Chapter 4

Evander trails behind us as we leave the tea room and make our way through the Palace. He still refuses to look at me, but ensures he gives Deion the utmost reverence and respect.

Deion offers me his arm. When I refuse to take it, he lets out a snort of laughter and snatches my hand threading his patrician fingers with mine in an all too intimate gesture. Though his hands are soft and warm, I let out a noise of disgust, and try to pull away. Resistance is futile.

"What's the occasion anyway? Are you so rich and bored you have to throw extravagant parties multiple times a week for no reason?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

His lips pull into a sly smile, eyes glinting with mischief. "This party is but another celebration of power."

"And what does it have to do with me?"

His hand squeezes mine in a gesture that should be tender. "Consider yourself the jewel in my metaphorical crown. The ultimate symbol of my success."

"A trophy," I spat. Just like the first party, where he paraded our subjugation, except now he's found an everlasting symbol of his conquests: me. "I'm no man's property, and definitely not some symbol that you've won anything. My people will always rise."

"You sell yourself short, Estrella," he glances down at me. In the blink of an eye, the sly smile vanishes from his face, and his tone turns authoritative. With his free hand, he straightens his tie. "Our deal starts tonight. You will behave in front of my guests."

My brow furrows. "Says who?" I ask. "I never agreed to anything."

"Me," he gives me a stern look and squeezes my hand again, this time towards the edge of pain. "The final Coven's leaders are still being detained, and we're still trying to figure out where to assign the members so they can work off their debts."

I inhale sharply and regret it. He smiles, knowing he struck a nerve.

"Be on your best behavior tonight, and we'll ensure every little Witch has suitable housing with comfortable jobs to pay the fees for their war crimes," he says conversationally. War crimes: also known as defending themselves from invasion. "Misbehave even once, and they all become manual laborers in the worst of jobs. Imagine the children, toiling away. Of course, the Head Witches will die for their rebelliousness, and I'll even get their deaths documented for proof if you'd like to watch."

I gape up at him, my heart pounding against my rib cage. "You're sick."

My words don't phase him. "We made a deal, and it starts now. You will enjoy this party, smile, and look pretty before my guests."

"I never agreed to this!" I remind him, voice rising.

"Ah," he pretends to mull this over, rubbing his chin with his hand. "But what is your other choice? Enlighten me."

I take a deep, shaky breath and look him straight into those devious eyes searching for a hint of empathy, love, anything to reach for to talk my way out of this sick arrangement. All I find is apathy and an unquenchable thirst for power and control.

"I hate you so much," I tell him through gritted teeth. I feel my powers trying to bubble up to the surface. The Suppressor pushes back, and a wave of dizziness hits me. 

Breathe. Just breathe. But it doesn't work. My head aches. Reflexively, I place a hand against my forehead.

Deion's eyebrows pinch, a little wrinkle forming between them. He holds up my hand and examines the Suppressor again as if he's never seen one before in real life. He commissioned the tech, yet remains fascinated by it. I'm starting to think he knows nothing about it because he just threw money at some people to make these things and gave the order for us to wear them. He didn't consider side effects, or what it would put us through.

"It hurts you?"

I don't know if I should answer. Does he want to know to find another way to force me into compliance? I search his face and I think I find a genuine curiosity there. 

"Yes, if I don't control my emotions." Which is more often than I'd like to admit. As a Fire Witch, my powers connect to my anger and frustration, which are unfortunately common emotions for me these past few years.

"Hm."

It's all he says, and we continue in silence. I'm hyper-aware of Evander shadowing us, witnessing our entire conversation. Whether he's actually listening is another question.

We reach a towering set of doors, flanked by two guards, and I recognize we've arrived at the same room that held the first party I attended here. On the other side, despite the thick wood, I can already hear the crescendo of live classical music battling with the dull roar of chatter. Unease settles in the pit of my stomach like a stone. The idea of another evening, mingling amongst the monsters who ruined my life makes my food threaten to come up.

Nodding to the stoic guards, Evander pulls open the double doors and stands aside as we make our entrance. For a brief moment, my eyes find his. His expression remains inscrutable, a carefully arranged mask of ambivalence, but there's no missing the storm that hides behind his gaze.

Elite Supernatural beings from various realms mingle, their laughter and chatter creating a cacophony of noise that makes my head spin. The room is thick with the energy of power, wealth, and danger. I'm aware of my vulnerable position, and the worst twist of all is that King Nephus is my safety raft in this sea of the Realm's worst people.

