Chapter 7 7- If A Fae Smiles At You, Something Just Became Your Problem.

LOTTIE

I drag my gaze back over the crowd, trying to focus instead of gawk. The variety between the individuals is extreme. Some are tall and willowy with glowing skin and delicate features. Others are sharp and angular, all cheekbones and predatory smiles. A few look almost human at first glance, until you notice the eyes that gleam too brightly or the way their shadows move a little too slowly behind them. But there’s one constant. They are all beautiful. Not always in a conventional, magazine-cover kind of way. Some of them are almost unsettling to look at, their symmetry too precise, their movements too fluid. But every single one of them has a presence. Power. The kind of beauty that feels like it could ruin your life if you let it. Which brings me to my current problem. I have absolutely no idea which one of these stunning, terrifying creatures is hosting this party. 

Okay. Think logically. I can eliminate anyone who is definitely female. Or… Can I? Lord Rowl is supposed to be some kind of shapeshifter. If that’s true, he could look like anyone. He could look like a woman. He could look like a child. He could look like the goblin at the door for all I know. That thought is deeply unhelpful. Still, I need to narrow this down somehow, so I start with the obvious. I focus on the men. That at least halves my options. Progress.

I study them one by one from across the room. Several are engaged in intense conversations. Some have admirers hanging off their arms. Others are clearly accompanying someone more important, standing half a step behind them with attentive expressions. Dates. Plus ones. Political attachments. If I eliminate the ones who look like they’re attending someone else’s party rather than hosting it, that cuts the number down again. I mentally subtract. And subtract. And subtract. Even with three quarters of the room eliminated, I’m still staring at at least fifteen possible candidates. Fifteen. And that’s assuming I haven’t just ruled out the actual host because he decided to show up disguised as a woman in emerald silk. This is impossible. 

I press my back lightly against the wall, resisting the urge to sink into it. Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way. This is Lord Rowl’s party. He belongs here. In fact, the only person who very clearly does not belong here is me. Surely HE’S already noticed that. I’m underdressed. Human-looking. Wearing enough iron to make half the room uncomfortable. And I’m standing in the corner like I’m casing the place. If I were hosting this event, I’d absolutely want to know who I was. Which means… Maybe I don’t need to find him. Maybe I need to let him find me.

I straighten slightly, stepping just a little farther out of my corner. Not enough to be centre stage, but enough to be visible. He has to be curious. The question is… How do I make sure to get his attention? One clear answer presents itself. At the very head of the room, elevated just slightly on a shallow platform, sits a large, almost throne-like chair. It commands attention without trying to. The fabric is dark and rich, the frame carved with intricate patterns that seem to shift if I look at them too long. That has to belong to the host. Right? It’s not the kind of chair any old person can just go sit in. My heart starts thudding harder. Am I brave enough for this? Because walking over there, it’s not blending in. It’s not quietly waiting to be noticed. It’s a declaration, but is it reckless? 

I hesitate for half a second. Then I think of my mother. There are many things about her I resent. The irresponsibility. The selfishness. The way she floats through life without considering the wreckage she leaves behind. But there is one thing I’ve always, quietly, grudgingly admired. She is fearless. Stupidly fearless sometimes. Reckless, even. But fearless. And she got that from my grandmother. I am her granddaughter. I have that blood in me too. I square my shoulders. Decision made.

I step away from the wall and begin weaving through the crowd. I keep my hands tucked close to my sides, fingers curled slightly inward. The iron rings press cool and heavy against my skin. The last thing I need is to brush against someone and accidentally burn them. They may be dangerous to me, but I’m technically the guest here. Burning the other attendees feels like poor etiquette. As I pass, conversations soften. Eyes track me openly now. Some curious. Some amused. A few were irritated. I ignore all of it as I climb the shallow step and reach the chair. 

Up close, it’s even more impressive. I rest my fingertips lightly on one carved arm. The wood is smooth beneath my skin, polished to perfection. The seat itself is surprisingly plush. Not a rigid throne meant for stiff posture and ceremony, but an elaborate armchair built for lounging. For someone confident enough to recline while the world bends toward them. My stomach flips. I can feel it now, the attention. It’s not subtle. 

Dozens of gazes press into my back. Into the back of my neck. The fine hairs there rise instinctively. The room hasn’t gone silent, but it has shifted. The music continues, the conversations hum, but beneath it all is awareness. Waiting and watching.

“Did you want to sit?” A deep male voice murmurs just over my shoulder. The sound is smooth. Warm. Close enough that I feel the brush of breath near my ear. I jump, heart leaping into my throat, and whirl around. And then I forget how to breathe. He is, without question or hesitation, the most stunning man I have ever seen. He is tall, and his skin is a cool-toned tan, smooth and even. He has high cheekbones and a strong jaw. His ears taper elegantly to subtle points, seamlessly blending into thick, ink-black hair that falls in loose strands just past his shoulders. It isn’t styled to perfection. It doesn’t need to be. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive. Storm-grey. Deep. Layered. Like clouds gathering before rain. There’s movement in them, something alive beneath the surface. When the light hits just right, they gleam faintly, not bright, just enough to remind me that whatever he is… It isn’t human. He’s dressed in black. Not a suit. Black pants that fit him far too well. A black shirt that’s unbuttoned low, dangerously low, exposing smooth skin and the defined lines of his chest beneath. No tie. No jacket. Nothing stiff or formal about him. His build is lean and athletic, not bulky, just controlled strength under relaxed confidence. He stands like someone who has never once questioned whether he belonged in a room. 

Then he steps around me. He steps around me without breaking eye contact. Not rushing. Not crowding. Just close enough that I’m intensely aware of him, the faint scent of something clean and crisp, the quiet confidence in the way he moves. Then, in one fluid, unhurried motion, he lowers himself into the ornate chair. He doesn’t sit stiffly. He lounges. One leg drapes over the armrest. One arm stretches along the back. His body angles toward me, relaxed but deliberate, as though the throne was built for this exact posture. His gaze never leaves mine. There’s mischief there. Playfulness. Something sharp and knowing beneath the surface charm.

“Come, little witch.” He says softly. The words are low. Intimate. “Sit with me.”