Page 29 of Bride of the Midnight Prince

I will not suggest such a thing. For one, it’s not my place. For another, it is better if we all remember just how deadly and unlike us the fae are.

The sun angles low in the horizon, warm and bright, announcing late afternoon. I’ve still got so much work to do! One of those pressing tasks is chopping enough wood for the prince’s fire. Considering that I’ve never chopped wood a single day in my life, I anticipate sacrificing a few fingers in the effort.

I consult Clifford, the groundskeeper, and he shows me where the wood pile, axe, and stump for chopping are. I heave a hunk of wood onto the stump, flex my fingers on the handle of the axe, and blow a short strand of hair out of my face.

I send the axe flying into the wood. I miss entirely, taking a chip out of the stump instead.

Perhaps I ought not to squeeze my eyes shut while I swing.

I lift the axe again and swing. It lands in the wood—and sticks. I yank hard, but the axe refuses to budge.Don’t panic,I tell myself as pressure rises in my chest.It’ll come out. And if it doesn’t, Clifford was a nice man and probably will only laugh a little if you go tell him you got the axe stuck.

“You’re doing it wrong.”

The deep voice startles me so much I whirl, holding the axe in front of me like a weapon.

Only a few feet away stands the Nothril prince, his legs planted wide and his arms crossed over his chest. He stands like he did when he found me in his room—like a warrior, and I decide that stance is far scarier than any of the armor and weaponry he lacks. His chin is tucked slightly as he frowns down at me.

I brace instinctively.

Then I realize I’m still clutching the axe as though to defend myself. This is not what a servant boy would be doing. I let the head of the axe fall to the grass and bow quickly. “Master.”

“You’ve never chopped wood before,” the prince states.

I wince. I’ve got to salvage this before he dismisses me. “I am a fast learner.”

He only regards me coolly. Something about the way his gaze travels over my face and form makes me feel like he can see through my disguise straight to the girl beneath it all. I try not to squirm uncomfortably beneath his study.

He isn’t going to recognize me. He isn’t going to recognize me.It becomes a chant that I repeat in my mind to avoid being overtaken by the temptation to turn on my heel and run for cover.

Then he steps toward the chopping block. I scurry back several paces, too aware of how close I am to my own death. One of his broad hands lands lightly on the handle of the axe. The muscles of his forearm flex as he rocks it up and down until the head comes loose.

“That is how you get it out.” He lifts the axe and faces me, deliberately placing his hands along the handle. His right hand lands just below the head, his left near the base of the handle. “This is how you hold it. And this is how you chop.”

He turns, and in a swift, singular—and utterly terrifying—motion, he cleanly chops the wood. The two halves hit the ground with dull thumps.

That block of wood will be me if he discovers what I’ve done.

He’s speaking to me. I drag my gaze up from the fallen wood to him. “It may take several strikes to split. If the head bounces, make sure that your face isn’t in its way.” He holds out the axe to me.

I have to take it from him.

Which means I have to come within a few feet of him. I try to pretend I’m not terrified of him as I inch just close enough to grasp the handle. One of his eyebrows twitches, but other than that, his face reveals nothing.

With one hand, he grabs a new log and affixes it atop the stump. He steps back to give me room, though not as much room as I want. My back prickles from his gaze. I grind my teeth.

Gripping the handle of the axe, I brace my legs. My fingers flex. I’ve got to impress the prince. Or, at least, I’ve got to satisfy him with my progress.

I chop.

The sound that comes out of my mouth is not at all masculine. The head of the axe hits the wood and bounces back toward me. The prince reaches out and catches the handle just before it smashes me in the forehead. I stare stupidly at the thick veins of his hand and wrist.

“What did I say about keeping your face out of the way?” he says.

I bow my head. “I am foolish, Master.”

He doesn’t reply. I wait several long moments, and then cautiously peer up at him. Is the corner of his mouthveryslightly lifted?

He returns the axe to me. “Try again.”

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