Page 82 of Fae Crown

Lightly, she began scratching her fingernails across the crown of my head. When they caught on any of my many small braids, she didn’t tug but merely gently moved to another spot. The action was almost … tender.

She looked away from me, toward the females. My stare had no choice but to remain on her face.

“Very few dare saynoto me,” she said in a conversational tone that was more dangerous than yelling. “Even less so, anyone still living.” She chuckled forebodingly. “The reasons, I presume, are obvious. My kingdom responds only to strength. And so I can’t be weak.”

She glanced down at me. “Can I, Rush?”

Her scratches began to dig into my scalp. “No, I cannot,” she continued without my reply. “Therefore, I amnotweak, nor will I ever be.”

Braque leaned forward. “Of course my queen will never be weak. She’s the strongest ruler Embermere has ever had.”

Her fingers stilled for a moment as she seemed to consider how to react to Braque’s obsequiousness. Eventually she resumed her scratching. Gone was the misplaced tenderness. Now her fingers felt like claws grinding into my scalp so deeply I suspected she’d draw blood.

“Thank you, Braque,” she finally offered. “At least some of you haven’t forgotten what it means to be the monarch of Embermere. Ruler of all the Mirror World. Come to the right, the honor,the dutyby blood.Iam the descendant of Prince Borromeo. Of King Spiro the second. Of the royal bloodline of the elves of Faerie.”

Her fingers wound around my hair. She pulled them so tight to my scalp that I wondered if she meant to rip out the strands.

The sky-blue of her eyes bore into mine. “You, Rush Vega, are not. You do not have the right to behave as a future king of Embermere unlessIgrant you that right. Which means that you do not have the right to deny me a single fucking thing.”

My breath hitched. She tightened her hold.

Since my arrival at court I’d heard the woman say a number of awful, hideous things, so foul I did my best to forget them the moment they passed her lips. But not once could I recall an instance when she’d used the “coarse language of the commoner,” as I’d heard her refer to the wordfuck. I remembered the incident well for its blatant irony: she allowed her dancers to finger-fuck her upon her dais, in open view of any reveler at her parties sober enough to pay attention.

That the queen would use the commoner’s language now could mean nothing good.

If this was to be the appointed moment of my death, then I’d go out tearing her to pieces as best I could—protections from the land’s magic be damned. I might not be able to kill her, but I’d bet I could make her hurt.

She twisted her grip and my eyes watered on their own, when I’d never approve of such a display of vulnerability.

“You ruined my plans,” she hissed. “And you destroyed the exhibit I went to quite a bit of effort to arrange. The parvnits aren’t easy to pin down.”

With a sudden amused arch of her brow, she chuckled, as if her unintentional pun were a delightful surprise.

“After the Nuptialis Probatio ended, I was going to open up the exhibit for the rest of my court. It would have been the talk of the moon cycle.”

She held out her goblet for a goblin to retrieve as she ran her tongue along her teeth. Coated in pink, they appeared unreasonably sharp from my vantage point.

“You denied me that too,” she said.

“They would’ve been dead by then,” I countered.

If she was pissed, then she likely would kill me and restart the Fae Heir Trials, selecting a more pliable candidate to become the next crowned prince. No reason to hold my tongue anymore.

The freedom to reveal my true thoughts bubbled inside me, its flavor unfamiliar after nearly four years trapped in the palace, unable to leave unless she said so.

“No one would’ve wanted to see tortured, dead parvnits,” I added.

Her fingers gentled, again a disconcerting caress along my battered scalp. I could feel her smearing the blood around.

“That’s where you’re wrong again,” she said, sounding as if her thoughts had traveled somewhere faraway. “Death can be very beautiful.”

“That’s only ‘cause you aren’t talking about your own.”

Her stare whipped back to mine. “Of course I’m not.”

My heart stuttered as instinct warned me of a deeper meaning to her statement.

“Everything and everyone dies,” I insisted, needing to be certain about this.

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