Tristan

THE CANDLELIT ROOM IS A BLUR of dancing, shadowed in false pretenses, and draped in elegant silk décor and crystal place settings—all conceived out of a nightmare.

My fucking nightmare.

I close my eyes and behind the lids, all I see is her.

Visions of sapphire eyes and waves of auburn hair floating in the wind assault me, cutting me to my soul and stabbing at my heart like daggers. Serena St. Michael.

I snap my gaze open and swallow, trying to remove her ghost from the space it’s embedded itself in. Of its own accord, my hand lifts and rubs my protector tattoo; the throbbing is a constant reminder—of her.

The gargoyle princess haunts my every waking moment, and in the night’s darkness, overtakes my dreams.

Since walking away from her, I’ve been unable to concentrate on anything. Except how she tasted. The ache in my chest grows and I flex my hand in a fist in frustration.

It’s been months. Months since I’ve been entranced by her flowery spring scent or lulled by her laughter.

Attempting to pull myself together, I focus on the pounding of my heart as the sweat builds along the collar of my designer tuxedo. I tug at the material, trying to alleviate the choke hold it has on me. Christ, I miss my fucking jeans.

An ancient, silver-plated goblet filled with crimson liquid suddenly appears in front of me. I take it from the rough hand covered in brown leather fingerless gloves and swallow the entire contents in one swig, ignoring the burn of alcohol sliding down my throat.

Liquid courage.

It doesn’t help.

Sadly, I can’t drink my fate away.

“This is supposed to be a happy occasion, son. Perhaps a smile would be appropriate?” my stepfather, Rionach, suggests, while gazing into the sea of supernatural dignitaries and royalty celebrating with us this evening.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see his lips twitch as he fights to hide a smile. He knows I hate every second of this charade, but my uncomfortable manner amuses the commander’s kind-hearted spirit.

As usual, the leader of the queen’s guard looks like a combination of ancient Greek warrior and Irish guerrilla.

He’s wearing his general’s uniform, no doubt chosen to match my mother’s emerald and gold gown. A long, sleeveless, leather vest sits over his garb, an attempt to hide his military appearance—but the sword on his waist is a stark reminder that he is not to be trifled with.

When I was little, I thought Rionach was a god. I knew he’d protect me from any harm that would come my way, not just because it was his job, but because I was his son. His love for me runs deep. Even if I’m not his by blood.

But even he can’t stop this lie playing out in front of us.

“Where the hell is Zander?” I bark out, agitated.

A deep crease forms in Rionach’s forehead as he runs a hand through his once-golden hair, now peppered with gray, then over his wide nose, before pinching his large chin between his callous fingers, deep in thought.

“Your brother will be here,” he states with pride for his biological son. “You should relax, after all, Your Highness,” he waves at the room. “This is all in your honor. Tonight, the realms toast to the happiness of their future king and celebrate the peace you’ve secured for our borders.”

I tense as my heart beats wildly in my chest. Lately, I’ve been struggling to find any beauty or peace within my realm. For me, the world no longer has light in it—just darkness. I’m simply existing. Inhaling, smiling, nodding, and speaking all when I’m supposed to. Nothing more.

The burden of my title and oaths cast a shadow over everything.

The Renaissance music emanating from the lutes and virginals echoes around the ballroom as the prestigious guests waltz to each song. It’s normally a soothing melody.

Sadly, the reality of this moment—this situation—makes tonight’s music the most gut-wrenching sound in existence.

With each toast and sip of wine the lords and ladies make in my honor, I forge a smile. It’s a bogus act on my part, but not Freya’s. The water nymph princess flits around the room along with my mother, the queen, personally greeting each guest, smiling, and dancing with our realms’ nobles.

The princess of the water dimension is enthralling and beautiful, her existence meant to lure. Her silver eyes are filled with warmth and kindness as she enchants.

Sensing my stare, Freya’s eyes lift and meet mine. My childhood friend smiles before dipping her head toward me, as a show of respect to her fiancé and future king. She’s been trained well in matters of court manners. The perfect host.

The candlelight’s amber hue shimmers off the flecks of glitter in the white twigs that adorn her crown, and the similar branches that frame her slender face. In the light’s warmth, her skin appears less silver—less cold.

After a moment, she drops her gaze, hiding it under her long, thick lashes, before flashing a pretty glance at the lord standing before her, causing him to smile brightly.

I inhale my displeasure at being here—with her.

It’s all an illusion. The poetry, the sheer beauty of everything that surrounds nymphs—it’s all designed to lure you in, to make you feel happy, loved, and beautiful. The reality is, it’s all a sham. A ruse created around desire.

I mutter under my breath as I watch the maddening scene, praying the wine is poisoned—to end my misery.

“You should calm down,” Rionach suggests. “You look pale and sickly.”

“I’m just tired,” I grumble, correcting him.

Maybe it’s because every night when I lay my head on the pillow, it’s her I smell, preventing me from sleeping.

“We all are.” He slides me a knowing look. “Every one of us that is witnessing this is exhausted.”

A server walks by with champagne glasses. We place our empty cups on the silver tray and Rionach takes two more, shoving one at me.

