Page 12 of King of Storms and Feathers

Then sounds engulfed me—parrot calls coming from nearby trees, the rustle of creatures and snakes moving through the undergrowth. Damp heat coated my limbs as I ran, sweat beading my brow.

This was where I belonged, in the forest—with him.

My breath panted out in hard gusts as I ducked around a gigantic tree trunk, then came to a sliding stop in his arms.

“Got you, little Sapling,” he said, wrapping his arms around me.

“Ash,” I murmured, my palm thumping his shoulder. “I hate that stupid nickname. You’re not that much taller than me.”

A grin stretched over his handsome face, familiar green eyes crinkling as he pinched my cheek affectionately. I laughed, and his face blurred and morphed into a different person’s features, the mood darkening. As I closed my eyes, a warm palm tickled the inside of my thigh and heated my belly.

Calloused fingers stroked higher, drawing moisture from my core as I flushed with pleasure and guilt. My muscles melted against his body, and with a loud moan, I looked up.

“You!” I said, staring into the King of Storms and Feathers’ silver gaze. “Stop that.”

“Why should I when you’re so obviously enjoying it?” he rasped against my ear. “Don’t deny it, little human. The evidence coats my fingers.”

My head fell back against a rough tree trunk, another moan parting my lips. I gasped, first in pleasure, then in shock as water splashed my body.

Spluttering, I jolted awake to the grim sight of the Underfloor cell.

It was a dream. Only a dream.

Outside the bars, a guard tossed an empty bucket aside. An incredible woman stood beside him, the golden aura that shimmered around her body illuminating the darkened Underfloor passage. “Get your hands off the girl,” she said in a low voice that brooked no argument.

My head swung toward the hunched form of Davy, bent over me with his rigid cock in one hand and his fingers shoved between my legs. Two quick pumps of his wrist and liquid jetted on the stone floor between us.

Growling, I wrapped my fingers around his throat, squeezing hard. The gold tip of a spear pricked my shoulder, and I let my hands drop away from my assaulter. The spear lowered, and then the guard unlocked the cell.

“Line up for the Sayeeda, the bonded servant of King Arrowyn and his Mistress of Slaves and Spices,” said a second guard, cracking a barbed whip on the floor near my toes.

With a grunt, I scrambled to my feet, choking on embarrassment and the desire to crush Davy’s windpipe with my bare hands. Fury making me dizzy, I clenched my teeth and stood next to him at the end of the front line.

As the guard and the Sayeeda worked their way along the prisoners, I kept my gaze fixed on the corridor ahead and the hands that reached through the bars of the cells, clutching at nothing, their voices begging the Sayeeda to reassess them.

I hoped I didn’t end up in their company.

In a calm voice, the slave mistress made her decisions, issuing commands as she inspected eyes, teeth, and limbs, casting us to our fates as if we were insignificant, worthless, less than animals.

“Fires. Mines. Fires. Mines,” she said as she moved closer, the light from her clothing a golden glow at the side of my vision.

I longed to inspect this fae who held my fate in her hands, but a sense of self-preservation kept my eyes averted, my muscles frozen as I waited for her judgment.

An older woman destined for the flames screamed in protest, and the guard stepped back, flexing his gold-barbed whip and bringing it down on her body without mercy. She learned fast to swallow her cries of agony.

Then the Sayeeda’s glow intensified as she prized Davy’s mouth open beside me. “Extend your arms,” she commanded. He held them out, and she pushed against them. “Mines.”

Shadows swallowed all but the Sayeeda as she stepped in front of me. First, she tested my arms, then my legs. I kept my eyes lowered, breathing slowly while she made her assessment.

A firm finger hooked into my lower lip. “Open.”

I relaxed my jaw, and she lifted my chin. I gazed into eyes of molten gold set in a serene face of glimmering beauty. Sharp fae ears. Angular cheekbones. And swathes of metallic cloth wrapped her body, a perfect match for her skin and shimmering unbound hair that curled to her shoulders, like lacquered threads of gold.

In what sort of world would an enchanting, ethereal creature hold such a terrible position?

She should sit upon a throne. Sing from a sparkling dais. Entertain. Enamor. Not be jailer and judge in a hellish fae prison.

For what seemed like an eternity, she stared into my eyes, calmly evaluating me. I saw the spark of curiosity extinguish.

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