Page 77 of Crown of Roses
“No?” Garvan crooned. “What are you then? A puppet?”
Maeve snapped her mouth shut, remembering the way Tiernan wielded his magic against her, how he’d taken complete control of her body while leaving her mind untouched.
“A plaything, then?” Shay suggested.
Garvan stretched his wings and they flickered like flames doused with starlight. He rolled his shoulders back and Maeve winced. “What sort of games do you like to play?”
Maeve took a cautious step back and unsuccessfully tried to disguise it as a shifting of her weight. “I don’t play games.”
Shay sighed, a hint of boredom to his tone. “They never do.”
Garvan’s dark green gaze coasted over her. Studied her. A line formed across his brow. “She’s not a sirra either, otherwise she would bear his mark.”
Sirra? She recognized it as an Old Laic term, but didn’t have the time to decipher the meaning. Perhaps once she was back in Niahvess, she would go to the library and look it up. Assuming she ever returned to Summer. Assuming she survived the night.
Garvan’s wings flexed once more, and Maeve’s gaze betrayed her. They were rapturous. Glorious. And she imagined they’d be as soft as velvet.
“They are pretty magnificent, aren’t they?” Garvan smiled at her, but it was off. Crooked, almost. Like it wasn’t a natural thing for him to do. A sinking sensation poisoned the pit of her stomach. “Can you fly, pretty faerie?”
She didn’t dare open her mouth. Garvan’s vicious grin stretched across his face. “Let’s find out.”
Even if she tried to run, she wouldn’t have been able to escape. He was too strong, too fast. She was too weak, too panicked. She stumbled back, tripping over her own feet, when Garvan shot forward. His rough arm captured her waist, dragged her to him like a sack of grain, and he shot straight into the air. Branches clawed at her skin and ripped her cloak from her shoulders, leaves clung to her hair, and the curse sifting through her blood exploded in a frenzy.
Her scream pierced through the thread of clouds.
Shattered the full moon.
She clutched Garvan’s silk shirt and wrapped her arm around his neck. She hated herself for it, but sun and sky, the ground was so, so far away. The treetops were a dizzying kaleidoscope of colors and her heart skittered. Her mind raced. Her blood roared. She squeezed her eyes shut. Anxiety crawled along her skin and her throat closed. Her breathing grew hollow. Empty. She had to focus. Had to find a way out of this mess. This would not be her end.
“I’m not a toy.” Maeve forced the words out through gritted teeth and opened her eyes.
“But you’re so fun,” Garvan countered and he soared higher into the air.
Her knees buckled. Beyond the Autumn Court, she could barely make out the twin mountain peaks of Summer in the distance. She could just see the massive, carved faerie guardian, protecting the Crown City. She imagined the heat of Niahvess, wished it encompassed her now. He dove, and swooped, and Maeve’s scream was lost on the call of the wind. Over the expanse of treetops stood another mountain range. These were further in the distance, and covered in snowy white.
Winter.
Garvan’s gilded wings coasted through the sky. They swept against the dark of night like brushstrokes, a blur of gold and red against a canvas of navy blue. All the while, he kept one arm around her waist, his hold on her looser than anything.
She had to find a way to escape.
“Put me down.” Her voice was steady, but her heart hammered like the beating of a song drum. It vibrated against the wall of her chest, causing her blood to pump and her stomach to churn.
There was a rumble in Garvan’s chest, a low, guttural sound. “If you insist.”
And he dropped her.
Her scream chilled her own blood. Not even in her nightmares had she heard one more terrifying. She fell from his arms through the wisps of clouds, plummeting toward the stretch of crushed orange and burnt yellow trees below. Their branches reached up for her like spindles, ready to snap and break every bone in her body. There was nothing to grab, nothing to save her. Only air. Swift, cold air. Her arms flailed, her legs kicked fiercely through the night as though somehow, through some desperate measure, she could slow down the speed of her fall. Shameful tears burned in her eyes and she cried out once more, the second before she knew her back would break—only to be silenced by Shay.
He caught her, cradled her like one might comfort a crying child.
“Ready to play, little wild one?” he crooned.
“No.” The word was a rasp. Her chest squeezed. Her lungs were too tight. She couldn’t force the air in, couldn’t breathe to save her own life. Tremors wrecked her body and forced the High Prince to hold onto her more tightly. She’d failed herself, shamed herself. Each thud of her heart was a slam in her throat. Uncontrollable. Unstoppable. Wet tears slid down her heated cheeks. “I want to be put back on the ground.”
Her voice cracked. “Please.”
Maeve looked up into his eyes and begged, silently, for her life.
