Bride of the Fae Prince (Exclusive Edition)

He fills the doorway of the bedchamber on our wedding night. My mouth goes dry as I stare at him from beneath my veil. I try not to crumple the folds of my dressing gown beneath my sweaty hands. I try to breathe. Try to not imagine what will happen next.

I just need to take this moment by moment.

And this moment, he studies me from across the room. His scrutiny makes my skin itch, but I can handle scrutiny.

He takes a step toward me. My heart rate kicks up several notches, and my veil sucks in toward my mouth with my sharp inhale. Calm down, I tell myself. I can handle him walking closer to me.

He keeps coming, his stride more purposeful.

Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe—

He stops before me, staring down at me. I don’t look up at him. I can’t. Instead, I keep my gaze downcast, fixed on my clasped hands. Then one of the Prince’s large hands enters my range of vision. He catches the edge of my veil.

I close my eyes, keeping my head bent and my hands curled around my gown as he rips the silk away.

There’s silence.

So much silence.

Suffocating, deafening silence.

Then a knuckle hooks under my chin. I force myself not to resist as he tilts my chin up.

“Open your eyes,” he murmurs.

I swallow. My lashes flutter, and I find myself staring at a pair of deep blue eyes, close enough that I can see the silver ringing their edges and the subtle gold flecks dotting his irises. He is so very beautiful, strange and unfamiliar to me. My . . . husband.

Is he not going to say anything? Will he give no indication of whether he’s pleased or horrified with my face? Is it even possible for fae to find humans attractive?

Heat climbs up my neck and into my cheeks. When I can bear it no longer, I lower my gaze and stare at the silver medallion hanging from his neck.

He clears his throat. The sound draws my eye back up, and our gazes meet for one second before he looks away. Then he turns and marches to a side table I hadn’t noticed when I walked in. There are goblets, along with a decanter. He busies himself pouring a glass for each of us.

I don’t move a muscle, even though I long to snatch the veil that has fallen to the floor and cover my face again. But I can handle his disappointment in me. I can. I’ve handled my father’s disappointment for this long. What more is my husband’s?

He tosses back the contents of his glass, winces, then clears his throat. He sets down the glass and plants both hands on the table, his back still to me.

He speaks, and the sound of his low voice gives me a small start. “I thought for certain the veil was your father’s way of tricking unsuspecting fools like myself into binding themselves to the most garish of your race.”

My gut sinks. My whole being sinks, as though I am a stone thrown into an ocean.

His head tilts in my direction, though his back is still to me. “I was wrong, it seems.”