchantment.

"You're right, Lyle. I look forward to seeing what you come up with."

Lyle bowed, and Thorne clapped him on the shoulder. Perhaps in his haste and swelling desire to mark Breya, he had been expectant. But the thought soon fluttered away, replaced by the urgency to make the announcement as well as the reminder that he was the king—he could do whatever he wanted.

Thorne spent the rest of the day readying himself. He wanted to look refined and handsome for Breya. He knew Lyle's handiwork—he had hand-sewn many of the military uniforms and the royal capes and garb for the Bawold family. Whatever he was constructing in the queen's quarters was sure to amplify Breya's already fetching, captivating features.

The king wore his traditional regalia for the occasion, a three-piece houndstooth suit with flecks of marigold and orange accents. The cape that tucked over his shoulders was the same blended shades with laced silver dangling around the ends of the fringe.

Everyone important was going to be there. All members of the Lion Council and other members of associated royal families. That meant Queen Cassia too. Thorne prepared himself to manage her disappointment, eternally maintaining the optics of a level-headed, bold ruler. It was true the majority of the time, but felt more potent that night. He was going to maintain the visage for the sake of his kingdom, and most of all, his future queen.

Twilight fell, staining the sky a dusty maroon. All the guests had arrived and were brought into the grand hall. The entire castle smelled of delectable and veracious meats and bread wafting through the hallways.

Thorne stood at the bottom of the spiral staircase, waiting for his mate. She was last to arrive, but that was tasteful and traditional. After all, the entire night was about her and the announcement the king was ready to make to his people.

At the very moment Thorne was beginning to feel antsy, Breya appeared at the top of the steps. He stopped his pacing, and his mouth gaped.

The witch was adorned in a dazzling ocean-blue evening gown, the A-line silhouette embellishing her bosom. It was sleeveless and cascaded downward with a flourish. Stitching in the shape of ivy snaked up the bodice and rested along her bust in an onyx black. It matched the shade of her hair, which streamed down her back and framed her face in perfectly spiraled curls. As she drew closer, he saw a powdery plum shade had been dabbed on her lips.

She was the perfect emblem of elegance and beauty. The king felt time stand still as something benevolent wreathed around his heart.

Breya was sublime in every way imaginable.

When she reached him, he took a bow. She snickered, and he held out his hand, palm to the ceiling.

"May I say, dear Breya, you are looking radiant tonight."

"You may," she said softly.

Breya placed her hand in his, and he kissed it. Her sea-green eyes beamed at him. He ran his mouth along the ridges of her knuckles as he whispered.

"You're trembling."

That time, she did not lower her head. But her eyes averted him.

"I'm nervous. It's not every day a village girl walks into a room full of royalty."

Thorne straightened, still holding her hand in his. He raised it again to his lips, gave one final kiss, then turned to face two monstrous-sized double doors. Behind them, were all his guests murmuring with intrigue.

He stood erect and gazed down at Breya as he held out his arm.

"It's not every day you are led by a king," he said. "You are my mate, and you will be treated as such. Stay by my side, and all will be well."

Breya intertwined her arm with his and nestled against his elbow. As the two doors parted, the king's heart was raging inside him. Through his shifter senses, he felt Breya's too.

What was business as usual for Thorne must have been chaos for Breya. The event was magnificent and grandiose just the way the king had demanded. Meals were plentiful, and ornamentation sophisticated. They were greeted by some of the most influential socialites and members of royalty as they walked into the ballroom—with Queen Cassia being one of the first to offer her congratulations.

"Charmed," she said, gracefully offering her hand to Breya, then Thorne's. "I am thrilled to see that you have found your mate. It's a wonderful time to celebrate."

He agreed and tried to get all of the chatter out of the way. It was his duty to please those who studied his every move closely, but also to pacify Cassia into steering clear of his mate. Since the occasion was intended to be an announcement of the next queen's crowning, he and Breya arrived first on the dance floor, surrounded by the same observant and critical eyes.

But Thorne didn't care. He had his mate in his arms, and that was all that mattered.

"Come. Put your hand on my chest like this."

The king settled his hand on her waist, then entangled her fingers with the other. Just as the lights dimmed and the band began, he peered down at the woman who was soon to be his bride.

Her hands were clammy, and her eyes were broad with dread.

"Everything is fine, Breya," he said, flashing her his suave smile. "I will lead."

The violin's bow stroked along the strings, and the harp strummed. Slowly, they began a simple waltz, romantic and mesmerizing.

But Thorne couldn't take his focus off of Breya's obvious anxiety.

"This ball was unexpected," she said, swallowing hard. "I would have liked to receive more notice."

"Notice about what?"

"About all of it. Don't you think it's a little presumptuous to announce to the entire world that I'm your mate and will be the next queen before I've made my decision to stay?"

Her tone was clipped, under-laced with hurt. Thorne felt the color drain from his face but continued dancing.