Page 178 of Bride of the Fae Prince

My gaze drifts from the fae coming forward one by one, bringing their problems to their High Queen. It shifts to where Stella sits on her throne in a gown of pure white, with scalloped sleeves, and her crown of gold rests on her lovely head. This is the best part about having my own place to sit beside her: I get to look at her all day, enjoy every little play of emotion across her face. Her focus, her concern, her surprise, her joy, even her anger. There are fewer observers in the gallery than when my father reigned, for the simple fact that Stella’s reign is far more boring. It is full of problem solving and practical, level-headed considerations. There are no heads rolling for random reasons, no explosions of temper, no trickster bargains.

I never thought I’d come to love the throne room. But as of late, my view has improved.

Stella listens to the latest fae babble about how the rebellion ruined his millow farmland, and now he’s lost his livelihood. Her hand gently glides absent-mindedly over her rounded middle while her brow puckers, and she nods in understanding to the case brought before her.

Then she turns to me.

Her face pinks when she catches my expression, catches that I’ve been watching her instead of listening. Her voice is dry when she asks, “Do you have any advice to impart? My inclination is to use the crown’s funds to hire laborers from the Small Cities to repair the damage, if there be no fae available for the task.”

She understands well by now that fae do not like to be hired. They think of it as temporary—or permanent—slavery,regardless of the fact that they are compensated. Humans, on the other hand, have no such compunction.

My lips pull into a smirk. “Brilliant, Your Worship.”

She rolls her eyes and goes back to work, but there’s a glint in her eye, a warmth to her mouth, and she gives our unborn heir an extra caress.

One of Stella’s favorite things to do now is to ask for advice on things she neither needs advice on, nor is at all relevant to my areas of expertise. This morning, she asked if I advised her to wear white or blue. Yesterday, she asked for which variety of human food we should serve at our next banquet. The day before, she asked if I advised a limit on kissing. At least on that front, I have a strong opinion.

As the hours of work drag by, I find myself struggling with restlessness more than usual. Part of me thinks I am not at all suited to the sheer boredom and tedium of ruling, whether in part or full, but the rest of me knows it’s because I’m excited for tonight. I have a surprise for Stella that I think she is going tolove.

Hopefully.

The doors to the throne room open, and where I expect more fae to enter with cases to bring to their High Queen, it’s a human who enters. He speaks to the crier, who announces: “King Roland of Aursailles, here on behalf of peace!”

Stella’s attention sharpens, but she makes no move as the doors open wide, and a human entourage enters. I push upright from my slouching position, old anger turning my gut hot as one of the two kings I despised most in the world comes down the center aisle. His gaze is transfixed on Stella, his jaw slackening as he beholds her in her full glory.

He realizes now who among his daughters isactuallythe fairest.

Coward that he is, he’s brought one of said daughters. She wears no veil—of course, because that was not a real tradition. I have no idea which sister this one is, only that she carries a toddler at her hip and looks much older than Stella does. Another man stands at her side, and the crier announces him as King Ilbert of Enslington.

“Amelia!” Stella gasps.

Amelia’s mouth drops open. “Isabelle Louise!”

I drum my fingers impatiently on my armrest. “Will the humans not bow before the High Queen of Faerie?”

Stella’s eyes are wet as she watches King Ilbert and her sister kneel before her. King Roland, his hairline having receded in the time since our last parting, hesitates. As though he cannot believe the woman he stands before now is his daughter.

I’m about to bark a threat that he bows before my wifeor else, when Stella shifts her attention from her beloved sister to her father, and the tears vanish. They’re replaced with boredom.

“If you have come on terms of peace, I see not why you should care to insult me,” she replies, lifting her chin. “I know why you’re here, and if you want me to oblige your request, you will offer the due respect.”

My mouth twists into an utterly delighted, wicked grin. Stella was born to be Queen of Faerie.

King Roland bows.

Stella gestures with one hand. “You may speak.”

Roland looks like he would rather eat his own shoe than obey his daughter, but he rises. “We ask for the land stolen by the Long Lost Wood to be returned. It was part of our bargain.”

“The bargain you made withmethat when I was High King, I would return your land?” I interject. “That is not a transferable bargain, I’m afraid.”

Roland grinds his jaw, likely to keep from shouting that I am a liar and a trickster.

Stella tilts her head to one side. “You think that, because I am your blood, you can request anything of me that you wish? Would you have asked High King Faradir thus?”

We both know it’s not a fair question. He wouldn’t have even come to Faerieland—wouldn’t have been able to find the door to Valehaven without a fae escort—if Faradir was still on the throne. But fairness isn’t the issue.

“No, Your Majesty,” Roland says. His face contorts, as if the words are physically painful.

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