Page 216 of Starside

This dress is lilac, just like the flowers I saw near the Prism Pass. Now that I don’t have to hide, it has a low-cut bodice that’s curved and pointed at each end like a scythe, and a silk skirt. I love it.

The only thing I don’t love about it are all the ties in the back. I’m able to get the ones at the base of my spine, but then I can’t reach any higher. I try for several minutes in vain to do it myself, before giving up. I walk out of the bathroom, only to find Raker still frowning at everything.

“I need—I need your help.”

He doesn’t move an inch.

I roll my eyes and turn. “Please, I just—These cursed corsets …”

His voice is punishing. “If you think I’m going to tie your dress—”

I sigh. “Fine. I’ll ask Van—”

The name isn’t out of my mouth before he’s roughly tugging me back by the strings of my corset, squeezing my ribs, choking the words out of me.

I whip my head back to glare at him.

He’s scowling. “Let’s get this over with.” He starts to tie the strings, muttering curses and something about why dresses are so damned complicated.

It almost makes me smile, then seize as he squeezes the air out of my lungs again. I laugh ruefully. “Famed knight can cut down an entire army without a mark on his armor … but can’t tie a corset.” I turn to see him glaring down at the strings as if they have personally insulted him. “I’m sure you’ve untied plenty of them.”

At that, his eyes slowly drag up to meet mine. They are hard as steel. “Do you want me to untie it, Aris?” he asks, his voice a low rumble along my bones.

I stop breathing. I think about him pressed up against me. His length between my legs. How it felt to writhe against it. My throat goes dry, remembering. Imagining.

I’m dragged out of the thought by Raker roughly pulling on the strings with far too much force, choking me again, like he’s taking out his frustration on them.

When he’s done, he doesn’t even look at me before striding toward the doors.

“Don’t kill anyone,” I say, still fighting for breath. Anyone else, I guess.

He looks over his shoulder at me. His eyes slip down my dress, gaze snagging on my chest, which I can feel spilling from the top of my bodice since he tied it so damned tightly. “Be happy if I don’t kill everyone,” he says, before slamming the door behind him.

Vander has gathered some of the heirs in a room. He’s picked the ones most likely to sympathize with my cause—including Magnus and the other three who I had previously marked, given the locations of their estates. I’ve already danced with all of them. The ball is still going. I can hear the trill of music and laughter just down the hall.

Raker and I stand in the room as the heirs argue. They keep going on and on about a prophecy without naming it. They keep talking about a paladin that was promised.

“What’s the prophecy?” I finally demand. The room goes quiet.

Sixteen glittering eyes fix on me. Not one of the heirs speaks.

Finally, Vander sighs. “We can’t tell you, human,” he says.

I frown. “Why?”

“Prophecies are heirlooms, passed along and earned like blades. It would break the vow of our swords. Even if we wanted to tell you, we couldn’t,” Vander says.

“And we don’t,” Lord Ashcroft says lazily.

Fine. I don’t care about a fucking prophecy. I just want to get an invitation to the closest estate possible.

“Why are you arguing about it now?” I ask. In front of us. I look at Vander, my eyes saying, I thought we were trying to get me alliances?

His eyes drift away, and that’s when I blink.

“Wait. Do you think … I have something to do with it?”

I expect them to laugh in my face. To roll their glimmering eyes at the fact that some mortal thought she was the paladin that was promised.