Page 97 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
“No blade, either. Just the scarred edge of our most precious metal.”
The lyranthium altar looks like it might detach from the stone floor and plummet down to the sea at any moment.
I picture her—the bride. Hands flat against the altar, back arched, hair caught in the gale. Holding still. Waiting. She’s not meant to see the crowd, or the arena behind her. There are no candles here, no flowers or music, just the thrum of magic rippling across the sky. As if the storm itself demands her complete submission, while the ocean below swallows her screams.
Along the front edge of the slab, where her fingers might curl to find purchase, the metal forms a broken ridge.
Alaric gives an amorous sigh. “Yes, it was made to cut. To mark the mating couple as love does. Uneven. Unclean. A place to grip when her knees buckle, when her husband’s cock enters her body like lightning breaking open the sky. The sharp edge here allows the male to cut himself, too, so the storm takes their blood in equal measures. A union of pain, power, and sacrifice. Beautiful.”
My heart hammers.
And I thought Spring Fae were into some twisted shit… Whatever happens here is elemental, and the weight of it kisses the stones. The memory of bodies bent, of vows never spoken aloud, but witnessed by hundreds.
“I’ve been too sentimental.” Alaric finally stops pacing, towering close. “Who needs a rude, stubborn Storm Fae when they can have you?”
My blood rushes at my temples.
The horror of the statement sinks in. I’ve seen that kind of measured amusement combined with a thirst for a ‘yes’ before—on Seth’s face, the first time we met. He wore that same half-smile, that same studied calm, like he was peeling me apart, dissecting my psyche to his advantage. But Seth’s curiosity came with reverence.
Alaric’s attention tastes like control.
Fucking hells.
There I go again, being blackmailed into an engagement, but Alaric’s intrusive hands at my waist highlight the differences between my two suitors.
“The Queen of Hearts on her knees… That’s better than any stubborn, foolish young virgin,” he says. “I want you to marry me, Lady Eros.”
I keep my face as neutral as I can manage.
I’ve been blaming my attraction to Seth on his looks, his confidence, his overall darkling-ness, but if that were true, I should be swooning right now.
Alaric has a strong jaw, chiseled abs, and darkness pulsing in his bones—yet everything about him sets my teeth on edge. His arrogance reads oily and overdone. His innuendos turn my blood to ice. His proposal makes me want to crouch and snarl.
But I don’t. Instead, I take a deep, cleansing breath and push my hips forward, bumping into his erection. Because what he’s offering is aligning with every raw, dark fiber of my soul.
And he’s not truly asking.
“And what if I say no?” I say in a teasing tone, tracing the ridges of his chest.
His pupils dilate, his eyes glued to my hands. “If you refuse to bend for me at the altar of your own free will, then I will throw you over the ledge. And Seth and your winged servant will be fed piece by piece to my wolves.”
Just as I thought.
I despise this man, but he’s not pretending to be someone else, not using tricks. A part of me always knew it’d come to this. That marriage would be my undoing.
The ultimate instrument of doom.
“I’ll marry you, but only if you promise not to harm them.”
I planned to only include Percy in this deal, but somehow, I fucked up.
“Them?” Alaric shows his teeth. “Plot twist. You care about the little shit after all.”
I keep my cool. “Going once…”
He sucks in air through his teeth, his fists curled.
“Going twice.”
