Page 7 of Fae Exile

Like an improbably fast, impossibly lethal spider, she sat atop her throne, her fingers wagging atop its armrests like many legs, her teeth bared in a fake smile, scarcely concealing her venom. Most nights, there she perched, weaving and tightening her sticky web, devouring her prey while her courtiers watched on, vapid smiles frozen on their stupidly painted faces.

When that predatory smile stretched in my direction, my blood froze solid in my veins. But I managed to keep my feet moving, pushed the panic from my face, the anguish from bubbling up my throat until I had no choice but to let loose with the loudest and longest cry in all fae history.

As if I were my own puppeteer, I stretched my lips upward on invisible strings, willing my smile to register across my face.

The queen’s blue eyes iced over. The woman would have to be deluded to believe I’d be happy to be anywhere near her afterall she’d done. Regardless, it was what she expected. It was, apparently, my role to play.

One day I’d kill this woman. One day I’d make her pay for all the crimes she’d committed.

Millicent, now in her human form, slunk to stand behind the queen. The crown princess hopefuls still stood to either side of her throne, blocking the king’s empty one almost entirely from sight, waiting for me.

No more than a few, long strides separated us when an unseen weight pressed in on my chest, crushing my lungs.

I can do this. For Elowyn. For Larissa. I can absolutely do this. It’s just my body, not my heart. Just my body. It doesn’t matter; I won’t let it.

I spotted Octavia Lily Rose’s signature curly, faint pink hair behind Coretta’s midnight-bluehue du joura moment before the future visdrakess in her late teens stepped out from behind Coretta’s busty curves that tested the seams of her bodice. Octavia’s smile was timid, gentle,real, just like the color of her hair. I couldn’t stop myself from wondering how long that innocence would remain untainted when the queen was reeling her slowly into her web, night after night.

The heat of another’s intent stare had me flicking a glimpse to the far-right corner of the Hall of Mirrors. There stood Octavio Linden Oak, watching, monitoring, probably terrified of the effect the queen would eventually have on his twin sister. The queen would persist until every single person in this court was as putrid and rotten as she was.

For a quick second, I met Octavio’s furious gaze. His scowl was disapproving. Like his sister, he hadn’t yet learned how vital it was to mask his reactions, how earnestness had no place in the palace, not unless he wanted the queen to feast on it for dinner until only the bare, twisted carcass of it remained.

Before I could be tempted to offer him my sympathy, I looked back to the queen busily spinning her trap.

Her smile had spread, as if she sensed my inner torment and delighted in it.

“Your Majesty,” I said when I was close enough, dipping into a bow. Beneath the transparent floor of the room, snakes slithered endlessly, as much prisoners to the queen and her whims as the rest of us. Since she’d gotten it in her mind to cage the snakes here as part of her macabre decor a year ago, they’d never been let out.

When I glanced up, the queen was waiting—for what, I didn’t know. Hers was a mind I had no desire to read, no matter what kind of strategic advantage it might offer. That was a one-way road to perdition.

Pretending I didn’t notice how Millicent, Natania, Coretta, Malina, Eliana, Octavia, and several others openly examined me, I looked only at the queen—as if she were the sole woman in the world.

Her smile, still cold, twitched at the edges—approval.

“How beautiful Her Majesty looks this evening,” I said. At least in this I didn’t have to lie. By objective standards, the queen’s beauty couldn’t be denied. Her eyes, face, lips, hair, body, every one of her features was stunning, striking—reminiscent of Elowyn in the way an awkward copy attempted to imitate true, inspired art and never came close to touching its genius.

As usual, the queen was wrapped in the finest tailored garments, the purest, rarest pigments, and the largest, sparkliest jewels. While her subjects suffered from lack as the land was slowly overcome by darkness, she indulged in every excess, every luxury.

Her bodice pushed up her breasts until it was nearly impossible to address her without being distracted by theirdisplay. The queen was about as subtle as one of her pygmy ogres, who lumbered about searching for anyone to brutalize.

“Thank you, Rush,” the queen said throatily. “You look quite beautiful yourself. Doesn’t he, ladies?”

Once again, my ass clenched involuntarily as the women chorused with the expected flirty laughter and banter. The concept that I’d have to share my life and my body with any one of these women was enough to send my balls fleeing in the opposite direction.

“That he is, Your Majesty,” Coretta purred. She was the boldest of all my potential wives. She openly primped her breasts so they all but spilled free of their bustier, and added, “They don’t make them any prettier or tastier than him, my queen. He looks”—she dragged her hungry stare up and down my body as if I were on a rotating spit—“very ... capable.”

“That he does, Your Majesty,” said Malina, leaning toward me even though her feet stayed rooted to the spot. Like every other one of the queen’s courtiers, she remained ever aware of her station. “I do so hope I win the Fae Heir Trials. If Her Majesty will allow me to be so brazen as to mention it...”

The queen glanced up at her, studied her for a theatrical moment, then nodded magnanimously.

Malina plucked a fan from her cleavage and waved it in front of her face while she batted ridiculously long, dark lashes at me. “I’ve been ... fantasizing about what I might like to do with the drake in our...” She giggled. “…marital bed,” she breathed, frantically fanning her heating face.

I struggled to keep my eyes from rolling. Malina was about as likely to be an innocent, blushing bride as I was. What she clearly was, however, was a brilliant actress.

A goblin appeared out of nowhere, a glinting silver tray held above his head, catching the light of the overhead orbs. He bowed but held the tray steady. “My queen,” he said in avoice like gravel that reminded me of Roan, and with a pang I wondered what he was up to, how Elowyn was faring, if the Sorumbra was living up to its ungodly reputation.

My throat went dry, and I wished the drink the goblin was offering the queen were intended for me.

Unhurried, unconcerned, its tail fluffy and pointed high in the air, a sneakle with thick, soft-looking black fur was sauntering between the queen and the goblin when the queen grabbed the goblet and brought it to her lips. The goblin hurriedly scurried away, vanishing amid the throng.

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