Page 106 of The Prince from a Cruel Summer
I’ve seen worse. Done worse. But this is Willow andEzra. Somehow, my body is both incredibly cold and hot at the same time. The flush in my cheeks spreads to my temples and blurs their hushed conversation, Aidan’s grip tightening as Willow’s groans get louder.
Yet, I’m a Winter Fae. I can’t help but steal another peek.
When the time comes for them to take this further, my insides curl.
“Ow,” Willow rasps, and the crowd beyond the tarps howls in cheer, the white linen walls shuddering under their boastful taps.
“Sorry,” Ezra croaks.
“It’s not so bad, actually. Just a sting.” I can hear the sorrow crackling in her voice, and my stomach lurches.
“What a compliment,” Ezra chuckles darkly.
I hear the ruffle of fabric and crack one eye open when Ezra gasps. Willow is on top of him now, taking control, and a golden glow pierces the tarps, wrapping them in sunshine.
It’s done.
My breath hitches, and I hide my face in Aidan’s chest. “This is so strange.”
After today, I no longer find thistraditionharmless. Maybe when two people are crazy for each other, it’s easier to zone out the witnesses, but how many Fae royals marry for love, really, when power is valued above all else? When marriage is a way to amplify that power?
Aidan squeezes my hand in his. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Please.”
The crowd is roaring with applause as we slither out of the tent, and I let go of Aidan’s hand with a start.
“You can’t want that for yourself,” he says quickly, wrapping a hand around my waist and guiding me through the raucous crowd.
“A Summer wedding?” I croak, patching my unease with dark humor.
“Songbird. I’m serious.”
It used to be a vague, abstract idea, but now I can too easily picture myself in a similar situation, my family cheering me on as I bed Zeke in front of them. Adrenaline rushes through my blood. I’m disgusted by the idea of linking my body and soul to him forever, when I’m simplyachingfor someone else.
I lean into Aidan’s embrace without meaning to, yearning for his heat to melt the ice in my blood. Marriage means being linked to someoneforever. What happened between Ezra and Willow canneverbe undone, and the concept is both thrilling and suffocating.
If I ever speak those vows out loud in front of everyone I’ve ever known, I want it to be to Aidan. Just the idea of us sharing something so profound and permanent wrecks my brain.
Aidan ushers me away toward the gardens, taking charge as if he senses the depths of my anguish. “Come on. Walk with me. Please.”
Tall vines with orange, white, and pink flowers grow around the trellis and arches leading to the shoreline of the Lunar Cascades where the stone path ends right at the edge of the sand. The shore is made of the whitest, most delicate sand I’ve ever felt. My heels sink into it, so I slip them off and hold them by the straps—just like I did the night of the solstice—and fall into step beside him, a few inches of trauma still keeping me from bridging the gap between us.
I glance back at the castle, its golden turrets glowing behind us. Now that we’ve cleared the canopy of vines, anyone could see us, and I shiver at the thought, eager to reclaim the privacy of the gardens. But Aidan tugs on my arm, leading me farther still, away from the ballroom and toward a secluded area near the base of the castle. Here, where the castle walls leave a narrow gap, overgrown vegetation hides the entrance to a well-trodden path.
“Come with me. I want to show you something,” he says, squeezing my hand. But I can’t bring myself to speak—not now, not here, in the gardens of the capital.Hisgardens.Hiscastle.
He’s so far above me, I can’t believe I ever let myself think this could end in anything but disaster.
I cross my arms over my chest, “We should really get back.”
A couple walks out of the very same path, heading straight toward us, and Aidan pushes me deep into the bushes. “In here, quick.”
My heels dig into the white sand, thorns scratching at my arms until Aidan’s magic allows us to hide comfortably within the branches, the vegetation rearranging to form a cocoon around us.
The Spring Queen takes a late-night stroll with a tall, white-haired man, the jackal tattoo on his neck marking him as the Storm King.
“I don’t want you to remarry, Frey. We can petition for you to become queen on your own,” he says.
