There should really be a cooldown room for emotional whiplash.
One minute I was on the dance floor, not-kissing the Winter King while the ceiling made snow drama about it. The next, I was back at our table with a glass of something warm and spiced in my hand, trying to convince my heart it did not, in fact, need to beat quite that hard to keep me alive.
The Night of Songs buzzed on like nothing had happened. Music spun out from the orchestra—fast reels, slow waltzes, carols that made half the room sing along under their breath. Fae in glittering whites and blues swirled past, antlers and braids catching the light. Humans tried valiantly to keep up.
Evren had disappeared into a knot of advisors near the dais, king face fully back on. I could still feel the ghost of his mouth on my cheek.
