Page 29 of Bride of the Fae Prince

With his free hand, he draws a knife from his belt. It’s long and wicked, curving in jagged edges from top to bottom, with a point so sharp it catches the light of the magic binding our hands.What if this is when the kind façade washes away, and hedoeskill me after all?My first instinct is to flinch away from it, but hishand curves around mine. His thumb trails a gentle caress down the side of my pinky and hand.

“Have no fear. You may do it yourself if you prefer.”

I won’t be a coward. It’s just a prick. I shake my head. “Y-you.”

“Then I will do yours, and you will do mine.”

“Oh, no! I couldn’t hurt you!”

Something shifts in his face. Something hard—and there’s that glimpse of the wildness deep inside him. The wildness I suspect he has tamed for me in this bridal chamber.

“It will not hurt me.”

I don’t believe him, but I focus myself on not flinching as he maneuvers our joined hands so the pad of my thumb sticks out. It throbs in anticipation. His eyes flick to mine, then back to my thumb. He sets the tip of the knife against it, letting me take a deep breath. Then there’s a prick of pain, and I give a little gasp. But just like that, it’s over, and we both watch as the drop of blood wells on my finger and spills over the glowing threads. They react almost immediately, the gold and pearlescent strands fusing together as one. My eyes are wide and fixated on the sight so that I miss when he holds the knife to me, hilt presented toward me.

“Are you sure it won’t hurt you?” I ask, my fingers closing around the hilt. They flex, unfamiliar with any type of blade.

His mouth twists wryly. “Just don’t cut off my finger, darling.”

Cut off his finger? Oh, gracious heavens have mercy, what a wretched thought! I really shouldn’t be holding this knife. I don’t know how to use it. What if I press too hard and run the knife straight through his palm? What if I permanently maim my new husband?

“I will help you.” His hand takes hold of mine, covering it where it wraps around the hilt of the knife. He exposes his thumb and carefully guides the blade closer until its tip restsagainst the pad of his finger. “There. Now just apply gentle pressure.”

“H-how g-gently?”

He smiles, then applies the pressure on my hand. It’s just a tiny bit, and then blood wells. I pull back quickly, and he lets go as I set the knife down. “D-did I press too hard?”

The thick thread that was once our separate threads glows in response to Ash’s drop of blood. It brightens, brightens, until it’s so bright I shield my eyes.

Then, abruptly, it goes out. I slowly lower my hand.

It’s dark again in the room, with only the gentle light of the candles to illumine the broad shoulders and bright eyes of my new husband. Our hands, pressed together, are no longer bound by magic.

I start to withdraw my hand, but his fingers thread through mine, clasping our hands together. He leans toward me. My heart lurches as his other hand reaches for my face, coming to rest beneath my jaw and around my neck, pulling me forward.

Is he going to kiss me? Do fae marriages end the same way human marriages do? This time I have no veil—it will be just our lips, nothing separating them. Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck as he comes closer, closer, closer.

But he doesn’t kiss my mouth.

His lips land on my forehead, soft and slow. As if he is in no hurry to pull away. Then, to answer my question, he murmurs against my skin: “No, you are perfect, little wife.”

Chapter 13

The Prince

Great Kings curse me.She’s beautiful, and I like her. This is not how this was supposed to go tonight. I’m not supposed to like her. I’m not supposed to love that she smells like sweet lavender. I’m not supposed to want to unwind her braid and run my fingers through her hair.

She was supposed to be ugly, and I was supposed to do what I could to make her comfortable and, if possible, something close to happy as long as she’s my wife.

She wasn’t supposed to have the largest doe-like eyes I’ve ever seen. She wasn’t supposed to say unexpected things, like offering to open the window when my magic wasn’t flowing well. She wasn’t supposed to be concerned she would hurt me.

I have the urge to ask her questions, to draw out more unexpectedness from her. Somehow I know that the more I discover about her, the more I’ll like her.

What we have between us is tentative. I don’t want to ruin it. I don’t want to break her hesitant trust. But there is a part of me—a part of me I quickly suppress—that wants to kiss her, to seewhat she will do and how she will react. To see if she wouldn’t hate it. To see if she would . . .No.I’m not following this line of thought.

If she wasn’t looking at me, I’d probably wipe my hand down my face and let out a few growls of frustration.

Of course, I must care about her to some extent. I need to preserve her life as long as possible. Butlikingher, feeling drawn to her—it’s dangerous. Much too risky for the road ahead of us.

---