Page 68 of Let Slip the Dogs of War

Aodhan makes a hasty retreat once the announcement is done, too. That is when Grant reappears.

“Your uncle?” he asks.

“Yes.” I frown. “Where were you?”

“Library. I wanted to check some things out.”

My temper rises. “You left Dante alone.”

“You were here.” Grant’s expression is quizzical, not understanding in the slightest, and I swallow a growl.

Of course he does not understand. From what I can tell, Vladimir has been by his side since the night he was turned. The meagre time they have spent apart has been based on necessity, and he knows that Vladimir will never let him down.

I want to growl at myself. Dante does not know that about me, if only because I have let him down. I told him earlier that fae do not deal in regrets, and we do not. I do not truly regret not telling him about our soulbond before now. If I had, we would likely have ended up in this precise situation—or, worse, he would have been taken instead.

And yet… It hurts a little to think of all the time we missed out on.

“Is he okay?” Grant asks. “Where is he?”

“He returned to my rooms. He did not wish to…”

I trail off and Grant nods in understanding. Ophelia approaches, holding what I presume is the same full glass of wine she picked up earlier.

“I’m guessing we can’t just get out of here now that that’s done with?” she asks through a smile that does not reach her eyes.

“We should stay for a little while,” I reply. “An hour or so.”

The smile does not drop, but she is not pleased. She was less pleased when I returned without Dante and told her that he was going to the castle. I do not believe she truly knows what happened in the maze, but she has an inkling.

“May I have this dance?” Oisin asks her, holding out one hand.

“No,” Ophelia says, pressing her full glass into it. Oisin takes it with a bewildered blink and Ophelia holds her hand out for me. “Come on, Lark. Let’s keep up appearances.”

It is an hour and a half before we can extract ourselves from the festivities, though I send Grant ahead of us some time before that. The hesitant edge the fae have had around me so far is thawing; they are too excited that the realm will stabilise. The full moon is tomorrow. We can hold the coronation then.

While I am still unhappy that I must remain here and take the throne, it is not as if I do not understand the gravity of it. The realm is dying. Now that I have been here for a day, I can feel it. Decay is sneaking into the edges of the magic that sustains us, and if I had not returned, this place would have had months, perhaps a year, before it collapsed completely.

When we reach my rooms—Oisin in tow, for whatever reason—Dante is sitting on the sofa, reading a book. Grant sits next to him, reaching over to point something out. Dante shoves his hand away.

“Let me get there.”

“It’s interesting, right?”

They both jerk their heads up at the same time when they realise we’re there. Dante looks at me from head to toe and my skin prickles with awareness. He has changed out of the outfit he was wearing for the party, into a pair of the soft, loose trousers and matching tunic the tailor made for him. It is an outfit designed exactly for this—for sitting in my rooms and relaxing.

I swallow. Of course, if the others were not here, if we were in some other universe where Dante was truly mine, then I could have him here wearing nothing at all.

“When can we leave?” Ophelia asks, and Dante’s gaze jerks from me, his cheeks burning.

Disappointment roils in my gut. I take one of the armchairs and let out a sigh. Ophelia sits next to Dante, who closes the book, which I note is a collection of tales I read when I was young, and Oisin takes one of the other chairs, eyeing Grant warily.

“Tonight,” I say.

“We need to scry Cassian first,” Dante says. “I want to do it here so he’s got some warning. It’ll be easier than out in the dark, too.”

He reaches forward and plucks a small, round mirror from the table. Ah. That is what Cassian handed him back at the house then.

I look at Dante again. There is a smudge of dirt on his wrist and when he sees me looking, he brushes it away.