GARRETT
THE DINING HALL is alive with sound and sensation and energy. Laughter, clinking glasses, the deep hum of voices rising over fiddle music. The air smells of spiced wine and roasted meat and beeswax from the candles melting on the tabletops of the Great Hall.
Emily sits beside me, close enough that every shift of her body brushes my arm. She's wearing a pretty cream-colored sweater that hugs her body.
Her hair is braided in a crown atop her head. Her skin is flushed from the firelight and wine. She's stunning.
Everyone is staring at her, some openly—but respectfully so, or else I'd be doing something about it—while other sneak their glances in.
Even if my shifter senses didn't let me hear every conversation at every table, there'd be no question that she would be at the center of those discussions.
Everyone here knows she's my mate.
Everyone except for Emily.
