Page 90 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
“Me neither.” Shame pools low in my gut. This isn’t me. Love potions are superficial and short-lived. They don’t bind souls or form real attachments—just drug the mark long enough to make them pliant. I’m trading another woman’s right to choose for my own survival, and that sits foul on my tongue.
I used to abhor these tricks. Seduction by witchcraft always felt like a coward’s route, a step too far. But here I am, brewing a cliché. If I ever get my magic back, I’ll teach Alaric a lesson he won’t forget, but for now, he’s the one in power. And saving Percy, Seth, and myself has to come first.
“I’ve got only one shot at making our host happy, so wish me luck.”
I add enough water to the potion to destroy what’s left of it. With spells of the sort, you can never be too careful.
Percy flies up to the window. “It’s almost sundown. I better hide before that ghastly sprite comes in. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He kisses my cheek and disappears under the bed.
Brel comes into the room minutes after sundown to get me ready, just like she’d promised. Two of her subordinates fly in holding a hanger.
A strange, unusual dress dangles from their grasp, but before I can take a closer look, Brel hands me a black, see-through thong and a matching strapless bralette.
“Put this on, please,” she says, and I nod, quickly putting on the mesh lingerie.
Underwear is progress.
“And remove your necklace,” she adds.
I clutch the Aurelian talisman. “I need it for the task Alaric assigned me.”
“So be it, then kneel and hold your arms over your head. This dress is a little tricky to manage.”
I raise a brow but obey. In Spring, we weave our dresses directly around the body, a feat that permits risqué cuts and patterns, but the gown Alaric wants me to wear pushes the limits.
The dress is made out of a series of diamond-shaped pieces of lyranthium. The plates are strung together by delicate silver chains, the design fragile in appearance, yet heavy. It offers no coverage, no warmth, just the illusion of luxury.
“Don’t move.” Brel, with the help of her two assistants, pulls the dress over my head carefully. “The outer edges of the fragments are sharp enough to cut skin.”
The straps are minimal, with no sleeves, no back, and a hem that barely covers my butt. The small pieces of metal hug my curves, their inner surface polished to a smooth, cold gleam, and it feels like I’m wearing man-made scales.
It’s not the most outrageous dress I’ve worn, and it suits me far better than the soft, feminine gown Alaric had me wear last night. This one is made for a goddess. The dark lyranthium looks either pitch black or deep purple, depending on my movements, and a tangible magnetic field hums against my skin.
“Well done,” Brel says.
Her two helpers leave as soon as the gown is out of their hands, and Brel places a pair of black flats on the ground. Their style is similar to the thong and bralette, but with thick leather soles.
Alaric must have noticed that the heels made us the same height last night.
Brel studies me, her ears held back. “His Highness wants you to wear your hair up.”
I toss my head forward and gather my braids together, quickly tying them in a high bun on top of my head. “If his Highness wants a messy bun, a messy bun he shall have,” I say, full of snark.
Brel clicks her tongue. “Couldn’t you braid it in a more appropriate fashion?”
“Not before dinner, no.”
She grunts. “Then come.”
I follow the sprite through the various hallways of the citadel until I spot a mismatched stare in the dark.
“Thank you for your service, Brel,” the Raven says to my guide. “I’ll escort our guest, now.”
The sprite bows before flying off.
Nathaniel Rayne’s mismatched eyes—one light gray, one cerulean blue—aren’t natural. I’ve never met a Fae with eyes like that, not even in the underbelly of the Spring Court where beauty turns monstrous. It feels like they shouldn’t exist in the same face.
He’s perfectly shaven today, with no imperfection. His youthful skin is balanced by a strong jaw and a muscled physique, but something about him sets my teeth on edge. He’s too pretty, too clean, too symmetrical.
