Chapter 35

Chapter 35

I t had taken every ounce of her restraint for Fey to remain at her post on the Queen's dais as the final guests of the evening were announced and the party reached its apex. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her side, and her fingers itched to draw her blades, if only to find some level of comfort in the feel of them in her hands.

At some point over the last hour or so, the shock of Alastair's parentage had gone from infuriating to hilarious to her sisters. And now, instead of a constant stream of gossip, Fey had to endure their endless teasing.

"A prince ," cooed Lilith, and a barely stifled giggle escaped from behind Willow's mask.

" Shut the fuck up ," Fey hissed back at them.

"Of course, Princess," Joy whispered back, and this time the giggles were audible enough that the Queen shot them an irritated glance over her shoulder. They managed to get themselves under control, but a few moments later, the Queen gestured Dameon closer, and they held a whispered conversation amongst themselves before she dismissed him with a wave. Dameon stood.

"Uh oh," Joy whispered. "Busted."

"Our Queen informs me that you are relieved for the night," Dameon announced when he approached the four of them. "You are free to return to your chambers or stay and enjoy the festivities. Just remember that you are an extension of the Queen herself and are not to speak or interact with any of the guests."

They bowed their heads in acknowledgment, keeping their gaze lowered to the ground until he left.

The command wasn't unexpected, though it was unnecessary. Of course they were not to socialize with the other guests, not to reveal anything about themselves that could put that anonymity in jeopardy.

Under other circumstances, Fey might have stayed. This was the part she enjoyed about these parties. As the hour drew late, and the guests lost themselves in drink, she could pick up juicy tidbits of gossip just by being in the right place at the right time. She knew how to lose herself in the shadows of the ballroom, and it was easy to eavesdrop when liquor made the guests louder, and bolder, than usual.

But tonight? Tonight, she wanted to hurt something, and she had no intention of staying to listen to any trivial aristocratic gossip. No. She'd head straight to their training room, and she'd likely stay there until her knuckles were bloody and she could barely walk.

There is an art to hurrying without appearing to rush, and Fey was a master of it. She maneuvered her way through the crowds of guests, appearing to be entirely unrushed and at ease, a deadly shadow floating amongst them, but all the while she was clenching her jaw tight enough she feared she might break a tooth, moving as quickly as she could.

She had managed to escape the main ballroom and was almost to the hallway outside of one of the smaller, less crowded, entertaining rooms when a voice from the shadows stopped her.

"Why hello, Witchling."

Her head snapped up at the greeting, and there he was: Alastair Salvatore, Prince of the Vampires.

He leaned against the wall near the exit, a glass of amber liquid in one hand, the other in his pocket. In his red-lined black suit, his usually messy hair brushed back off his face, he did look every bit a Prince.

"Don't talk to me," Fey snarled at him, and she kept walking out the open door and into the hallway.

It was darker here, lit only by a few well-placed oil lamps, and would continue to get darker the further they traveled from the main ballroom. It was a clever way of ensuring guests remained in a centralized area, without them even knowing they were being herded there. It also meant the hallways were all too often occupied by couples, moved by drink and looking for dark unoccupied places where they might lose themselves in some heavy petting. The walls of these hallways were even designed with little hideaways—perfect alcoves for drunk fondling.

Thankfully, it was still early enough in the festivities that the hallway was unoccupied, and Fey dropped all pretense of ease and walked swiftly down the hall, nearly running to get away from the noise and crowd. To get away from him .

"Oh, come on now," Alastair said from close behind her. He was following her, and she could tell he was smiling from the tone of his voice. Fucking Vamp speed , Fey thought sourly. "Surely you can stand saying hello to me?"

Fey stopped, rage ratcheting through her body.

"You can't talk to me," she hissed through her teeth. "Because I'm not to speak to the guests, Prince ."

He stepped in front of her, blocking her way, his mouth twisting in distaste.

"Don't call me that," he said.

"And why not?" Fey asked. Her voice was louder than she intended, but she couldn't stop herself. Anger made every word she spoke louder, bolder. "That's what you are, isn't it? Prince Alastair Salvatore, heir to the Vampire throne."

She bowed to him, mockingly, drawing her blades and holding them straight out from her sides in the formal bow of the Queen's Blades.

"Or should I call you Prince deSanguine?" she asked, her voice dripping with venom as she rose. "Is that what Your Grace would prefer?"

"DeSanguine is a title," Alastair snarled. "Not a surname. Fey, I never lied to you."

Fey laughed a dry laugh. "You never lied to me ? Fuck you. You accused me of using you just because you thought I gave you a fake name, Alastair deSanguine ."

"It's a fucking title . My name is Alastair Salvatore. It has always been Alastair Salvatore. And I'm not the heir of shit. I never inherited the title, my sister did. And it's going to skip me and go straight to my brother. My father just drags me to these stupid fucking things every decade or so to show me off and remind the royalty of what a catch his unmarried son would be."

"Salvatore deSanguine doesn't have a daughter," Fey snapped back at him, and something in Alastair's eyes shattered like glass.

"No," he whispered, looking down at the glass he held in his hands. "No, he doesn't, not anymore." He tipped his head back finishing his drink, and for a moment Fey thought he might fling the empty glass against the wall.

