Page 53 of Bride of the Fae Prince

Exhaustion tugs at my body, but I walk past the bed to the wrap-around windows, dusk light and fireflies dancing across the garden. It’s like a fairytale, beautiful, romantic, and magical.

But I don’t smile.

This is a completely different world from my home—but also from what I expected. I’m not prepared to face a king’s vengeance, or my husband’s cunning machinations.

To some extent, I can trust Ash. I do believe him when he says he will do what he can to protect me, that he will try to not blindly throw me into situations I’m not equipped for without a warning.

At the same time . . . he is a fae. He is one ofthem.

He can be cold and callous. He can be wicked and wild. That is not the sum of him, but it remains that I must be on my guard around him.

I will not blindly trust him.

This does not mean Iblamehim for bringing me here. I can understand wanting to challenge a king whose goal is to kill his only son. I can understand many things about his situation.That does not mean I will believe everything he says or expect a complete reformation of how he treated me this evening.

I must make sense of this world and how it works, or I will die. Beyond that, I want my people spared from the High King’s conquest. Beyond that . . . I dare not let myself consider what else I want. At least, not yet.

I cannot rely on Ash for everything.

That’s when I notice three little potted plants set on the corner of my windowsill.My herbs.My rosemary, thyme, and lavender. I chew my lip, and maybe I forgive Ash a little more for earlier.

Crawling into bed, I pull the coverlet up to my chin. It’s the softest bed I’ve ever encountered, much softer than even a goose feather mattress. Despite the newness of this world, the constant alertness in my body, I quickly fall asleep.

The Prince

I run a handthrough my hair as I make my way to my study. It is strange and disconcerting to leave her alone after being at her side for these last twenty-four hours. What if something happens to her? What if there’s some trick I didn’t sense?

I shake my head. She is safe here. My wards indicate no breach. The pixies are gone.

She’s safe.

For now.

Why did I have to marry the most likeable woman I’ve ever met? I ought to have married some grisly old dowager queen. Then maybe I’d be less worried about her all the time.

I open the door to my study, only to be greeted by a stack of sealed missives left by Edvear, and the pile of my wife’s trunks stacked to one side. I flop down into my chair, lean my elbows onto the desk, and rake my hands through my hair and fist them tightly, closing my eyes.

It seems I might need rest too.

But I can’t.

The first thing I do is open the secret compartment beneath my desk, unlock the ward with my thumbprint, and pull out the vials. Six in all. I study them grimly for one moment, at the sloshing liquid contained in each. Most are clear, but one is black and viscous. I unstopper the first one and take a bitter swig. I move through all of them until I get to the black one.

No matter how many times I do this, the black one always remains the most disgusting. I fortify my strength and take my swallow. It slides down my throat like a slug, coating it with something that tastes like tar. I cough, take a few desperate swigs of an old, tepid cup of mint and grell tea as my eyes water.

It’s done. Until tomorrow.

I straighten, and before I touch those missives, I take a stack of fresh parchment and set to work. The first is an order for the royal tailor to come by midday tomorrow. The second is for Edvear to shift duties of Hylath, who has been on my staff for some forty-odd years, and set her as Stella’s personal maid.

Then I take the top letter off the stack. It’s an invitation. I slide my knife under the seal and open it.

Lulythinar Masquerade Ball.

I toss it aside and continue to the next one. It’s a sealed note from Edvear.

Mama Bagogs says she will be delighted to receive you tomorrow afternoon, if it should please Your Highness.

One of the tattoos on my arm twinges—half of a broken heart. I dip my quill into ink and scrawl my reply on the same sheet.

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