Or perhaps there lay a chasm between every luxury a human might desire and every luxury fae royalty might desire.

The walls were painted blue, just like our breakfasting room—it was the current fashion, after all. But instead of my mother’s hand-painted cherubs, silver leaf textured the walls, swirling and pivoting until they formed the scene of a great battle, a host of winged fae swooping from the clouds, reaping judgment upon the humans below.

It was as terrifying as it was breathtaking.

When the prince heard the courier’s announcement that not only had they found his betrothed, but that she was here, the prince seemed to freeze. “My love,” he said, gaining momentum and craning his neck to get a glimpse of me over the courier’s shoulder. “You asked for something roman—”

I stepped out from behind the courier.

The prince’s jaw dropped as he caught sight of me. Me, who probably looked like a hot mess as I’d only done the minimum to get ready this morning for our guests, who I had had no idea would present me to the Crown Prince of Dwellen. As his betrothed. I might have laughed at the ridiculous sight of Prince Evander fumbling to reclaim a calm expression as he took in the sight of me.

Me. Not whomever he had danced the night away with last night.

“Who is this?” He glared at the courier, clearly still in shock. “I told you to bring me Cinderella.”

I barely stifled a scoff, and only managed to do so by clearing my throat. Cinderella? What kind of a name was Cinderella?

A thief’s name, I supposed.

Perhaps thieves donned stage names, much like courtesans.

“This, Your Highness, is your Betrothed. The one whose foot the glass slipper fit.” The courier could have audibly sighed his voice sounded so defeated. As unpleasant as the faerie was, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. How many other pointless tasks had Prince Evander sent him on?

“I have a name, you know,” I said. “Not that you need bother to remember it, as I’ll be leaving shortly. But you may address me as either Miss Payne or Ellie during our exchange.”

“Our exchange?” The prince’s eyebrows narrowed as his gaze settled on the glass slipper, which now clung to my sweaty palms. “By Alondria, Orvall. Could you please explain to me why you’ve brought me a petty swindler while I’ve been agonizing over my lost love?”

I might have been offended, had I not been too busy snorting. “Your lost love? Really? Because I heard she fled the premises.”

The prince gritted his teeth.

“I wouldn’t do that too often if I were you,” I said. “Detracts from the pretty face.” It was true. When it came to his reputation with women, the prince had clearly been assisted by his looks. His sea-green eyes gleamed, contrasting with his tanned skin, which almost seemed to blend in with his coppery-brown hair. Pointed ears poked through his slightly shaggy haircut, which, from all I knew about the King of Dwellen, I was sure his father detested. To top it all off, he somehow pulled off possessing a muscular build on a lean frame, and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some fae glamour at work here.

No one looked that good.

“Orvall, retrieve the slipper from this human and see her out,” the prince seethed.

I gripped the slipper tighter, but neither the courier nor the guards made a move for it.

The prince’s unfairly rugged jaw bulged. “Did you mishear me?”

The courier—Orvall—sighed, which I now suspected was just his default response to existing. “How I wish I had, Your Highness.” He held out a hand, in which the guard placed the small rolled-up sheet of paper. “But we are unable to throw the woman out, for she is, indeed, your Betrothed.”

The prince’s tanned face drained of color, which amused me greatly. I considered telling him not to worry about it, that he had gotten lucky and mistakenly proposed to the one woman in the city who had no desire to take advantage of such a mistake. But, then again, who knew how often this spoiled brat had actually had to face any consequences for his actions? Why not make him sweat a little?

“That’s not possible,” the prince said, though his voice had lost its grit.

“I’m afraid it is not only possible, but happening, Your Highness.” The courier shifted on his feet, causing his puffy robes to billow like blobs on the floor. “The slipper fit the foot of Miss Payne.”

The prince nodded toward the slipper in my hand. “Put it on.”

“You could say please, you know.”

“Put it on, please.” The way he said the word made it sound like he was being forced to swallow lye. His throat even bobbed a little.

I shrugged and leaned over, balancing on one foot as I slipped the shoe on the other. “See? It fits.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Are you in the habit of denying things that occur in your very presence, Your Highness?”

The prince shook his head, something like disbelief mingled with horror flickering in his wild sea-green eyes. Wow, he really was getting worked up about this, wasn’t he? Though I supposed for a male who was used to getting whatever he wanted immediately, this whole situation must have come as a shock. “Those slippers belong to Cinderella. Her faerie godmother gifted them to her. They’re enchanted to only fit her feet, and her feet alone.”

I brushed him off. “Oh, good. So the future princess of Dwellen is both a thief and a liar. Excellent.”

“Don’t call her that,” he snapped.

“Oh? And what word do the fae use to describe someone who takes objects that aren’t theirs and tells untruths?”

The prince bristled, jerking his head toward the slipper. “How did you get the shoes to fit? Are you a witch?”

I couldn’t help it. The laugh slipped out before I could grasp hold of it. “What?”

“Did you convince your own faerie godmother to bewitch your feet, then?”

I was pretty sure I’d lost all function in my jaw. The prince had broken it. “Why would I have a faerie godmother?”

The prince’s eyes swept over me, and a lopsided grin appeared on his face. “I do wonder why the faerie godmothers would have decided to skip over you, with that delightfully amiable personality of yours.”

I drew up my brow. “Is this your strategy every time a woman lacks interest in you, Your Highness? Insult her temperament?”

“Wouldn’t know. This is a novel experience for me.” I couldn’t decide what made me more uncomfortable—the way his tongue seemed to relish the word experience, or the way his wink sent my stomach nosediving into a flurry of cartwheels.

Nauseous cartwheels. Obviously not the other kind.

“The shoes fit because I made them. Not with magic. With my hands, and a blow pipe, and some sand, and a mold I crafted from my foot.”

“Is that so?” The prince crossed his arms, a gesture that should have made him look juvenile. Instead it highlighted the deep fissures between the muscles of his bare forearms, exposed by his rolled sleeves.

He was exceedingly attractive, which I found rather annoying. Spoiled brats should come with sniveling noses and bloated pouts, not looking like they were the prototype the Fates consulted when creating sentient beings.

He glanced over at the courier, who shrugged. “I am afraid she speaks the truth, Your Highness. Miss Payne and her father own a glassmaking business in town. Whether your Cinderella bought them from her for the ball or stole them, as this woman insists, we have yet to prove. But this we know: the shoe fits.”

The prince’s taut arms went limp. His footsteps echoed through the large breakfast hall as he paced back and forth on the marble tile. As he ran his hands through his already messy hair, I couldn’t help but notice how his shirt tugged at his shoulders and biceps. It was unfair, really, that such an attractive exterior should be wasted on the likes of someone who thought all humans had faerie godmothers tucked away in our pockets.

The courier and the guard went silent, and when the prince turned to face us again, I realized his hands were trembling, and his eyes had widened in panic.

This I did not find satisfying. Sure, I had intended to make the guy sweat a little, but at this rate, I wondered if he would break down into a panic attack. As someone who had never witnessed her father as much as shed a tear, I was not ready for the emotional awkwardness of witnessing the fae Crown Prince, Heir to the Throne of Dwellen, cry.