"I didn't fucking lie to you," he said instead, hissing the words through clenched teeth.

"You told us we could trust you, told us you had no reason to sell us out. And you're the son of the person who would pay the most to see us fucking dead." Saying it aloud made it hurt even more, the words twisting to form knots in Fey's stomach. "That sounds like a pretty good fucking reason to sell us out, Alastair."

"Fey, I hate the bastard as much as you!" Alastair snarled back at her. "More, even! I told you I had no intention of ever telling him anything, and I fucking meant it. "

Fey forced herself to take a deep breath. They were being loud. Too loud. And she couldn't risk someone coming out here to find the source of their shouting. She had no idea what Dameon and the Queen would do if they found her here, talking to the son of Salvatore deSanguine. It was hard to imagine a worse guest she could be caught speaking with unless it were the Fallen King himself.

"Come here," she sighed, pulling him toward a floor-length tapestry hanging on the wall. She lifted the fabric, revealing a hidden space built into the marble barely bigger than a closet. "Get in. We can't be seen speaking like this."

Alastair did what she asked unquestioningly, setting his empty glass on a small decorative table and ducking under the tapestry and into the alcove. Once he was inside, Fey slipped in after him, letting the tapestry fall back into place on the wall. Another clever design from the architectural geniuses who had built this place. The fabric of the tapestry was thin enough to let light pass through, thin enough to see people walking by, but the darkness of the alcove left them completely hidden from view.

The moment she stepped into the alcove with Alastair, Fey realized she'd made a terrible mistake. There was no room here, no way to keep any sort of distance between the two of them, and he was…

He was…

His presence was like a tuning fork and every one of her nerves vibrated in response. He hadn't moved to give her any room when she'd ducked inside, and Fey found herself with less than a few inches between them, and Alastair looming above her. He smelled like expensive cologne tonight, and she realized for the first time the scent she'd smelled before, the smell of cloves and wood smoke, wasn't something he put on. That was his scent, the smell of his body.

Fey swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked, trying to distract herself from how close he was and dropping her voice to a whisper. They wouldn't be seen here, but they still had to be quiet.

He stared down at her, head cocked to the side in confusion, and Fey clarified. "In the party back there, you called me Witchling. But I could have been any one of the Blades, so how did you know it was me? How were you so sure I wasn't one of my sisters?"

Alastair snorted. "How did I know it was you? How could I not know?" He motioned to her fighting leathers with a flick of his fingers, stepping closer. Fey tried to shrink back, to keep that much-needed space between them, but her back hit the wall almost immediately. Oh yes. Leading him here was a mistake . "Every single person at this party could be dressed in that same outfit, and I'd still know which one was you, Fey."

"How?" she asked again, her voice a little breathless. He was close enough that she had to tilt her head up to look him in the eyes.

His hand rose to grip her face, and the fabric of her mask dug into her skin. "Because you're a knife in a room of cowards. You're an apex predator, head and shoulders above every person in that party." His voice was a sensual purr, and Fey whimpered in his hold. "I can sense you, Fey. You feel like heat and fire and power . There's not a single person in the world who could hold a candle to it. "

He bent his head down, kissing her, his lips pressing the gossamer material of her mask hard against her lips. Kissed her like she belonged to him, kissed her like she was his everything, like she was the Goddess come to life.

Kissed her until he felt the tip of her blade press against his stomach.

Startled, Alastair pulled back enough to glance down at the knife between them. Fey's hand was steady, and though she pressed the tip of her blade into him enough to hurt, she wasn't pressing enough to draw blood.

Yet.

"What are you doing here, Alastair?" she asked. Her head was spinning from the kiss, but she drew on every ounce of restraint she had to keep herself steady.

"I told you. My father drags me to these things?—"

"No, what are you doing here ?" With her free hand, Fey gestured to the darkness around them, to the space—what little there was—between them. "What are you doing here, with me? What do you even want from me? You know what I am now; you know?—"

She stopped. Some emotion she couldn't identify was stuck in her throat, and it was hard to form the words around it. Instead, she tightened her grip on the hilt of her blade and pushed it harder against him, drawing a small bead of blood that spread over the fabric of his dress shirt.

Fey expected him to move away, to take a step backward and put a little distance between the two of them. The distance that she needed if she was going to catch her breath. She expected him to shout, to curse. Expected him to do anything but what he did.

Staring down at the knife between them, at the welt of dark blood on his dress shirt, Alastair smiled.

Fey blinked at him, in surprise.

"Aren't you scared of me?" she asked.

"Scared? No," Alastair answered, still looking down at where she held the blade against his midsection. "Fey, I'm fucking terrified of you."

The answer startled a laugh from her. "You are crazy, you know that?" she told him, shaking her head and smiling .

"Maybe," he conceded. He brought his own hands up to cover the hilt of her knife, wrapping them around hers. His gaze rose to capture her stare, and she felt like she was drowning in his golden eyes. "I see you, Fey," he whispered. "I see every part of you, and what you are. And I want all of it."

Fey's grip loosened, and the blade clattered to the floor between them. She reached up, pulling her mask off. Then she grabbed his head in both hands and pulled him down to kiss her again.