Page 72 of Bride of the Fae Prince

I’m going to be sick.

He tucks me behind his back, keeping a hand wrapped like iron around my upper arm. “Come now!” he calls into the woods. “Is that any way to greet my new wife?”

I curl close to his back, not brave enough to peek around him and see who he’s talking to. It takes all my willpower to bite back a frightened little whimper, but I’m not completely successful. Ash’s grip tightens in response. I wince, grabbing hold of the back of his tunic for security.

“Why don’t we all put down our weapons and just have a nice little chat? I’m sure we could come to a mutually beneficial agreement. What do you say?”

Another arrow flies, and this time it goes straight through the edge of my skirts not hidden by Ash. I let out a squeal, squeezing closer to his back.

“How unfortunate”—he gives a sigh of long suffering—“that you all aredeterminedto be unreasonable. Things might get messy now, and my laundress will give me such a talking to. Don’t you know how difficult it is to get blood out of clothes?”

Why is heprovokingthem? My heart pounds like a hammer against my chest, threatening to climb right out of my throat. I look around, searching for some place to hide—

A fae in all black eases against a tree not far away, and as I watch, lifts his bow. A clear shot at me.

“Ash!” I scream.

His head whips to the side, and before I can react, flings his arm toward the fae, toward the arrow zipping toward me.

The arrow disintegrates into powder that floats away on the wind. I stare, rendered immobile, as that long, glowing sword I’ve seen Ash carry once before appears in his hand. It looks impossibly heavy, yet he doesn’t even grunt as he throws it with deadly precision into the chest of our enemy. Blue blood spurts as the fae cries out, falling to his knees.

As if that wasn’t enough, Ash’s hand closes in a fist around air, twisting. The blade in the fae’s chest twists in response, and a pained scream rings in my ears. I tear my eyes away as Ash makes a hacking motion with his hand, his flintlike jaw clenched.

He yanks his hand toward himself, and the sword comes flying back, its hilt sliding into his grip. I cling to his cloak, breathing hard, as he faces the rest of the men sent after us. Specks of blue blood fleck his cheek. His voice is that of death itself.

“It’s your own fault if you don’t run.”

They don’t run.

Ash’s back twists as he throws his sword once more. I try to block out the sounds, but instead of burying my face in his cloak, I have enough presence of mind to turn around. I keep my back pressed against his, my hands gripping his belt through his cloak, and scan the forest. Looking for any sign that we’ve been surrounded.

It gives me something to think about, to focus on besides the screams and the awareness of Ash’s deadly movements.

“No one is b-behind that t-t-tree,” I stutter to myself, forcing my eyes to stay open as another pained cry splits the air. “O-or th-th-that one.”

At last, silence falls. I quiver, still clinging to his belt. He lowers his hands and twists his head back toward me. I take that to mean it’s safe. Still, I cannot quite find the strength to let go of him.

Then, his commanding voice rings out, and it’s not addressed to me. “Return to my father. Tell him that if he wishes to hurt my wife, he’d better try harder.”

Footsteps scramble off, making at a run, and my breath turns shallow and short.

Ash turns around, slowly, so I’m forced to relinquish my grip. I stare up at him, my eyes feeling much too wide for my own face. His expression is hard as stone, and even colder. That coldness softens a little as he meets my gaze. Then he glances down and clucks irritably, rubbing at a blue stain on his tunic.

“Poor laundress,” he says. “Well, enough of that. Come along, darling.”

He takes my hand and guides me through the bodies littering the forest. As if this is a regular occurrence for him! My knees almost give out about seventeen times in the first dozen steps, as though I’m a newborn lamb. These nerves of mine better putthemselves in their proper places before I am forced to ask my husband to carry me the rest of the way.

“I don’t want your father to try harder,” I mumble under my breath.

Ash looks down at me in surprise, a bright smile replacing his hard-edged expression. “I like it when you say what you think. You have many amusing thoughts.”

“I . . . what?”

“Let’s hurry back. You’re looking a little pale. I’m afraid I’ve overtaxed you.”

We make it back to the palace with no more incident, slipping back through the servants’ gate in the garden. Ash plucks a pine needle out of my hair before we reenter his quarters.

Ash’s rooms only became mine just yesterday, but slipping into them is like pulling a cozy, well-worn wool blanket around my shoulders. They’re familiar, and—for now—feel safe.

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