Page 72 of The Faceless Queen

I stepped closer to him. “What exactly do you want with me?”

He grinned, his coin purse already jingling. “There are many things I want from you. Things I cannot speak aloud.”

I snatched my hand back from his, my heart hammering with an even greater intensity.

Jaron grabbed the reins of his stag and retreated several steps, his eyes glazed and dizzy.

“Do you …” He frowned. “Do you enjoy dancing?” His eyes flicked past mine to the dancers on the field. They were standing around, no longer performing.

I blinked. “I dance when I must,” I said. “Formally. As any princess might. At balls, and special occasions. If that is what you’re asking.”

“No.” He dragged his gaze back, eyes narrowed. “It’s not,” he said.

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” I said, affecting my voice to sound as innocent and confused as possible.

“You—” He froze. “You remind me of someone,” he said finally, his nostrils flaring. The accusation was in his voice, emanating from his body, and wafting toward the Azete.

I was going to vomit.

Jaron’s mouth tightened, the scar running through his bottom lip reddening. I wondered how he’d explained that over the last two years. Chimera attack? Street brawl where he saved the life of a commoner? Assassination attempt?

My heart continued to hammer, so loudly I was sure he could hear it. What was I supposed to say? Yes? No? Or give the answer I wanted to give? That the only favor I’d ever offer would be to shove his lance so far up his ass it came out his throat.

Jaron licked his lips, his expression thoughtful as he eyed me up and down. “I still would ask for your favor tonight.”

I gestured around the tourney. “With all these other women here?”

“I ask you to honor me as well, Princess. May I have your favor, as your soon-to-be cousin and friend?” His mouth curled over the word in a way that made it unmistakably clear that it was not his intention.

No. Absolutely not.

But he was still the nephew of King Tirian. Cousin to the crown prince. And I’d misstepped. Greatly. He didn’t know it was me, or what I was. He couldn’t. It had been two years since we’d last seen each other. And Alyra was gone—literally, and in his mind, he’d been told she was dead. He might have remembered her face. Gods, I expected he did, because of what I’d done to his face—because of the scar on his lip. But that was it. There was no other way he could possibly know. And yet, it was becoming clear that this close to him was even more dangerous than I’d imagined.

And then, without warning, he looked past me again, to where the musicians and dancers stood, taking a break, quiet as the knights scoured the crowds for favor.

Cecelia stood in the center. I saw the moment it happened. When Jaron saw and recognized her, and when she saw him in return. Her skin paled, her scar suddenly bright pink.

She could not be here. She was not safe.

I stepped forward again, attempting to draw his attention back to me.

“Your eye wanders,” I admonished. “Away from a princess.”

“Away from a princess who denies me.” He frowned, and then something malicious sparked in his eyes, and he looked back at me.

He already thought I was familiar to him. Was already remembering me, asking me if I liked to dance—like Alyra.

But seeing Cecelia at the same time he saw me, it was a Godsdamned death sentence. For both of us.

“I have no idea what you mean,” I said.

He brushed a finger over his lips, urging his moonstag forward. Then he licked his lips again, looking back and forth between Cecelia and me.

Suddenly, our attention was turned across the field as shouts rang out. Brennan’s stag, Aurick, raced forward, charging through the lanes of the tourney toward us. He reared to a sudden stop beside his cousin’s mount. Dust exploded against the ground as Brennan jostled his moonstag before him, effectively placing himself between us.

“Did you ask my betrothed for her favor? The night of our engagement?” Brennan hissed.

Jaron frowned and jerked his chin at me. “Well, I’ve been trying. But she’s been rather stubborn.”