the tight fit of the rental suit. The scion’s attention also wandered high to follow the flickering lights.
The woods had glowed from afar as pack Valoir had arrived en masse. A stage set for a performance, waiting for him, one of the main players. Faeries had clasped Kir’s hand and bowed to him, greeting, acknowledging, surmising. He’d not been introduced to the Unseelie king and wasn’t sure the man was even here. Etienne had briefly introduced Kir to Brit, the harpie who had brought the deal to the table. She’d been stunning in a silver sheath that had revealed more than it hid.
But it had all been a whirlwind since he’d arrived. Dozens of strange and interesting faces, elaborate and glamorous clothing and costume, delicious peach wine and tiny cakes that tasted either sweet or savory but was always too small to satisfy his fierce appetite. And the greetings and silent perusals. He hadn’t had time to think in the few hours that had passed since his arrival.
Or to escape.
And now he stood, knees locked and fingers flexing nervously at his sides. The suit was tight across his shoulders and it was hot. He wanted to scratch at the starched shirt collar but wasn’t sure his fingers could perform the move because they felt so far away and detached from his body.
Kir couldn’t concentrate on the words the officiant spoke because beside him stood her. The woman soon to be named his wife. And after that they would dance and drink, and, well, he’d heard there was a honeymoon cabin erected not far from here.
Something sweet, like flowers or fruit, or maybe even sugared fruit topped with flowers, tickled his nostrils. The petite woman who stood beside him, the crown of her head below his shoulders, smelled like dessert.
He did like dessert.
He didn’t want to like her. Because that would mean he was cool with this stupid agreement. One that stuck him with a woman he didn’t know or want.
For the rest of his life.
Werewolves could live three centuries or more. That was a hell of a long time to spend with one woman. Especially a woman he had not chosen.
He wanted to look down—the top of her head was capped with flowers and fluttery butterflies that seemed to hold the veil in place—but he dared not make the blatant once-over with the audience behind him. He’d remain stoic and say all the right things. His pack was watching. He was doing this for them. They had better appreciate his sacrifice.
The ceremony officiant rambled on about loving the other until death did part them and enduring magic most vile and exquisite through eternity.
Vile magic? What the...?
Kir closed his eyes. His heart did a weird dive and then free-fell within his rib cage. It didn’t land with a splat, though, because something distracted his imaginary death-dive. She smelled really good. His mouth actually watered, and he cursed inwardly for not having eaten all day. Too nervous.
There would be food later. And drink.
There was not enough whiskey in this realm to get him to the point where he could accept this situation.
Behind him, he felt the gentle sweep of wings as the woman beside him shifted on her feet. As she’d walked down the aisle, she had worn a long sheer pink veil over her head that fell over her body and to her bare feet. Her feet were decorated with bright arabesque violet designs, like some kind of mehndi artwork. Her wings were unfurled to display gorgeous violet and red gossamer with darker shading in the veins. Her hair was dark. He could see that much beneath the veil. But he could not determine if she was pretty.
They’d wrapped her up as if she were a gift, and he didn’t like it.
Suddenly feeling as though he was forgetting something important, Kir lifted his chin and focused as the officiant announced the twosome had been joined in matrimony by the authority of the Unseelie court. And later they must seal that promise by bonding.
What a way to start a marriage.
When he had, at the last minute, thought he’d need to buy a ring for his new bride, the liaison harpie, who had arrived early to ensure the details had been handled properly, stated rings were an offense. Mortal metals must never be worn by the sidhe. All that was required was that the two bond as Faery decreed.
A ring would have been so much easier.
“Join hands,” the officiant announced. “And bind yourselves to one another.”
What? Right here? The bonding? Kir looked over his shoulder and caught Etienne’s eye. The elder wolf nodded. And beside him stood his mother, Madeline, with a tear in her eye.
Oh, this was not cool. He couldn’t—
His new wife lifted her hand beneath the pink veil and Kir took it, deciding it was fragile and felt too light. He might break her bones if he squeezed. Awful thought to have. He would never harm a woman. But he felt as if she were something that must be protected and watched over.
He didn’t have time for watching over a tiny faery. She had better be able to care for herself.
Her head did not tilt up to look at him. He breathed in through his nose and exhaled in preparation. If they had to bond before an audience—and his mother.
Pushing aside the veil, the officiant wrapped a red silk band about their joined hands, draping the ends over their wrists. As he recited some words that Kir assumed were in the sidhe language, he traced an elaborate symbol in the air above their hands.
Behind them, the audience of sidhe began to...hum. It was a beautiful, wordless melody that twinkled in the air and stirred the leaves. Animals scampered nearby in the forest and Kir felt the hairs on his body prickle with vital awareness. Connection to nature. Elation expanding his lungs, he noticed a design began to show on the top of his and his new wife’s hands. A gorgeous, delicate tracing that wound in and out and curled and arabesqued like something etched upon a Moorish ruin. Or perhaps it was similar to the designs on her feet and ankles. It didn’t hurt and, in fact, felt as if a piece of ice was being traced under his skin. The tracing crept over the side of her hand and Kir felt the design spread across his skin.
“Bonded,” the officiant announced.
With applause from the sidhe court, the design on their hands suddenly glowed brightly, then faded to the pale etching. But seriously? That was the bonding? Whew! Kir could not be more thankful that Faery’s means to bonding was different than his breed, which meant having sex.
His new wife dropped her hand and then her attendant pulled the veil away from her head. Slowly, the pink fabric glittered under the glow from the faeries overhead, and her dark hair, woven through with tiny blue flowers, was revealed. She looked up at him with a small smile. It was forced.
Not so pleased about this marriage, either, he guessed. Poor woman.
Poor, gorgeous woman. As a consolation he had gotten a pretty one. And yet, what color were her eyes? Pink?
When the officiant said they should kiss, the audience clapped and cheered. Kir felt a blush ride his neck, and that disturbed him. Performing for an audience? Yikes. And, yet, the kiss was a standard wedding tradition.
With a smirk, his wife reached up and bracketed his head with her hands, boldly bringing him down to her level. And then...
