Page 17 of Bound to the Fae Assassin

But when he saw what she held up, he wished he had let her be tackled to the ground.

It was the deadly thistlebaum. The flower he had lost on the other side of the wall.

He was off his horse in a heartbeat, striding up to her with his hand out.

“Give that to me,” he growled.

But Farrow Barton stood her ground, her green eyes flashing with determination.

“Cure him,” she said, clutching the poison blossoms to her chest. “Cure him and you can have it. Your obligation will be fulfilled.”

“What’s this?” the Fae King’s voice rang out in the square.

“Fine, but put it away,” Blackthorn told her tightly.

To his intense relief, she obeyed him.

He turned to greet his parents, bracing himself inwardly.

At moments like these, he almost envied mortals. Their parents aged and faded, stepping aside so they could take their place in the world.

Blackthorn’s parents looked no older than he did, and though his father spoke of stepping down, his obvious delight in his power made the idea unlikely, at best.

“We heard whispers of a spy in the square,” Queen Persimmon said as she approached, a pinched expression on her face. Her gown was the fiery orange color of her namesake, but she still managed to look pale and cold all over.

“And we heard she spoke the nickname of the Prince,” King Oak added sternly. “Surely, you did not make a pact with a spy for the man king?”

Blackthorn bowed with the others.

But once again, the girl stood ramrod straight.

He studied her out of the corner of his eye, afraid that pride would be her downfall. His father was not so lenient as he was when it came to showing proper respect.

“What does the man king seek, girl?” the King asked her, his eyes like cold slate.

“I have no idea what he wants,” she said. “I do not work for him, except that my taxes fill his coffers.”

“Impudent,” the queen breathed.

“Have you made a pact with my son?” the King asked. “Lies will not be tolerated.”

“If that is your son,” she said, pointing to Blackthorn, “then yes. I saved him from the King’s men on my side of the wall. And he said he was obliged to me for my help.”

There was a murmur in the crowd, and the King’s frown deepened.

“So, you have come here seeking what?” he asked. “Riches? Glory? Fame?”

“An antidote to poison,” she said simply. “For my friend.”

“Lies,” the queen sneered. “No mortal would waste the favor of Fae royalty on a mere friend. She is a spy, sent here to report back to her king.”

“I’m not a spy,” the girl said. “I am a baker.”

The King blinked at her.

“I have an idea, then,” the queen purred. “If she is a baker, she can bake us something.”

“There’s no time,” the girl wailed. “My friend is dying. He will not last the night.”

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