Page 59 of Fallen Star

We’re alone now. Just me and the royal family of the Night Court, in their terrifyingly massive throne room.

My fingers twitch at my sides, aching to grip something solid—anything to protect myself. But there’s nothing. Not my dagger, since Aerix took that from me after I tried to kill him with it. Not even a rock.

Just me, without an inkling of magic, standing in front of beings who could tear me apart without breaking a sweat.

King Thanatos descends the steps, moving with that same unnatural grace they all seem to possess, and gliding toward me.

Panic races through me.

Is this it? Is he going to kill me?

I glance at Aerix, praying forsomesort of hint from him about what to expect—but I get nothing.

All I’m aware of is the king’s wings shifting behind him as he circles me, the shadowy feathers catching the light overhead. His gaze is purely predatory, like a cat deciding how it wants to play with a mouse before delivering the killing blow.

“Your hair,” he finally says, stopping in front of me. “It’s not a style I’ve seen before in my court. Who arranged it?”

“I did.” My voice comes out steadier than I expect, even though my heart pounds so hard I’m sure they can all hear it.

“Did you now?” he says, and his hand rises, yanking one of the braids free.

Fear colder than what I felt in the tower prison in the Winter Court rushes through me, and I shudder at his touch.

“Tell me, human,” he says, weaving his fingers through the braid, unraveling it from the bottom up. “What made you think it was appropriate to make yourself look so severe?”

I want to push him off me, but I have a feeling that won’t end well.

So, I stay where I am, pulling on every thread of strength inside myself to stay steady, although I don’t completely succeed.

“Probably all the pins in the vanity,” I say, not breaking his gaze.

If I do, he’ll have more power over me than he already does.

“You tremble, yet you dare to talk back?” He yanks another braid free. “I wonder, is that courage or stupidity?”

Aerix’s eyes are on me now, and I can see the warning brewing in them.

Is this really how it’s going to end? Killed because a man didn’t like the way I styled my hair?

My scalp prickles as he unravels the second braid, as if he’s unraveling my spirit along with it.

“You’re meant to be soft,” he continues, scaringly calm now. “Pleasing to look at. Decorative.”

His hands move with unnerving precision, undoing braid after braid, as if peeling back the layers of a facade he doesn’t approve of. My scalp burns with every sharp tug, but that’s not what hurts the most. It’s the casual way he touches me, as if I’m nothing more than an object to be adjusted to his liking, that feels like the deepest violation.

I force myself to stay still, even though every instinct screams at me to swat his hands away. Because I know better. The memory of the fae in the streets—their predatory eyes, their whispered threats—is too fresh.

And apparently, I’m not even prey.

I’m a trinket.

One meant to bedecorative.

Which might be even more demeaning.

As the king continues to methodically destroy my hour of work that I put into my hair, the others watch with varying degrees of interest.

Cierra seems bored. The queen is dark and heartless. Mirena’s expression carries a flicker of what might be sympathy. Malakai leans forward in his throne, his hungry gaze making me want to crawl out of my skin.

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