Page 104 of The Faceless Queen

But he hadn’t. As far as I knew, he’d only given it to one soldier, the one from his guard, the one he’d sent to speak to Finlay.

Geoffrey had told me that the parchment he gave me was the one being handed out to everyone. The image they were all hunting.

If only Brennan’s men had the art of Samara, and every other soldier in Eskalon had art of Alyra, then that could only mean one thing.

Brennan wasn’t hunting me at all. He hadn’t shared what he knew, or what he’d seen, with Jaron.

He didn’t just have feelings for Samara—he was still trying to help her. He was trying to find me before Jaron could, before anyone else realized what I was.

And he was betraying every law of his father’s, of the king’s, of his country. Betraying even the way he was beginning to feel about Olivay.

For me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Your Highness.” The wakeup call was followed by a brisk knock on my door. “Your Highness?”

Bright sunlight streamed through the windows as I struggled to open my eyes. With a groan, I pulled my pillow over my face, trying to orient myself. I hadn’t gone to bed that late, but my muscles felt sore and I was still so tired. I felt as if I’d stayed up for the entire night …

I hunched the blankets back up my shoulders, burrowing deeper into my sheets. I just needed some more rest. A little more sleep.

“Princess Olivay?”

I bolted upright in a panic, finally remembering where I was, and more importantly, who I was supposed to be.

I'd spent the last three nights dancing. After the engagement ball, there’d been another ball thrown in our honor at Lord Dovan’s estate, and then another last night at the home of Lady Alena, the Almost-Queen.

The last night had been particularly exhausting. We had been in Jaron’s familial home, with symbols of House Bathiner everywhere we looked. There were more nobles in attendance who belonged to the bloodline, or seemed inclined to support them, than I had realized existed. The entire time it felt as if we’d been taken into enemy territory. Not only did I have to maintain my glamour as Olivay, but I also had to show a united front with my new family, House Lafir. It had been draining. Brennan had been stiff the entire time, and King Tirian was snapping at every word spoken to him. I’d barely undressed before falling into bed when it was over.

Though my dreams were full of Brennan, the small moments we’d shared, the way his eyes hooded with desire when our bodies pressed together for a dance, the way he watched me, his gaze intense and focused from across the room, or how, when we were seated at dinner, he reached beneath the table to hold my hand, slowly stroking his thumb in a circular motion that made me press my legs together.

I was simultaneously dreaming of our wedding night, of finally taking him inside me.

And waking in cold sweats, terrified I’d taken too much. Hearing the words of the Hermit’s prophecy again and again. The end of House Lafir as they knew it, the prophecy fulfilled, Brennan dead.

Reality was beginning to feel like a distant concept. Every night I was dressed in a gown more fine than I’d ever imagined, seeing more food served than I’d ever had in Azeal, all while dancing, feasting, drinking, and holding hands with a man who I was being drawn to more and more every day. Who was drawn to me, hinting at more. But who had no idea who I actually was, who still, after all this time, would feel guilty when we got too close, our lips too near, our bodies too warm.

Because he was still thinking of the girl in the tavern. Of the real me.

We hadn’t kissed since the moon garden, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Thinking about how much I wanted him, how much I wanted to kiss him again. And yet, it was a relief that there’d been no time, no privacy, no opportunities for more. No garden to steal away to.

I groaned as I stretched my legs, every muscle in my body aching. I was used to back-to-back nights of dancing at the tavern, as Samara. Olivay’s body, however, was not.

And I was paying for it, dearly, as I stumbled into my slippers. I blindly reached for my silk robe, tugging it over my shoulders. The knocking persisted.

“One moment,” I called out.

I pushed my hair back from my face. I’d slept in the braid Abigail had constructed for me, but several pieces had gone rogue and stuck out around my forehead and ears.

Pieces that looked far too straight to be Olivay’s. I stared down. My hands were wrong, too. The color of my skin wasn’t right. It was far too pale for someone from Spartva. Even my fingernail beds had shifted into a slightly different shape, my actual nails shorter than Olivay’s appeared.

Fuck! I was losing hold of my glamour. This had never happened before. Never before had I been this drained this quickly, or unable to hold onto the form I’d designed. I hadn’t fed in two nights, only small sips, but I’d gone far longer without touch at the tavern, and never once woke up appearing any way other than how I’d intended.

I had known Olivay’s form would be more difficult to maintain. But nearly a week of being her made me realize just how wholly unprepared for the reality I’d been. It was getting harder to draw energy toward me. Not when I couldn’t seduce, not when I was unwilling to break character, even as I handed jewelry each day to fucking Geoffrey.

There was an ache low in my belly, a kind of dull, stabbing-like pain. Hunger. Hunger that went far beyond what food could do. I was starving myself. Starving the Azete.

I needed to feed. And I needed to do it soon.