Page 44 of Bride of the Fae Prince

I married my own destruction.

This is why he was asking my thoughts of death. He wasn’t asking about life span—he was asking because he knew the High King of Faerieland would try to kill me. And if the High King wants me dead, then who can stand in the way of it?

My hands tremble.

“Since the time of my return comes as a surprise and no one could have expected you to prepare a wedding feast for my new bride, I have made the arrangements myself.” Ash spreads hisfree arm wide—the one that isn’t wrapped tightly around me—gesturing to the courtiers who hang on his every word. “All the wine, the dance, the feasting, the merriment you can dream of. It has already been prepared on the palace grounds. Eat, drink, and be merry, my friends.”

A cheer goes up, and the crowd rushes to the doors. I want to curl closer to Ash, to bury my face in his chest as if that will keep me safe. One look at him is deterrent enough, and I keep my rigid posture at his side.

The High King stays on his throne, eyes locked on Ash’s as the throne room empties. His spear gleams on the floor by my foot. Only one person remains after the crowd leaves: a tall woman draped in silver, with black hair down to her knees and a downcast face, hunched shoulders. She stands to the right of the throne, eyes fixed on the ground. She wears a crown, but it looks ready to tip off her head at any moment.

Isthatthe Queen of Faerieland?

The High King stands, and with the grace of a prowling lion, walks down the steps from the dais, approaching us swiftly. With a flick of his hand, he dismisses the one remaining woman. “Be gone, wife.”

She bows and scurries away like a wounded animal. I swallow as the High King shifts his attention fully to Ash, his smile growing. “Well played, my son. Sometimes I fear you are a lost cause. Then you pull a little stunt out of your pocket . . .” He stops a pace before us, and his eyes fall to me.

He is so beautiful, I can hardly think. He is like a sun molded into the image of a man, but with a towering height that exceeds even Ash’s. His skin and his hair is luminescent glory. No part of him resembles Ash—except the piercing blue eyes that study me now, like a cat thrilling to torture its prey.

“Welcome to Valehaven Court, Princess,” he says to me. And then reaches out with ring-studded fingers toward my throat. My airways close and my vision tunnels.

Ash snatches his wrist just in time. He chuckles. “My wife’s neck belongs to me. I have no intention of sharing.”

The High King withdraws, but his eyes don’t leave my face and the fear that must be written plain across it. “You must be exhausted from your travels. I bid you sweet dreams and peaceful slumber.”

“You think we would skip our own wedding feast?” asks Ash, his thumb swiping over my ribs again. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

With that, he bends slightly, loosening his grip on my waist so he can instead . . . scoop up my legs? I’m too confused to understand what is happening until he’s slung me straight over his shoulder, kicked aside the king’s spear, and marched out the door. Blood pounds in my temples as I struggle to take a full breath. I try to push up on his back—and only succeed in finding my gaze locked in the High King’s until the door closes behind us.

Once we’re back in the hallway, Ash striding down the tiles likeheis High King, I twist and give a little kick. “Ash!”

He hoists me back farther, so I lose my grip and fall against him. “Be a good little wife and behave yourself, hmm?”

“Ash.” It comes out like a half-hearted plea. How do I ask for a smidge of dignity? Does he even care? Is this who the Prince of the Fae truly is? This callous, devious man who parades me around over his shoulder like some prize he’s bought? My gut burns.

“My lordmight be a little more respectful, don’t you think?”

Isabelle Louise would have cowed, slumped in submission, and stuttered an apology. But I’m Stella now, and I was preparedto tolerate this sort of treatment when I wed, but after last night, when I saw how Ashcouldtreat me, I don’t like this. Not at all.

I consider my options. Throwing a tantrum will hardly win back my dignity. Making demands will only make me seem weaker when he scoffs at them. I’m no match for him in strength, and I’m only reminded of that when he gives me a little toss and pats the back of my leg, saying to some passerby: “Doesn’t my wife have the cutest little feet?”

Through the curtain of my hair, I see the hilt of his knife in his belt. The one that he used to prick my finger, that he helped me use on him. Memories of last night only fuel my anger more, and without hesitating, I wrap my fingers around the hilt and yank it out of the scabbard. I don’t know what I intend to do with it beyond threatening him.

“Ho now!” cries Ash in surprise, snatching my wrist and prying away his knife from my grip. “I have a mutinous bride on my hands!”

“Put me down, Ash,” I growl.

To my shock, he does. I almost topple over when I’m on my own two feet. I twist my gold belt back into place, straighten my skirts and comb my hair out of my face, about to spit an irritated thanks, when he grabs my upper arm and drags me into a dark corner behind a winding staircase.

With a twist of his wrist, he cuts off the sounds of the palace, leaving us in quiet. Has he wrapped us in some spell? Something to conceal us from listening ears and prying eyes?

I don't have time to consider it, because Ash presses himself very close to me, leaning down so his face is only a few inches from mine. I suck in a gasp—and then another when his large hand slides up to my neck. His fingers dance along my skin, lightly wrapping around my throat. Threatening pressure.

I don’t dare breathe. My hands, moving on instinct, grab hold of his wrist as if I can pull him away from me.

It’s the wrong move. His other hand pries my grip off him—and pins both my wrists to the wall above my head. My head goes dizzy, my heart pounding desperately in my chest. I give a little twist and pull on my hands, but his grip doesn’t give. I feel like a songbird trapped in a cage while a predator sticks its claws between the bars.

“You are going to listen to me very closely,” says Ash, his voice low and sharp enough to be the edge of a blade as he brings his mouth close to my ear. “If you have any interest in seeing another dawn, you will do exactly as I say. Do I make myself clear?”

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