Page 15 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
The undertow of his magic threatens to swallow me whole, so I steel myself against his bite of power and reflect a glimpse of the queen I used to be upon him, in lieu of warning.
“So…you’re Devi Eros.” His pupils dilate, and he lets out a low whistle. “The monks weren’t kidding when they warned us about you.” His tongue darts out to touch his bottom lip, his gaze gliding down my body in the most deviant way imaginable. I’maccustomed to men’s lustful stares, but this Storm Fae doesn’t leer the way others do.
Instead of appraising my body, he watches me as if I’m both his hell and salvation, a rare, cursed treasure he’s spent a lifetime searching for.
“You are every bit as ruinous as the stories implied,” he rasps. The hushed, terrible compliment quickens my pulse before he shakes off my show of power with a full-bodied shiver.
The click of Jonas’s gun resonates in the air, but the intruder isn’t rattled in the least, so I grip the hilt of my weapon and press the side of the blade to his neck. “Who are you?”
He raises his hands up in surrender, his grin widening. “I’ll tell you if you remove the knife.”
I motion for Jonas to stand down with my free hand, my eyes never leaving the intruder as I scan him for clues. His brown skin is smooth, untouched by time or imperfection. His short, dark hair is tousled just enough to suggest he doesn’t care, or that he can’t quite tame the wind he carries with him.
An array of silver earrings marks the curve of his pointy ears, and his wet, embroidered black and gray ensemble clings to his muscles like a sexy unitard. Any other man couldn’t pull that off, but his disheveled appearance only enhances his mystique. He’s a figure fresh out of some dark, forgotten fairytale, the kind where the prince isn’t meant to save anyone but himself.
A shade of clear, unnatural purple swirls in his eyes, and I tighten my grip around the hilt of my dagger. The more handsome the Fae, the more trouble I’m in.
“Who are you?” I repeat. “I’ll slit your throat if you don’t tell me.”
“How can you be sure that would kill me?” he cracks.
“Ugh.” I slide the blade across the cocky Fae’s throat, willing to check, and he lets out an audible gasp.
He dissipates into mist and reappears on the other side of my bed, arms held in front of him. I suspect he hadn’t expected me to actually attack and that he won’t give me another opportunity to get that close again.
His jaw hangs open on an incensed scoff as he runs his thumb over the fresh laceration in his throat. “Not messing around, eh? Freya warned me that you were a bit of a lunatic.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re on first-name basis with the bitch who stole my life?”
A dark-skinned Storm Fae with enough power to melt into a rainy cloud in the blink of an eye, and with enough gall to mention Freya can only mean one fucking thing.
My uninvited guest smiles from ear to ear. “Not really. I usually call her Ma’am. OrMother.”
Yep.
“You’re Seth Devine.”
The corners of his eyes wrinkle at the mention of his name. “It’s a wonder we’ve never met, isn’t it? The two most hated Spring Fae alive.”
Freya’s only son…in my bedroom. The lure of the dark, handsome stranger fades at the knowledge that this otherwise very attractive man actually came out of the woman who stole my crown. When life hands you the only child of the queen you spent most of your time plotting against, and the best of your days loathing, you make lemonade out of his very blood.
My brain calculates the quickest and cleanest way to kill him. Maim him. Filet his entrails and nail them to Freya’s door.
He’s as gorgeous and dissolute as the gossip suggested. The only physical attribute he got from his mother is her darker skin, whereas his bone structure and build is the hallmark of a Storm Fae. Thorald Storm—the Jackal—broke too many hearts in his prime, and his first-born, legitimate son Maddox is renowned for his rugged looks. Seth is the black sheep of the family, theillegitimate child whose turning of age rocked not one, but two royal marriages and precipitated a decade-long feud between Spring and Storm.
He slicks his wet hair over his head with crafted nonchalance. “Elio Lightbringer sent me.”
The mention of the Winter King brings me pause.
Seth can’t lie. I wouldn’t put it past him to invoke Elio’s name in vain, but it does make me curious as to why the Winter King would even deign to speak to him. He’s not a very social person. “Elio knows better than to send strangers my way in the middle of the night.”
“According to him, you’re the best tracker in this realm.”
I huff. “I’m the best tracker in all the realms.”
“Then you’re the woman I need.”
Ah! If I had a dime for every time a man hunted me down to use me in some shape or form…I let my weapon fall at my side.
