Page 98 of Their Wicked Cage

Those waiting their turn perch on the limestone stoop outside the two-story shop, delicate teacups in hand, biscuits from the teahouse a few doors down balancing on little trays in their laps. Through the storefront window, I notice how even their idle movements are polished, rehearsed—every demure sip, tiny nibble, wave of a gloved hand to my people.

Inside, I stand near the entrance, mingling as the first group of brides slips in and out of the dressing rooms. I can’t help but take note of their expressions, the small tells that betray nerves or excitement, the subtle ways they adjust a sleeve, a neckline, a strand of hair. Even away from court, they carry themselves like they know the weight of the Crown might one day rest on their shoulders.

Amid laughter and the rustle of tulle, I can sense the subtle currents—competition, camaraderie, curiosity.

As soon as that batch drifts out, my attendant ushers in the next: Miriya, Daphne, Lyrielle, and, finally, Gwyn.

Within seconds, Lyrielle is lost in the fabrics, trailing her fingers over silks and satins, practically ignoring me as she flits from gown to gown. Miriya, Daphne, and Gwyn trade playful quips as they drift between conversation and the fitting rooms, the latter’s presence a constant ache in my chest.

It’s not just sex to me either.

If this isn’t just sex to her, what is it? Have her feelings changed? Does she want to be my bride, my wife, my queen? Or is she still too afraid of yet another cage?

It takes everything in me not to go to her, to sweep her into my arms and kiss her until she’s begging me to drag her into the fitting room and fuck her senseless.

I force my gaze away from Gwyn, focusing instead on Miriya, who holds up a black velvet cloak.

“This would look absolutely stunning with the gown my cousin made me.” She glances at the tag and balks. “Never mind.”

Gwyn pries the cloak out of the werewolf’s hands. “Allow me.”

“Absolutely not,” Miriya insists. “It’s way too expensive.”

“It’s not too expensive for me,” Gwyn says, touching Miriya’s arm. “Seriously.”

Miriya sighs but releases her grip on the fabric so Gwyn can approach the register with the item in hand.

Beside me, Daphne holds two dresses against her chest, one a vibrant, unnatural blue, the other fiery-red. “Which one do you prefer, King Riven?”

“Neither.”

She sighs and calls out, “Gwyn, Miriya?”

For the first time today, Gwyn draws close.

My entire body ignites at her scent—vanilla and crushed violets tangled with rain-soaked leaves—and at the knowledge that beneath her clothes are love bites from me. One even peeks out from the collar of her gown, the reddish-purple edge of a bruise left by my mouth.

I can still hear the way she moaned when I marked her there.

Gwyn hands the shopping bag to Miriya and fixes her attention on Daphne. “Yes?”

“King Riven dislikes both of these, and, no offense, Your Majesty,”—she offers me a polite smile and glances at Gwyn and Miriya—“but I’d like your opinions?”

Gwyn’s lips purse. “Definitely not the blue.”

“Or the red,” Miriya says. “Maybe something more like…” Her fingers drift over the variety of dresses hanging on the rack. She grabs a deep, glittering bronze and holds it up. “How about this one?”

Daphne gasps. “I love it!” She snatches the gown from Miriya. “I’ll try it on.”

“I want to see how it looks on you,” gushes the werewolf, chasing after the nymph.

The moment their backs are turned to us, Gwyn and I take a step closer to one another.

Close enough for our fingers to brush. On accident. On purpose.

Gods, I want to reach for her.

“Hi,” she whispers.