“Drink. It’ll help you get through all this nonsense.”

I take it gratefully and raise my glass to him. “Yamas.”

After I down the contents, my heart slows back to its normal rhythmic pace. I force myself to breathe in and out, because that’s what you do when you’re lost. You continue to exist, as a shell of the being you were before.

“Your bastard son looks like he’s about to have a panic attack. His pale face makes me think that I should have offered my daughter to the vampires, instead of a half-breed satyr prince.” Oren barks.

I growl as the Nordic-looking water emperor approaches us. The crown on his slender head tilts, sliding down his white, shoulder-length, stick-straight hair. He reminds me of a weasel. Both in appearance and manner.

Hard silver eyes focus on me as he gets closer.

Angrily, I take a step toward him, but Rionach slaps me on the back before tightening his hand around my shoulder in a firm grip, holding me still as he steps between us.

“Watch how you speak to my son, Emperor. My wife may need your good favor, but I certainly don’t give a fuck.”

“Queen Ophelia and I both agree that this betrothal is the perfect occasion to celebrate our rekindled alliance. I suggest the prince appear enthusiastic of my generosity.”

“Your generosity?” I repeat.

“The offering of my daughter’s hand. You should be honored to be part of such an alliance and match. I suggest you show some gratitude, half-breed, before I turn my unkindness in your realm’s direction,” Oren threatens.

“There are those that say too many alliances make a ruler look weak,” Rionach counters. “I may not have been born with a crown, but this realm relies on my sword and allegiance. I’d be careful, Oren, how you threaten my son.”

Oren narrows his eyes. “You may speak like a king, but marrying a queen does not elevate you to the level of one.”

“And Freya may have a realm, but Tristan has an army, should he need it. One that I command. Remember that.”

The emperor lifts his chin. “And let me remind you of something. Both you and Ophelia should be kissing my ass for allowing your son’s illegitimate hands anywhere near my daughter,” Oren sneers. “For the sake of peace, I’m overlooking who his real father is—knowing that if Freya bears sons they’ll carry his tainted mongrel bloodline.”

I cringe inwardly at the thought of having children, let alone with someone that I do not love or care to be with.

Rionach leans close to the emperor’s face. “I am Tristan’s father. In every way that counts. I also oversee his protection. Before I cut out your tongue for disrespect, remember whom you are speaking to—the future king.”

Oren snaps back as though he’s been slapped, before righting himself and presenting me with a cruel smirk.

“Does he fight all your battles for you, young prince?”

“Yes. He’s the head of my army,” I reply sarcastically.

“Threaten me again, Rionach, and I’ll see you beheaded, at my command,” the emperor adds before taking his leave.

I exhale. “For the record, there will be no sons, or daughters, produced from this façade of a marriage.”

Rionach faces me with a disappointed expression. “Kings have consorts for a reason.”

I lift a brow at his statement and he rolls his eyes.

“I’m not suggesting you take one, just that there is a reason in court for them . . . you could do worse than Freya.”

“I don’t love her,” I all but shout. “He’s right about one thing, though,” I sigh. “Given my mixed bloodline and the stigma it brings with it, I’m lucky to be anyone’s ally.”

“Alliances shift. And you’re more than just a bloodline.”

I straighten my shoulders and glare through each visiting royal and dignitary. My jaw tightens with the need to take my aggression out on someone or something.

The reminder that I’m Gage Gallagher’s son, half gargoyle, claws itself back into my consciousness.

Gargoyle.

Like her.

The sea of guests parts as Freya and my mother make their way to us. Rumors of my mother’s beauty don’t hold a candle to the truth. Her long golden-blonde hair is tied up off her neck this evening, decorated with multiple braids entwined with her favorite lime leaves.

The queen offers us a warm smile before sliding her matching cognac gaze toward me, then back to her husband. “I noticed Oren was speaking with you both; I trust everything is all right?” Her voice is tight.

“As always, my love,” Rionach answers. “Oren was simply wishing Tristan a lifetime of happiness,” he charms.

My mother’s lips twitch. “There are many things I adore about you, Rionach. Your inability to lie is not one.”

She places her delicate hands on his chest and smiles up at him with nothing but love and adoration.

“Come, my queen, let me liquor you up so that I might have my way with you later,” he teases, taking her hand and leading her away before she can continue to question me.

Freya’s gaze meets mine, and she offers a shy smile. “The ballroom seems larger than I recall. Is that possible?”

“I suppose, given that we haven’t been in here since we were small children,” I reply. “During your game of chase.”

“I hated that when we were younger I was always following you around, never able to catch you,” she sighs.

“You still haven’t.” I state firmly, as a reminder that I am not hers, despite what the royal decree says.

She frowns. “Do you like my dress? It’s from Paris.”

I study the strapless, forest-green gown. It’s short in the front and long in the back, showing off her lengthy legs.

Some sort of red-and-pink flower design outlines the opening that drops in the front, reaching to her stomach.

Her perfect breasts are on show for the room and me.

The same flowers cascade down around the skirt.

Freya looks lovely, but it’s not something I’d have picked out for her, or anything that I particularly like.

