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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.”
