I handed Lyra into one of the high-backed chairs. Hundur and his harsh eyes watched her every move, and he wasn’t alone. Beady gazes devoured her, a sea of serpents waiting to strike. Melder craft always brought with it fascination and awe, but also fear and suspicion.

A dangerous combination.

One I disregarded in the seasons I knew Fadey. He was a boor, snobbish and cruel.

Lyra was both timid and bold, mild and fierce. I took in the gawkers while she settled into her chair. Something cold, almost dark, drove through me like a lash. A possessive sort of need to tear her away from their scrutiny.

“Roark. Are you all right?” Her eyes, dyed dark as black cherries, grew wider.

I’d not realized how stiff I was, how much pinched disdain tightened my face. I took my place beside her, tossing back a long gulp of sour mead.

The feast opened with a winded speech from Damir about the rescue of his son. Lyra’s name was spoken like a reverent secret. Mine was chanted by the Stav. I kept my gaze trained on the stone floor, wishing to be anywhere but there. Then Damir began to boast about his army and Thane’s utter devotion to the safety of his future wife as though the king hadn’t chastised his son viciously for his stupidity days before.

Part of me wondered if Damir would have us speak. The king always took a bit of twisted amusement watching me finger speak and needing another to translate. More than my hope I would not be urged to stand, I hoped Damir would stay his amusement for humiliation for Lyra’s sake.

Blood had long ago drained from her cheeks. The woman could hardly sit still as the king droned on. Beneath the table her knee bounced, and she’d wrenched the linen cloth in her hand so fiercely it looked like she was twisting the head off a pigeon.

The desire to touch her had not left since the moment we’d stepped close on the bridge, since I’d pressed her skin to my lips in Thane’s chambers. No good came from a Draven and a melder. Certainly not a match.

But when King Damir drew gazes our way once again, Lyra’s breath stuttered, and I placed a grounding palm on her thigh beneath the table. She stiffened at once.

I was a fool, thinking she’d want my touch. After a moment, I began to pull my palm away until Lyra’s grip took hold of my fingers.

She squeezed once, then lifted her chin. “Stay,” she whispered. “Please.”

I swallowed, then slowly maneuvered my hand so her fingers laced through mine, and kept hold of her until Damir ceased his speech and demanded the feast truly begin.