Page 75 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
“That’s not the reason.”
“The Warden isn’t the problem,” Seth murmurs, his eyes flicking to mine, “but his sons… they hate me. It’ll be better for all of us if we don’t cross their paths.”
“Why do they hate you?”
He grins. “Oh, because I’m a bastard who dishonored my family name. That, and the other thing. But don’t worry, I have other friends here that can help us.”
I raise a brow. “Whatother thing?”
His brush hovers in mid-air near my throat for a moment, before he grins. “To quote you: it’s none of your business.”
I grit my teeth as he finishes the last rune. The faint shimmer of magic settles on my skin, a subtle glamor taking shape.
Seth steps back to admire his work. “There. Now you look perfectly ordinary.”
I square my shoulders, a bitter taste stuck at the back of my mouth.
Seth draws a similar series of runes on himself. “Dragonflies—common Storm Fae—are pretty traditional when it comes to gender roles. The only women allowed in Deiltine are the wives of technicians, machinists, and engineers. So play it docile and quiet, alright?”
He throws his bag over his shoulder, all packed up and ready to go.
I huff at his last-minute instructions. “You mean dutiful wives for cooking and cleaningandwild prostitutes for the brothels, right? I’ve heard about this place.”
He shrugs. “Many workers are still single, that’s true. Would you rather pass as a prostitute?”
“Playing the role of your quiet, dutiful wife is my literal worst nightmare.”
“Ouch. I’m happy to go with the alternative, if you prefer.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’d enjoy that.”
A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I might. Now, all we have to do is wake Percy.” His gaze flies to the ceiling, searching for the nook Percy slept in.
I grin at the idiocy of his delusional comment. “Be realistic, pretty boy. We woke him upagesago. He’s waiting for us outside.”
Chapter 22
Stop the Feeling
SETH
Deiltine’s gates rise at the end of the winding road. The steep cliffs we rappelled down cradle the left side of the path, while the downhill slopes across from us drop into a frothing sea. Wind howls as it blows past the surface of our bubble, but here, in the middle of the storm, I feel steady. Whole.
I feel more at home here than I ever did in Spring. It almost compensates for the burn of Devi’s rejection. The steel in her eyes cuts after the night we had. I thought I was tearing down the walls between us, but kindling our physical connection only amplified her resistance.
She’s holding back. Not just keeping secrets—though gods know she has plenty—but parts of herself. Her magic buried deep. Her heart locked away. She flinches at my attempts at small talk and stiffens when I get too close.
I want to believe it’s fear. That she’s afraid of feeling.
Maybe I’m being naive. Maybe she’s already decided I’m not worth it.
She warned me not to fall for her, certain I was too reckless and immature, and now she’s filing me away as just another lover. Another mistake.
But it’s too late for me. I’ve already fallen.
Ahead, wooden palisades block our path. Deiltine’s walls aren’t made of clean-cut timber, but of driftwood from shipwrecks that floated into the bay centuries ago. The wood is held together by time, salt, and spells older than memory.
We climb over the occasional pile of scree until we reach the gatehouse’s studded door.
