Page 25 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

It’s the long, silvery-white hair that falls down his back.

The low fae points to something, and the warrior turns his head to follow, giving me a clear view of his profile: a sharp nose, prominent brow, severe jaw. It isn’t necessary, however. I know who he is.

Prince Rahk.

I’m so shocked, so caught up in this sudden, horrible realization that my ankle rolls in a dip in the grass and, with my weakened strength, there’s nothing that keeps me from flying face first into the dirt. And spilling all the fresh milk into the grass.

Chapter 8

Rahk

“QueenViviennefinallyagreedto see you, but only at a public event,” says my new steward, Edvear, his large ears twitching in his mop of curly brown hair. He’s a lowborn fae, so the air of the human world isn’t as taxing on him. For me, on the other hand? The air has a quality to it that reminds me of a battlefield strewn with corpses. The moment I arrived, I cursed Lord Nothril, Lady Nothril, and Ash for their errands.

As Edvear has already spent time in the human world, he’s an ideal candidate to help me order my affairs here. “She specifically asked that you come unarmed, alone, and consent to being escorted by a unit of her guards everywhere you go.”

I give a slow nod. “If that will make her feel less threatened, then I will comply.”

Ash failed to mention in his original order that he was specifically sending me to the human kingdom with the most antagonistic view of the fae. So not only am I to aid the restoration of the stolen human lands, I am to work with a monarch who believes I will kill both her and her young heir if given the chance.

I’m beginning to think I might be here longer than a few weeks.

Edvear chuckles slightly. “These humans do greatly underestimate the capabilities of a fae warrior.”

I shrug. “It is good that they do.”

“Very true. There wouldn’t be an opportunity for peace if they didn’t.”

A great crash and a groan of pain rips my attention up, away from the thinness of the air and my growing headache from the stench of grass, straw, earth, and manure. TheolleaI applied earlier to take the edge off the flood on my senses is already wearing off.

There, a stone’s throw from us, is a fallen servant boy and a spilled pail of milk.

“What did you just do? That was all the milk we had for today!” screams a tall woman, rushing out of what seems to be the kitchen, given that she’s followed by a plume of smoke. “Curse Mary and her favors! I’m going to give you a solid thrashing and dismiss you without a recommendation, you imbecile!”

She drags the boy by the ear to his feet, ignoring his squealing protests, and I’m about to roll my eyes and move on, when she slaps the boy hard across the cheek.

Anger simmers to life inside me. That is not how my servants will be treated here. At Nothril, I didn’t have a say. But here, I am master, and I will not allow such ill treatment. “Enough!” I shout, leaving Edvear by the creek and hurrying across the small length of pasture, the boy’s cries of pain making me louder when I shout once more, “Enough, I said!”

My fist clamps around the woman’s wrist just before she hits the boy again. She spins toward me, releasing the boy at once, and her eyes go wide as dinner plates. She swallows. “My lord—”

I lean over her, keeping my voice level and restraining my hand from tightening around her wrist. She smells of yeast and soap and that underlying current of decaying humanity. “Thank you for working hard to ensure the excellent care of me and my house. But you are not permitted to raise a hand against any of my staff. Understood? Miss . . .?”

“Mrs. Banks.” She swallows and nods, but I don’t miss the line of fury she shoots toward the boy. “He’s no longer a member of this staff.”

The boy scrambles to his feet, several paces away from the two of us. As though afraid he will be hit again if he comes too close.

“Are you very hurt?” I ask him.

“No, my lord,” he replies quickly, ducking his head. His hair is dark and straight, falling into his eyes in shaggy clumps. His freckles stand stark against his pale skin. He looks like I could snap him in half with nothing but my hands.

“He showed up on my doorstep this morning. His sister—she’s a good servant, that lass—told me she had a brother in need of work. She failed to mention he was weak, incompetent, and hasn’t even had his voice deepen yet!”

Why am I dealing with this? I turn toward the boy, keeping my sigh under my breath, and ask, “You have need of work?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have you worked before?”

“No, sir. My sister has taken care of us, but it’s getting harder for her to do it all by herself. I need this job, sir.”

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