Page 91 of Atop the Faerie Throne
Yes. But the fae understand and honour a mate bond. Not to mention, if Elatha manages to do it—if the bàsron really do exist and he sets them loose—then the queendom is in no position to protect these people.
A different Fomorian lurches to his feet after a few more seconds of my silence. He’s thin, almost painfully so, and he staggers desperately towards me.
“You can’t turn us away!”
A glowing golden shield erupts between us, and a snarling sandy wolf almost knocks me aside as Jaro charges into the space between me and them, barking in reprimand. Unfortunately, his appearance sets the crowd to bristling, andthen, to make matters worse, a familiar hand clasps my shoulder.
“Rhoswyn.”
How can Drystan make my name sound so reproachful? The anxiety and protectiveness radiating from the bond softens the harshness, and I know he’s scrutinising my resolve and thoughtfulness, reassuring himself that I’m not in danger.
“They’re not a threat. I want to hear them out.”
I’m not looking at him, but the heat of his glare is surely burning a hole in the back of my skull. Mating might’ve given us a deeper understanding of one another, but it hasn’t cured him of the need to control things or his dislike of surprises.
“I have three Guards with me,” I point out, nerves edging my tone even as I fight to keep my voice down. The last thing I need right now is the Fomorians sensing our discord. “And I took precautions. I’m being sensible.”
Drystan’s hand leaves my shoulder, and I take the temporary reprieve for what it is, releasing Caed in favour of stepping up beside Jaro’s wolf
“This is troubling news,” I admit to the gathered crowd. “And I’m not turning you away.”
“You’re not?” Drystan asks, as Jaro leans into my leg.
Caed snorts. “Little queen, I guarantee you the second any of them steps foot in the city, there’ll be a riot.”
My head is already pounding, and Bree’s cum is a dripping mess down my inner thighs as I struggle to choose a course of action.
No matter what I do, it’s going to be unpopular.
Ideally, I’d integrate them fully into the city, but Caed is right. The scars of the last battle are still visible everywhere, and having these Fomorians in the middle of that will only encourage more strife.
They’d probably prefer their own space, where they don’t have to be surrounded by fae. Still, I can’t just leave them to their own devices. I’d be stupid to dismiss the risk that this could be a trick.
My eyes flit over their faces, lingering on their short hair and the pale marks banding their arms where those iron rings would once have rested.
Those jagged haircuts and pale blue lines, more than anything, make me want to believe in their sincerity. It might be fear driving them here, but surely, they would never go against such a deeply rooted part of their culture if they weren’t committed?
Still, only time will tell.
But what to do with them? As much as separation feels like the only option, I fear that path will only lead to the same kind of elitism that was so prevalent in Siabetha.
No part of me wants to create a third tier below the under fae for the Fomorians to inhabit.
That might happen, anyway.
“I’ll make a bargain with you,” I begin, and all of them tense. “A fair one. For the moment, you may make camp beside the wall, provided you do no harm and cause no trouble. Tomorrow, my people will return with a long-term agreement.”
“Outside the walls?” the female snaps. “Do you not understand what’s coming? What he’s trying to unleash?”
“Would you rather be skewered by a thousand angry fairies?” Caed asks, his ghost swords twirling menacingly in the air. “Because they aren’t feeling too charitable after you destroyed their home.”
“We had no part in that,” the scarred male, who seems to have adopted the position of leader, objects.
I note the lie with grim disapproval, even as Lore blinks to him, sticking his tongue out and running it along the edge of a knife I didn’t even see him draw.
“I’ll take the tongue of the next Fomorian who dares lie to my mate.” He says it so happily that it takes a second to register as a threat.
“I told you this was a stupid idea, Arvid.” The female edges closer to him.
