The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance

glance Ian’s way, she raised the skirt of her dress and hurried after the princess.
    Ian wanted to break something. Or someone. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of one of the fanciest of the elven lords staring at Lucy. Oh, yeah. He definitely wanted to break someone.
    The Fae prince was dressed all in green and gold, signifying that he was the highest of the treaty lords here to negotiate. Elvania’s neutrality had long made it the perfect site for the renewal of treaty agreements between the various Fae factions. They came, they ate everything in sight, they ran through serving maids as if women existed only to give them pleasure, and then they departed for another year; if not pleased than at least content. From the look of things as they stood now, pleased wasn’t on the table, and content wasn’t looking very good, either. But if one of the lordlings thought he’d sample the pleasures Lucy might have to offer, Ian had a sharp objection to make. He grinned and glanced at the honed steel of his blade. A very sharp objection.
    If he could keep his mind off how Lucy would look in his bed: that lush dark red hair spread across his pillow, those lovely breasts uncovered for his hands and mouth to touch and taste.
    Or how she would look when he wed her, with flowers in her hair and his ring on her finger.
    She was his, as he’d reminded her, and that meant his to protect in this madness. Ian tightened his grip on the sword and shouldered his way through the battling lordlings after Lucy. Although she’d easily slipped through the crowd, he took a certain grim pleasure in shoving his way through to the king’s table. One of the Fae lords Ian elbowed out of the way drew his dagger halfway out of its sheath, but a look at Ian’s face seemed to give the elf pause. A true Fae would never back down from a fight, but of course a fight could be avoided. The lordling suddenly seemed to find something on the opposite side of the room to be fascinating.
    Just as Ian reached the single step leading to the king’s table, the princess’ sharp, clear tone cut through the room. “I beg your pardon, my lords and ladies,” she said with an arrogance that made it clear that - in spite of her words - she would never and had never begged anyone’s pardon, ever. The room fell silent as everyone turned to face her. “I understand there was some problem with your rooms?”
    Not without admiration, Rhys watched the deceitful little princess pose her deceitful little question. Some problem with the rooms indeed. Of course he’d found the iron pellet the moment he’d stepped into the very grand and overdone room assigned to him; of all the myths surrounding the Fae, that one was true. The higher-born the Fae, the more critically sensitive to iron.
    Great power always seemed to come with great weaknesses, which seemed to Rhys itself to be a weakness in the basic ordering of things. Not that he’d ever voice such a supposition. To admit to even the slightest touch of philosophical thought would ruin his calculated image of languid boredom.
    To that end, he adjusted one of his jade-green lapels, yawned and then raised one eyebrow. “Problem?”
    A faint look of disgust moved across the princess’ face so quickly that another, lesser being might have believed he’d imagined it. Rhys knew better. This reaction to his affected pose was exactly as it should be.
    As the room erupted in complaint, all to do with the iron placed under the mattresses and accusations of conspiracy, he wondered why such a reaction bothered him for the first time in centuries. But he was far too brutally honest with himself to pretend he didn’t know the answer. It was her. The wench from the night before, standing a step behind Princess Glory. Wearing his house colours, as though she belonged to him. He drew in a sharp breath as he realized the feeling he had at the thought was one of smug satisfaction. For a woman with such fire to belong to him ... to be his friend.
    Friend?
    The wench - what was her name? Magda? - focused intently on an approaching guardsman, a man of prowess and sure strength, from the look of him.
    Friend? What was happening to him?
    He shook his head free of the unusual thoughts. It was irrelevant in any case. She was taken. Her heart was involved. Once that might have made it a challenge. Now he was merely resigned. What purpose to weave forgetfulness over true love for a brief time of ... friendship?
    He gave in to the