My strategy is simple – cling to King Nephus, stay quiet, and avoid drawing attention. However, the cosmos have other plans for me, because as soon as people take notice of our presence, they converge.

Not on Deion as I expected, but on me. I'm the target of speculative glances, whispers, and even outright greetings by name. People leave their dates and companions to speak with me.

  It turns out that I am more than just a face in the crowd; I'm a figure of recognition amongst the King's Court and Nobility. I always thought Lady Genevieve said I was her best girl to butter me up to meet clients, turns out she wasn't exaggerating. I've never thought of myself as a good Courtesan. I can hardly temper my expressions, my tongue gets sharper the more my patience wanes—and I don't have a lot of patience to begin with. But one by one, people approach to greet me, even forgoing their spouses and dates to say hello. Not that these types are usually too keen on monogamy and loyalty anyway.

I realize this is what Deion wanted. To parade me around like a sideshow. But as time passes, I notice his mood souring. He bit off more than he can chew, because now I shine, while he melts into my shadow. A mere Courtesan has about as much notoriety as him.

Serves him right. 

Just as I'm snatching what must be my fourth drink off a server's tray, Lord Oren approaches with a big grin on his face. His eyes flicker down to my dress, then return to my eyes almost apologetically, as if he feels bad for allowing them to wander. His cheeks grow red–a curious reaction. The people in this room are so powerful, that they have little to no boundaries, especially with people they deem lesser than them. Lord Oren seems different–with me anyway.

"It's a pleasure to be graced by your divine beauty once more, Estrella," He gives me a regal bow at the waist, his long white hair creating a curtain that frames his face. I respond with an exaggerated curtsy that makes him chuckle. "I've been missing you dearly since I last saw you in this very room."

Seeming to remember King Nephus standing next to me, Lord Oren tosses him a dignified nod. Even I'm shocked at how openly he shows his dismissiveness towards Deion. Despite the shyness I often receive from him, Lord Oren must be bolder than he seems deep down.

Almost reluctantly, Lord Oren's gaze slides to Deion, "You truly are the luckiest man alive to have such a radiant woman on your arm, Your Majesty."

In response, Deion drapes a proprietary arm over my shoulders, and says, "You should know by now, Lord Oren, nothing I acquire comes by luck."

"I'm sure you've noticed the envious gazes. Nearly every man here has been practically on their knees begging to Sponsor Estrella since she joined Lady Genevieve's house," he gives me a smirk. "Myself included. I do hope you're treating her with the care we all desire to give her." 

Deion's arm tightens, his hand gripping my shoulder. "You seem to forget yourself, Oren."

Lord Oren's lips press into a thin line. Lady Genevieve once told me that dropping someone's title is nearly as bad as slapping them right across the face, though not as ostentatious. The ultimate way to insult someone in polite society.

Perhaps he's embarrassed because he knows he hasn't been treating me as he should when so many men have been vying for my attention. I bet Lord Oren would never make me go without food. In fact, he'd probably hand-feed me himself.

The thought makes me look at him differently. He has the pretty androgynous features all Fae tend to have, along with the stark light features of Light Fae. His blond hair is nearly white, as well as his eyebrows. And his blue eyes are so bright they look almost translucent with an ethereal glow. He wears a golden suit, meticulously designed with shimmering filigree, most likely handmade by Fairies.

Our eyes connect for a brief moment, and we share a smile before he returns to his stare down with Deion. I'm not purposefully flirting. Charming men is all I've done for three years, to where it's second nature, and being drunk always helps. This is what I became when Deion had Witches arbitrarily assigned jobs, and I got the joy of being a Courtesan.

"Perhaps I do. Apologies if the question made you uncomfortable, Estrella," he bows his head to me slightly. Another disregard towards Deion. "Perhaps I can make it up to you with a dance? I'm sure you won't mind, Your Majesty?"

Lord Oren's eyes flicker between us. Tension settles. A quiet storm brewing between the two men, and I just watch it all go down. In all honestly, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't reveling in watching this little power dynamic play out. 

It seems others have caught on to the subtle undercurrent of this rivalry because people nearby cast furtive glances towards us. They try and fail, to pretend they're not eavesdropping on the conversation.

"Unfortunately, we were just about to dance, before you interrupted," he starts to steer me away, towards the dance floor near the string quartet. 

