Page 42 of The Red Woman and the White Bear

The Red Woman.Those unassuming blue-hazel eyes of hers had lulled him into complacency twice and he had no one to blame for it but himself. He should have killed her right there in the night garden, when his arm was pressed against her throat. He could so easily have crushed her windpipe or snapped her neck. If not then, in The Cut. Though his shadows had been unwilling, he should have tried harder to force them to take from her like they had every other tether before. He should have used her on the battlefield, as he’d intended.Should, should, should.

Instead of doing any of those things, he’d fallen for her.

So this time, when he had her pinned by her throat to the wall, he knew as well as she did that he wouldn’t kill her. But the things he felt in that moment, with her warm body caged beneath his, pulled and stretched him in opposing directions. He wanted to worshipher as much as he wanted to shatter her into pieces. He would burn every broken shard of her and scatter the ashes, and the place where her remains settled would be his new altar.

Kael stormed down the corridor, not bothering to dodge the smaller faeries that skittered out of his way. Several weren’t quick enough and caught the toe of his boot against a shin or the back of a knee. As he rounded a corner, he was suddenly struck by another sickening realization. He’d seen it: the White Bear. He’d been mere feet from its snarling maw and he hadn’t even recognized it as such. He’d assumed the creature belonged to the púca.

And the Luna moths that hatched in the night garden just nights before she’d first infiltrated his court—it was all beginning to make sense. A twisted, abhorrent sort of sense.

Raif was exactly where Kael expected him to be at this hour: replacing weapons in the armory after early evening drills with the Third Company. The captain took one look at the expression on Kael’s face and braced himself for bad news.

“Prepare the Company,” Kael ordered, voice clipped. “We’ll ride to the Dominion of Ilindor.”

Raif frowned. “There is nothing in Ilindor; no enemy to be fought there.”

“There is land in Ilindor that is unclaimed, and I want it.” Kael ran his fingers over the tip of a blade lying on the table. It was newly sharpened and drew a thin line of blood across the pad of his thumb with only the barest pressure.

“The soldiers are still recovering from our last battle, Highness.” Raif made the protest carefully, but his stance was firm.He placed the last of the shields against the wall and straightened his training leathers. “They need—”

Kael interrupted him sharply. “If I am ready, then they must be too. No one on that battlefield suffered more than I,” he hissed. “Those that are too weak to fight again can be replaced. That includes their captain.”

Raif stiffened at the thinly veiled threat. “We will begin preparations. I can have them ready in a few hours.”

“Make it two,” Kael shot over his shoulder on his way out.

“I’ll make it two,” Raif muttered under his breath.

The Undercastle was humming with activity by the time Kael exited his chamber. His armor was polished and packed; his leathers gleamed in the torchlight. His hair was tied back tightly out of his face, though not braided as Methild had wished. She knew; he knew she did by the pity he saw in her eyes when she helped him with his straps, but she also knew better than to speak a word of it.

Faeries bustled back and forth hastily, preparing supplies and readying the horses. It was no mistake that he’d chosen a dominion beyond one of the court’s most distant borders. The ride out alone would take three, possibly four days. By the time he returned, the wretched stench of the girl that hung heavy in the air would have gone from his halls.

Kael needed blood on his hands. He craved the wet sound of flesh tearing from bone and the screams of fear and pain when those who dared face him were enveloped in his pitch-dark shadows. He could hear them already echoing in his mind and iteased his temper some.

But Werryn, drawn always to his torment, was waiting with the reins of Kael’s mare in one hand. Lyre was at the High Prelate’s side with Kael’s longsword. Kael bristled as they approached. Furax, saddled and bridled and feeding already off of her master’s energy, trotted ahead. Kael slung himself onto the beast’s back to look down at the Prelates.

“Your sword, my king,” Lyre said with a performative dip of his head. Kael snatched the weapon from his hands roughly and slid it over his shoulder into the scabbard at his back.

“Do you not have need of a tether, Highness?” Werryn was unsubtle in his approach; he wanted to know whether Kael had yet tried to use his magic with Aisling.

“No.” Furax stamped a hoof into the ground dangerously close to the High Prelate’s foot, but he didn’t flinch.

“I could bring—”

“The girl is gone.” Kael’s countenance was steely despite the way his throat threatened to seize around the words. “And I will hear nothing more about it.”

Werryn fell back a step then, eyes wide and jaw slack. He sputtered incoherently.

“She didn’t work as expected, then?” Lyre provided helpfully. Kael regarded him with caution; the male’s amused half-smile made him shift uncomfortably in the saddle.

“She was as useless as any other tether, so I sent her away. She either made it back to her realm or was taken by something in the forest.” His knuckles ached from his tight grip on the reins. He wasgrateful that his gloves hid how the blood had drained from them. “Either way, she is no longer any concern of ours.”

Still filling Werryn’s stunned silence, Lyre bowed his head once more. “I do apologize, truly. I had hoped that she would perhaps be more than she appeared.”

Kael narrowed his eyes. There was something off about Lyre, something that had always made him feel just this side of uneasy. He spoke in riddles and subtext, even more so than most Fae tended to naturally. Before he could pursue it further, though, the sound of Raif barking orders caught his attention. When he turned back, Lyre had taken Werryn’s arm and was leading him toward the Undercastle.

Camp the second night was cold, wet, and miserable. Kael had driven the Company hard, insisting that they at least reach the base of the mountains before breaking. The range was impossible to summit this time of year, so they’d have to skirt around. But the more time he spent in the saddle, the less opportunity he had to think about anything other than the task ahead. He didn’t care that there was no enemy front to face down; there were without a doubt Solitary Fae who would fight to protect their homes. Their efforts would be satisfying enough until a front opened up elsewhere. If Kael had his way, he’d avoid returning to the Undercastle until spring.

Once camp was made, Raif found Kael in his tent. He was halfway through a bottle of honey wine, sharpening his sword idly. When Raif cleared his throat, Kael stood to serve him a glass. Raif held up a hand.

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