Page 21 of Omission

Slowly, I slip it on, carefully avoiding the areas Brice burned with his possessive touch. Yet it still stings a bit when the fabric settles over the area, and the way he’s watching me—his threat yesterday and the unafraid way he grabbed me—leaves me with little to no choice, and I heal myself slowly.

I do my best to neutralize the pain, but not erase it as my father pierces our connection once again.

Treat her like the queen she is. Understood, Daughter?

Yes, my king.

“Princesse? Are you ready?” the guard calls again, followed by a sharper knock. He’s impatient now but doesn’t say anything else when I exit the room a few minutes later. I’m used to being the perfect version of myself, and touching up my light makeup or making sure my hair is appropriate at all times is something I can do in my sleep. Robotically.

“This way, Princesse Anaya. Please follow me. Your father—”

“Has already relayed his instructions. Please lead the way.”

“Of course.” With a nod, the fae male turns and walks down the corridor outside my bedroom. His strides are faster than mine, forcing me to almost jog to keep up right before he turns left, and the dreariness of my sector crashes with the oppressing nature of the heavily armed guards gathered outside another door. This short hallway has no other exit outside of where we came from, and had I not seen this myself, I would’ve never believed the amount of military personnel watching the very space occupied by the wolfen Luna.

A sickening feeling grows, settling in my stomach the closer we get. Each footstep isn’t quick enough, my powers demanding that I move, shield, and protect this woman I’ve never met before. And the closer I get, the stronger the magic flows, so much so that a man not far from me drops and kneels as my approach finally catches their attention.

Heads turn in my direction, and the audible shift of weapons is loud; they’re each holding a high-caliber rifle with a translucent bullet full of a silver-ish liquid inside of an open-view magazine. One by one, they adjust them while watching me with furrowed brows. Confusion—overwhelmed by the need to submit—it’s all there in their matching expressions.

They don’t understand why they’re reacting this way, but I ignore it while taking in two very slow and deep breaths. I let each out slowly, careful to not unleash any more of my tethers. Instead, I draw them back. Force my dominating essence into hiding and simultaneously, they take a collective breath of ease, more so the man who escorted me here from my room.

His posture becomes rigid seconds later. His eyes are a little too curious.

The questions are there. They all watch me with trepidation as the fae’s military has always regarded me as nothing more than the daughter of the man they worship. I’m an accessory to be protected, but never listened to or worse, bowed to. Nothing more than a quiet and unimportant presence, unless I’m brought before the public and used to bring comfort to our people.

Because they trust me. Not all believe my father to be righteous or fair.

Moreover, they’re unsure if it’s me or the Wiccan princess confusing them.

Ignoring them, I move shakily toward a small table directly across from the slightly ajar door. There’s a lamp sitting atop it and a tray with a carafe of water, the matching crystal glass sitting beside it with a plain white napkin over it.

My instinct is to serve the woman inside, to do what little I can and make her stay as comfortable as possible, but then I’m stopped in place. Voices drift. Angry ones, and instantly I’m furious.

“You cannot shoot her, Brice!” Lilou, Brice’s sister, shouts then. When did she get here? Why is she here? As far as I knew, Lilou’s been sent out of the kingdom on a mission by my father. Been absent for months now.

It’s made my life a little easier, too.

Her dislike for me isn’t hidden, while mine is contained behind a quiet dismissal, by ignoring her behavior when she throws a snide comment my way.

Sleeping with my father and brother has made the cheap fae woman brave. Stupid, too.

“You’re right, but there are other ways to gift pain.” Brice’s voice booms, his rage thundering and reaching far outside the room they’re occupying. Neither sibling is mumbling anymore or being discreet. Instead, each word is clear and the threat is concise. Each guard is attuned to it, too, not stepping in but choosing to listen.

Their pointy ears twitch while their heads tilt. They lift their weapons high, muzzles aimed at the door as if Brice and Lilou were under threat.

Not me. I rush toward the door, my hand on the handle, when the same guard that escorted me here places a hand on my arm.

“You shouldn’t go in there yet. Brice and Miss Lilou—”

“Are forgetting who’s in charge.” I keep my tone even, hiding the bout of ire currently pulsing in my veins. And for as much as I try to keep playing the act of a sweet and soft princess, I can’t fight back the bristling of my wings—how they manifest themselves as easily as a werewolf can shift. How the fangs of a vampire drop into place. Their luminescent-pearl-like shade darkens the longer this man touches me, something he picks up on and mumbles a low sorry before letting go. “Never do that again.”

“Yes, Princesse.”

“And two, your king’s instructions were very clear. She’s to be treated with respect.”

“But she’s a witch.”

“Ask him yourself, then.” That makes him blanch, while the others standing rigidly take a step back at the suggestion. They fear my father, a man who’s never so much as picked up a sword outside of shows of dominance. He’s a leader; his men do the fighting—die in the name of his cause—while the glory goes to him.

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