Page 195

Spinning creatures on the dance floor parted with perfect timing and revealed a tall, verdant Fae. The crown of wisteria in her coiled, black curls grew out of her head to rest on glowing, emerald skin. Its reaching vines poured down, draping and hugging her ample curves, the leaves clinging to her as a stunning gown, butterflies fluttering at the stems. It was those happy crinkles at the corners of her kind, pink eyes that struck Fern right in the chest, though.

Except her eyes were closed as she loosed her joy, and there was no reason for Fern to be so sure of their color. Unless⁠—

As if she felt Fern’s stare, as if to show Fern she was right, the Fae’s head whipped towards her on a gasp, irises the color of wild roses burning with shock. With…relief.

Fern sprinted towards her without a thought, desperate to be wrapped in those comforting arms. To hear her rich and soothing voice. To feel like she was safe, truly, for the first time in months.

She shoved a pair of Sorcerit the fuck out of her way and⁠—

Fern wobbled on her feet and had to catch herself from falling forward, already too damned drunk, apparently. What had he said?

“It’ll be f-fine,” she slurred to Vann and Magnus both, shaking herself to clear the buzzing weight in her head. “What does the winner get?”

“What, bragging rights aren’t good enough for you?”

Shitting seasons, Mag’s voice was a low dream. “I already have too much to brag about where you’re concerned, Wolflord,” she teased, teeth sinking into her bottom lip against her will. “You can’t seem to stop losing, so I’d prefer⁠—”

“How about a dance?” Vann interrupted, swiping at his brow.

Fern recoiled. “When did you start sweating buckets?”

Vann was fine when she looked at him a second ago, but he was suddenly paler than fucking death and huffing like he’d run the length of Bordoroth.

“Must be this coat,” he said, his smile strained at best. “Fortunately, the request was not for a dance of my own, but a challenge for my brother. Since the game is first to fall over loses, I reckon you might win pretty quickly that way. Besides, could be a good opportunity for the distraction we need.”

“You’re acting weird.” She felt it.

“You caught me. I merely wish to see Magnus tripping over his feet.”

“She’s right.” Mag pointed a finger at Vann’s nose. “But you’ve gone and slandered my dancing, and now I have no choice but to prove you wrong.” He offered Fern his hand, palm up. “Well? First to fall over loses.”

And then he went and winked.

Fern had no excuse for the sigh that left her. It was shameful. And it was, without a doubt, all his fault.

“Fine, but”—she hiked a thumb at the floor, where Sorcerit were going through a painstakingly formal ‘dance’ that made Fern want to peel off her own skin—“I’m not doing whatever the fuck that is.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Sisters save her.

Fern took his hand.

Weeping Sisters save him.

Magnus couldn’t breathe.

Fern was so wee pressed up against him. His hulking hands had no right to be touching such fine, soft skin. The top of her piled curls was barely hitting his collarbone. And the only thing stopping him from worrying he might crush her was the fact that there wasn’t a less fragile creature in all of Bordoroth.

Not a word, Pet, other than aye or nay if I need you. I’m begging on my knees.

—Aye—

Mag had no idea what forced Vann to take the extreme measure of using his power over the time, but he knew the heaviness of it well. And if Vann was shoving them onto the dance floor in a panic, there was a damned good reason.

But there wasn’t a single part of Magnus in need of convincing, and that maybe worried him more than anything else.

They pretended to follow the steps, making their way to the center of the floor. If the point was causing a stir, that was the best place to do it. Though, the how and the what were still a bit blurry.