Page 189 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

Augustus beams at the crowd, not even glancing at his son and future daughter-in-law as they move to join him on the dais.

The mayor extends a hand.

The skirt of Helen’s dark-blue gown shimmers like starlight as she steps to her husband’s side, placing her delicate fingers in his.

Her smile is subdued, demure. She pretends she is deferential to her husband, as if she isn’t the instigating force behind one of the more horrific abuses of power from a leader that I’ve heard of.

“Betrothal contests are an honored tradition among our people,” Augustus continues, “and it touches my soul to know they will continue on with the next generation.”

Leto huffs so softly I almost miss it.

“Tomorrow, my son and Daphne will wed.” The mayor’s lips twist into a smirk. “But not before they endure one last bout of temptation.”

Raucous laughter and instigating whoops rise into the air.

Leto’s fingers flex, but he wears an easygoing smile.

Helen clears her throat delicately.

“Marriages are not to be entered into lightly,” she says. “To vow to love and cherish another for all the days of your life is no small matter. It is a union that should not be undertaken without the strictest of forethought. For a union, once forged, cannot be unmade.”

Murmurs of agreement follow.

I risk a glance at Hali. Unlike Leto, she does not hide her displeasure.

Her jaw is clenched, and her body is rigid. The handsome man at her side peers at her from the corner of his eye, lips pinched.

If Gerald is upset, he hides his emotions well. But his petite wife wilts under the room’s attention. She inches closer to her husband, as if he can shield her from scrutiny.

“Tonight”—Augustus’s booming voice reclaims my attention—“we have three of Virendrell’s strongest wielders. They have used their Mother-given gifts and incomparable skills to honor the betrothed couple in their contests. Tonight, they will be charged with testing the strength of this impending union.”

A series of hoots and cheers interrupts the speech.

The mayor doesn’t mind. From the gleam in his eyes, I’d say he enjoys it.

My skin itches.

I turn my head, and I am immediately ensnared by a pair of volatile, stormy-gray eyes.

Rian stands to the left of the dais, wearing a midnight-black tunic and trousers in the same style he wore on the continent.

His inky-black hair is swept away from his face, and dark stubble covers his jawline. The tailored cut of his clothing accentuates his broad torso and muscular thighs.

The Virendrellians gathered near him give him a wide berth, as if sensing the dangerous predator in their midst.

Draven, Silas, and Darius stand a step behind their prince, also wearing their own attire and not the toga-style gifted to them by the mayor. Though, theirs is a charcoal gray, as if they attempted to honor Virendrellians and their love of vibrant colors.

Augustus drones on about this final contest. I should focus and learn what I can expect beyond a sensuous dance with the man at my side.

But my gaze slides back to meet Rian’s.

The marks on my arms creep from elbow to wrist and back again, like a beast pacing in a cage, waiting to be released. In contrast, the power in my chest purrs.

Then a jeweled hand lands on Rian’s bicep, and my light magic hisses.

Iris shifts closer to Rian’s side.

Where in the hells did she even come from?