Magnus was a constant presence, so close that she could feel the heat emanating from his body. He smelled of the leather from his overcoat and a deep, warm sandalwood. He hadn’t spoken a single word to her since they’d left the temple. They’d ridden in the same carriage, but he kept his gaze on the view outside, on the landscape passing by on the return journey. He was sullen, cold. As he always was.
“Ridiculous,” she mumbled. “All of it.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Magnus replied.
Her cheeks heated. She hadn’t meant to say this out loud. She’d had too much wine, downing glass after glass as it had been presented to her. Magnus had been drinking nothing but spiced cider. She realized she now did an excellent impression of Aron—who sat in the front table and cast occasional drunken, miserable glances in her general direction.
“I need air,” Cleo whispered after a time. “May I have a moment?”
Would Magnus expect his wife to always ask permission for her every move? Would he be cruel to her and controlling on this, their first night of marriage?
First night.
Her heart began to race at the thought. She wanted to remain in public for as long as possible. What came later she couldn’t deal with. Not with him. Never with him.
“By all means,” he said, not bothering to look directly at her. “Go get your air.”
She left the dais without delay. Her walk was more of a stagger as the amount of wine she’d consumed during the banquet became more apparent. Too much. And yet, not nearly enough. She moved as calmly as possible toward the archway leading to the hall . . . to escape.
Or as much of an escape as she could manage with a limitless number of guards keeping watch over her every move.
Cleo pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself. Once she found an exit to a balcony, she grasped hold of the railing and tried to calm herself.
“Quite the ceremony,” a voice greeted her from the shadows, and she jarringly realized she wasn’t alone. Prince Ashur was already taking air on the balcony.
She attempted to compose herself. “It certainly was.”
The prince wore a dark blue overcoat, trimmed in gold. It fit his impressive form perfectly. His shoulder-length black hair was tied back from his face, but one long lock fell over his left eye. “I can’t honestly say I’ve ever been to a wedding like that before. If I were a superstitious man, I might be more wary of returning to the palace tonight. It was very brave of you to want to continue on despite such unpleasantness.”
Cleo let out a half laugh that sounded more like a hysterical hiccup. “Yes, so brave of me.”
“You must be very much in love with Prince Magnus.”
She pressed her lips together to keep herself from blurting out the truth. She did not know this man, only that his father had gained his expansive empire by conquering other lands, crushing each one easily. Cleo’s father had once told her about the Emperor Cortas and how his empire compared to that of Mytica . . . like a watermelon next to a grape. At the time, she’d found such a comparison amusing.
Why would a watermelon care about a wedding taking place on a grape? To her, it seemed a waste of the prince’s time.
“Why are you here, Prince Ashur?” she asked, then cursed herself for being so blunt. The wine had succeeded both in clouding her judgment and loosening her tongue.
Luckily, he did not seem offended by her question. Instead, he smiled—a devastatingly charming smile that proved why most every woman who crossed this exotic prince’s path swooned at the sight of him.
“I have something for you, princess,” he said. “A wedding gift, just for you. Of course, I have also given a larger gift from my kingdom to both you and Prince Magnus in the form of a villa in Kraeshia’s capital, but this . . . this is a small token of friendship. It is something given in my land to a bride on her wedding night.”
He pulled a small, bound package from beneath his coat and handed it to her.
“Tuck it away. Open it when you’re alone. Not now.”
She looked into his eyes, confused. But she nodded and slid the small object into the folds of her gown.
“Much gratitude to you, Prince Ashur.”
“Think nothing of it.” He leaned against the balcony railing, gazing out at the rolling vista visible beyond the city walls. In the moonlight, his eyes appeared to be silver, but she wasn’t sure what color they really were. “Tell me of the magic here, princess.”
The question took her by surprise. “The magic?”
“It’s quite a history Mytica has for such a small group of kingdoms. Such mythology, what with the Watchers . . . the Kindred. Fascinating, really.”