Page 92 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

“No,” I confirm as I study his ears, searching for a sign if he’s Fae or human, but they’re concealed by his hair. “No betrothal circlet.”

I wonder if Lev keeps the one he commissioned for me, or if he’s smelted it yet.

“You should prepare yourself, then,” he says. “A woman as…unique as you will draw the attention of many suitors this week.”

My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

His gaze drifts over my hair and face. “Not many women here look like you.”

The comment only deepens my confusion. There are dozens of women seated here, human and Fae alike, their beauty effortless and varied. I have no idea what he could mean.

Rather than pretend otherwise, I confess, “I don’t understand.”

“Hm.” His blue eyes search mine. “You don’t, do you?”

I shake my head once.

He glances around the table before leaning closer, lowering his voice. “What do you notice about those around us?”

“They’re Fae and human.” What else is there to notice?

“Ah. It appears so.” His mouth quirks. “But what if I told you not a single mortal at this table is fully human?”

I blink. “I would assume you were lying.”

“I’m not.” Then, after a beat, he adds, “Look again. What else do you notice?”

Unease curls low in my stomach as I tear my attention from his strange stare and study the guests nearby.

Everyone wears the same style of tunic or gown in shades of blue, green, and purple. The bride and groom alone are dressed in white.

Bracelets cover every wrist. Some are thick, some thin. Some are ornate, others plain. Yet no necklaces gleam at throats. No earrings hang from ears. The men wear their hair loose. The women’s strands are woven into elaborate braids, twists, and curls.

Discretely, I scan each person, cataloging different features. It isn’t until I’ve reached the sixth head of brown hair that it hits me.

It can’t be…

My gaze bounces from one head to another. Other than the Shadow Fae and Anders, there isn’t a single head of hair that isn’t some shade of brown. Some are light. Some dark. Some reddish. Some golden.

But all brown.

My pulse quickens as I turn back to the only blond male in the room. I suspect it’s no coincidence that he happens to be sitting beside me.

“Where are you from?” I ask.

“The Mountains.”

“Which mountains?”

“The Mountains.” His brows lift with meaning I don’t immediately grasp.

Then the memory slams into place.

Port City.

My eyes flick to the side of Anders’s head. He casually tucks his hair behind his ear.

His pointed ear.