Page 47 of Bride of the Fae Prince

We finally make our way out of the crowd, through the palace. I move swiftly, not because I want to make her struggle to keep up, but because my composure is starting to fracture, and I cannot let a single pair of eyes witness it.

Don’t think about any of it. Don’t think. Don’t break.

Thankfully, the palace corridors are mostly empty, and we arrive at the familiar arch of my own doorway quickly enough.

“Here we are!” I say with far more cheer than I feel, pushing open the door to my suite of rooms. Then, when she doesn’t respond, I shut the door and say, “It’s your new home, Stella.” My voice almost cracks on those words. I sniff—and find nothing suspicious in the air. The individual rooms might be suspect, but out here is fine. Not much can get through my wards.

She blinks—not at me. She pulls her hand out of my elbow and scoots away from me, standing still with her head bowed and hands clasped.

My gut drops.

Something is wrong.

Is she ill? Did someone hurt her? That is impossible—I haven’t taken my eyes off her this entire time. I didn’t dare give her anything to eat or drink out there, and no one touched her except for me. No one could have hurt her, right?

I take a step toward her. “Stella?”

She flinches.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, coming toward her again. “Stella?”

She throws out her hand, eyes wide but not meeting mine. “D-d-don’t—”

Don’t touch me. Her movements speak clearer than her words. I swallow the rock in my throat and quickly lift both hands. “I won’t touch you.”

Her eyes finally meet mine then, and my whole being falls. They’re wild with terror, with hurt. She looks like a doe terrified for her life.

I did this.I did this.

Not the High King. Not anyone from the revelry.Me.

I shouldn’t have been so warm with her earlier, last night. I should have kept my distance, helped her understand that there can be nothing between us.

Stella breathes hard, wrapping her arms around her middle. I don’t know what to do. Helplessness washes over me. I want to take her in my arms and comfort her, but if I so much as move, she reacts.

“Y-y-y-you-you-you—” she gasps. “You . . . you . . . you—you—” Those words come faster, more desperate. The same sound, over and over and over again, like she’s actually choking on the effort it takes to speak. Each syllable is like a serrated knife sawing in and out of my heart. “You—”

My mouth opens. Everything in me falls.

She can’t speak. She’s so scared, she can’t speak. Last night, she was terrified, yet she barely stuttered. But this?

Ash, you wretched fool.

She gasps, pressing a hand to her throat as her chest and shoulders heave. “You—you—y-y-you—”

“Stella, breathe,” I plead, taking two steps closer. She jerks back and throws up her hand again, still choking on her own air. I stop where I am. “Breathe, girl, breathe! Stop talking!”

Mercifully, she listens, focusing on breathing hard in and out. It’s like the wind is knocked out of her. I stay where I am, my heart in my throat, as she breathes, and breathes, and breathes again.

I could use magic to make her breathe, but I’d have to touch her. That is clearly the last thing she wants.

I hate myself for bringing her here, for scaring her. For being rough and callous with her. For making her face the prospect of her own death multiple times this evening.

I’m such a cad.

Once she’s finally breathing again, her hands pressed to her chest, I venture another tentative, “Stella?”

She looks up at me, those white-ringed brown eyes arresting me as they fill with tears. Then the sobs break loose, and she is bending over, arms wrapped around herself as she cries her heart out.

---