“It’s very pretty,” I lie.

“I was hoping it would please you. I had several to choose from. It was difficult deciding which you’d like.”

Annoyance floats over me that she’s worried what I like.

“Why not just pick one that you liked?”

Serena would have. Her stubborn streak wouldn’t give a fuck what I thought. She’d just wear her favorite.

“How was your dance with Lord Valka?” I change the subject, because every thought I have comes back to Serena.

Freya sighs. “He smells bad and speaks very quickly.”

An honest laugh escapes my lips because it’s true.

She smiles, seeing my happiness.

“I’d much rather dance with you,” the nymph coos.

My eyes float around the ballroom. I suppose now is as good a time as any to stop sulking and embrace my reality.

I dip my chin and hold my hand out to her. “Shall we, then?”

A shyness falls over her as she takes my hand. I pull her into my arms and begin to twirl her around the ballroom.

When I notice that all eyes are on us, I try to control the urge to run and escape. Instead, I smile politely to the crowd and wish it were Serena in my arms, not Freya.

“You’re going to be a great ruler someday,” she whispers. “Your mere presence commands respect.”

My gaze follows hers at the eyes watching us. “I do believe they’re staring at you, not your dance partner.”

“I disagree. It’s obvious how drawn they are to you.”

“They’re drawn to power and what I can do for them.”

“I’m not,” she states, her gaze finding mine. “Impressed by your power or title. Or what you can do for me, that is.”

“Frey—”

“I prayed for you. Did you know that? As a child, you were all I wanted. I prayed that you’d find the courage to see me. Love me. Whatever the future holds for us, Tristan, whatever may come, I will forever choose you. Loving you will be the best thing I ever do. I promise.”

Her words force me to stop dancing. All I can do is stand here, look in her eyes, and hold onto her hands—speechless.

The truth is, I will break her heart. And believe it or not, the thought pains me, because she doesn’t deserve this.

None of us do.

I breathe in deeply and close my eyes. Like a spring breeze before the storm, the scent of fresh flowers assaults me.

My head jerks up and I snap open my lids. Releasing Freya, I spin on my heel and lock gazes with a set of deep blue, uncertain eyes as they flicker from me to Freya.

At the sight of her, my entire body seizes and the world around me ceases to exist. All I see is Serena St. Michael.

I hold her stare, afraid to look away, afraid this feeling of peace she brought will leave me as fast as it appeared.

And it does.

Zander steps to her side, taking her hand in his, kissing it, and my world fades to red. All I see is red. Fucking red!

Rage boils within me and before I know what I’m doing, I take a furious step toward them, ignoring Freya’s small hands around my elbow as she tries to stop me.

With a harsh yank, I toss her off my arm and continue to storm toward my brother and Serena, ready to tackle him and hammer my fists into his chest and face.

Zander smirks with amusement and takes a slight step in front of Serena, causing me to stop dead in my tracks, confused.

What the fuck is he doing? Protecting her? From me?

The room falls silent.

All laughter and music has ceased.

A crack echoes in my ears and tugs at my core.

Lightning?

No. It’s my heart shattering into a million fucking pieces, along with the last piece of my protector bond to her.

Serena’s eyes widen and she presses her hand over her heart, feeling our bond disappear. The fierce protector in front of me suddenly looks weak, terrified, and wrecked.

The emptiness hits me so hard, I’m forced to suck in a deep breath. My chest cracks, just a bit, as I mindlessly stare at her, and she back at me—both of us panicked.

Sensing something is off, Zander presses his lips together in a tight smile, walks over to me, and wraps his arm around my shoulder before announcing aloud, “It’s okay, please continue to celebrate. My brother is just taken aback by how good-looking and sharply dressed I am.”

A light murmur begins to float around the ballroom as the music picks up and the room comes to life again.

“What is happening?” Freya asks, confused, as she appears in front of me with a worried expression.

I ignore the concern in her eyes.

“I’m afraid Tristan has lost his way,” Zander states.

What the hell is he doing?

“You’re making it worse,” I whisper-growl. “Just stop.”

“His way?” Freya repeats. “Are you okay?” she asks me.

Zander takes Freya’s hand and squeezes. “Do not fret, princess, he will find it again. Because if he doesn’t,” he turns to face me, “I imagine the other half of his soul will be disappointed, and the last person our future king needs to disappoint is the one he lives for,” he finishes. “Right?”

Freya turns to face Zander, her gaze shifting from my brother to Serena. “What in the water realm are you babbling on about? And what is she doing here?”

He clears his throat. “She’s with me. We’re courting.”

I jerk away and mutter, “I have to go.”

“Tristan, wait!” Freya yells after me, but I ignore her and stumble out of the ballroom.

With every step, I try to catch my breath. I make a beeline for the front doors, pushing them both open with enough force to bring down the entire castle.

Resentment and anger boil under my skin. I release a painful roar that is so raw, it slices through the realm with a fierce shake, as I fall to my knees and yank on my hair, trying to pull oxygen into my burning lungs again.

After a few moments, I stand and run. Toward the only place in the realm that I know I’ll be safe. Secure. Alone.