Page 110 of Caged Kitten

Katja

Shimmering teal arrows cut through magenta flames, humming with magic, shot from unseen archers beyond the wall. Their tail feathers cut through the air with a whistle that reminded me of clear, high bells, razor-sharp tips slicing into warlocks like pins through paper, and imploded as soon as they hit the penitentiary. Stone blasted, spiraling and splintering, little pieces of that hellhole stark against a purple backdrop—the most beautiful firework display I had ever seen.

Seconds later, warriors charged through the fire, untouched by its raging heat, the baying horns at their zenith. Fear solidified me on top of Lloyd, and we both just sat there, helpless, watching as an army invaded the prison grounds, as it washed over all in its path like raging floodwaters. Most of the warlock guards bolted as soon as the invaders appeared, sprinting in all directions, collared wolf shifters at their heels, anarchy unfurling beneath the relentless floodlights.

Dressed in lightweight steel armor, flexible at the joints and stamped with stars, the warriors showed no mercy—they cleaved down anyone who stood against them with swords and axes and arrows forged by magic. Lloyd’s warlock cronies took a few out, blasts of color zipping around the once silent grounds, but then a second charge poured in from the left of the prison, then the right, more trumpets erupting from the rear. They had the place surrounded, the fire holding us all in. No escape. Nowhere to run.

Lloyd suddenly shoved me off his lap with a snarl. Gravel bit into my bare arm when I landed, shoulder taking the worst of it, but he had barely twisted around and away before I jabbed the Swiss Army knife into his calf. He went down with a shout, fumbling, blood painting the little grey stones at our feet, and I crawled after him, frantic but focused, to snatch the wand from his hand. Like hell he was just going to slip off into the night while all of us were slaughtered.

Nope. Not today, asshole.

Trembling, I staggered to my feet. Even if my knees were seconds from buckling, I still shoved Lloyd’s wand in his furious face and shook my head.

“Don’t you fucking move.”

“I have a panic room underground, kitten,” he growled. “We can go there—”

“Mutus,” I hissed. A burst of soft yellow struck him in the mouth, sealing his lips until I undid the spell. There were less invasive spells to keep someone quiet, but I needed him totally mute until I decided otherwise—not something that might fade at the most inopportune time.

Like when the small band of warriors peeling away from the rest finally made it to us. Drawing in a shaky breath, I kept Lloyd’s wand at his throat, ready to knock him out if necessary, then halfheartedly tugged down my dress so I was at least sort of covered by the time the squadron arrived.

The warrior at the helm was the tallest of the bunch, his helmet the most ornate, insanely detailed with the star patterning and a deep indigo mane trailing down his back, threads of dark purple and blue spilling out the top of his helmet, blending together like the midnight sky…

I blinked hurriedly, mouth falling open. Midnight.

Had Fintan been honest with us this whole time?

Flanked by two armored guards carrying flagstaffs with fluttering material at their spiked tips, a constellation of stars against a black backdrop, the warrior went for his helmet, which had only left his eyes visible in slits…

And the second he removed it, I saw Fintan. Not exactly the fae I loved, but an obvious relative. Older, gruffer, more weathered in the face, he had the same brilliant shamrock-green gaze I had fallen for that first day. Thick, luxurious hair spilled down to his armored shoulders, a shade darker than I’d expected—the espresso to Fintan’s warm French roast. Not a stitch of facial stubble, clean-shaven with the same rugged jawline that I loved to rake my nails over during a toe-curling kiss. Handsome. Regal. He carried himself like a king.

Oh, gods, Fintan had been honest from the start.

While I held up one shaking hand in surrender, I kept the one with the wand on a seated Lloyd. The bastard at my feet motioned frantically to his mouth like someone might actually help him, while Tully wove protectively around my ankles, which wobbled in these stupidly high heels.

“Be still, mortals,” the fae barked, the wind brushing his mane aside just briefly enough to show a pair of delicately pointed ears. “I am Prince Rollo of the—”

“Midnight Court?” I offered, throwing caution to the wind and hoping, just this once, things would go our way. Those bright greens zeroed in on me, and I swallowed hard as every ounce of color drained from my face. Terrifying, the intensity of his stare, the weight of it threatening to crush me into the gravel. As if posture created an air of authority, I rolled my shoulders back and lifted my chin. “Are you by any chance here for Fintan of the Midnight Court?”

Mercifully, the horns had died down, still bleating but at half the volume, musicians in battle armor flitting around the warriors charging for the main building. Already, someone had planted a black flag on one of the guard towers, a heap of bloody, broken warlocks piled at its base.

“My youngest brother, yes,” Rollo growled, taking a menacing step toward us. While Lloyd flinched back, knocking into my legs, I held firm—not like I could move even if I wanted to, fear rooting me in place. Tully hissed at Xargi’s former warden, then puffed up when purple fire erupted at the penitentiary’s front door. While Rollo’s men cast the flames quick glances, the prince refused to look away from me. “You have illegally detained a member of the royal court—”

“He’s inside,” I insisted, wand stabbing into the back of Lloyd’s head. “I can show you.”

Rollo’s eyes narrowed, his scrutiny falling on me like a ton of bricks, and that deepening frown spoke volumes. Not that I could blame him if he was suspicious: given how I was dressed and the mute, bleeding warlock at my feet… Hardly a crystal-clear situation he’d stumbled into.

“Fintan and I… We…” Oh, gods, how to describe it to his brother. “We, uh… I…”

Lloyd’s head snapped up, splitting his neck wounds open again just so he could sneer at me—petty bastard. Rollo, meanwhile, seemed to soften, his handsome mouth twitching like he was holding back a smile. With a flick of his hand, the fae warriors at his back sheathed their swords.

“Ah,” he murmured with a knowing nod, and just like that, color raced back to my cheeks like a blazing comet. Humiliation burned at what he must have suddenly thought of me in this skimpy red dress—what Fintan’s reputation implied about the nature of our connection. Sure, we’d had phenomenal sex in the world’s grossest bathroom, but it had only happened once—with all of them. One fleeting moment of intimacy in a hellscape of Lloyd Guthrie’s design, yet I loved them from months of conversation and card games and shared work shifts, from countless meals in the dining hall.

I was not his brother’s prison floozy.

So, I didn’t deserve that look.

Rollo offered me his hand, armored glove and all. “Come along, then, little witch. Take me to him.”

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