"Then I shall patiently await the next song."

"Estrella is tired. This is our final dance before retiring for the evening," he snaps. "Perhaps fortune will shine upon you next time."

Lord Oren's lips curve into a knowing smile, realizing he's been beaten, and he raises a welcoming hand towards the dance floor for us. "Of course, Your Majesty. Until next time." His eyes linger on me, a promise or a challenge, I can't tell.

Deion leads me to the dance floor, strung as tight as the strings of a violin being plucked by one of the musicians, creating a lively tune.

His arm leaves my shoulders, then I feel his warm hand at the curve of my back guiding me towards him. I don't like the way the warmth radiates into my stomach, but I chalk it up to the copious amounts of wine I've drunk tonight.

The musicians perform an enchanting melody on their magick instruments, that envelopes us in a feeling of warmth and intimacy. My feet feel antsy, ready to move now that we're in such close proximity to the music. I resist the siren-like pull of the melody on my senses, but I don't mind the desire to dance. I lean into it, even if it means dancing with a monster.

Deion's hand slides slowly to my waist. With his other, he intertwines his fingers with mine and guides me until he can place my palm on his shoulder. My other hand follows suit, resting on his opposite shoulder, the decadent silken fabric smooth beneath my fingers. Those soft fingertips skim their way across the back of my hand, down my forearm, towards my shoulder–slow, gentle, tender–until he holds the opposite side of my waist.

My temperature peaks, something stirring deep within me. How can a man so horrible handle me as if I'm made of the finest crystal in the Realm?

The heady scent of his cologne disorients me, a dangerously decadent smell mingling with his own unique scent of power. I can feel the muscles in his shoulders humming with strength as he leads us through the intricate steps of the dance.

His eyes capture mine, brown clashing with luminescent gold. I could get lost in them for hours, days, centuries, unraveling the mysteries that lie beneath. Who is this man? Why is he the way that he is? What does he want from me? And for how long?

Our bodies move in sync as Deion guides me across the dance floor with the practice of a man who has done this thousands of times over many centuries. His hand takes hold of mine, and lifts. Trained well by Lady Genevieve, my feet automatically move into an elegant spin. However, I'm caught off guard when he dips me backward, my back bending over his arm. Despite my distrust of him, I never fear that he'll drop me, and instead lean into his steadying arm, arcing out my own to up the drama and grace. When he pulls me upright once more, our faces hover close, his arm pulling my hips into him.

Having forgotten to resist its pull, the music tugs at my resolve, beckoning me closer to him, until our noses touch.

My mental defenses slam back into place and I pull back as much as I can without causing conversation amongst the obvious onlookers.

This is King Nephus, and everything he does comes with a purpose…and a cost. I know exactly what this sensual performance is about.

"Think Lord Oren is enjoying the show you're putting on for him?" I ask, pursing my lips. 

His lips, still mere inches from mine, curve into a cocky smile. "Lord Oren has never been, and will never be my concern," he murmurs low enough that only I can hear. His arm still tight around my waist beckons me closer once more, erasing the space I'd just put between us.

"I'm sure he's enjoying our show," he continues, somehow pulling us even closer. My face buries into his jacket, and I have to rest my cheek against it just to breathe. Deion's lips move beside my ear. "But the question is: do you? If I didn't know any better, I'd say you are, despite the fact that you loathe every fiber of my being. The cognitive dissonance must have you in knots."

I swallow hard. "I'm only dancing to keep up the performance as part of our deal, remember?" I remind him, and myself.

His hand tightens on mine, almost to the edge of pain, his tone suddenly darkening. "Ah, but our deal did not include you flirting with every person in the room, did it? Especially Lord Oren."

He allows us some distance, and I see a completely different face than before. Now, his lips pull into a slight frown, eyebrows pinched.

"I'm a Courtesan–a glorified whore–trained in the art of pleasing," I snap at him, struggling to keep my voice low. He is the reason I am the way I am after all. "What else do you expect?"

The song winds down now, and the couples break off. Some wander off the dance floor while others wander on awaiting the start of the next tune. Deion and I remain locked in our embrace, swaying even as the final notes pass. He moves a hand to the back of my neck, a gesture to others that may seem sweet. To me, it feels dangerous, especially when he squeezes.

"You will be wise to forget all that you were before," he whispers. "Because now, you're mine, and you will act accordingly."

I grit my teeth, anger rising. "I will never be yours."