Page 51 of Bound to the Fae Assassin

A massive table holding the three final desserts was placed between the king and his court.

Lady Gwinn returned to a smattering of applause, and carried the first cake to the king’s table, where she used an ornate silver serving tool to carve out a single piece and lift it onto his plate.

Once it had been presented, she portioned the rest of the cake into tiny pieces and returned the server to the gleaming silver tray.

When the king nodded to her, she handed the cake to a servant, who scurried around with it, dishing out slices to the gathered lords and ladies.

Silence fell on the tent as the king took a bite.

Blackthorn’s gaze went to Farrow, who stood beside the other bakers in a row in front of the helpers. But she stood with her back straight as an oak, and did not turn to look at him. He could not read what was in her mind or her heart.

“Delicious,” the man king said, smacking his ugly maw as he scooped up another bite and gestured to his court.

Now that the king had given leave, the lords and ladies followed suit. There was much humming and many approving remarks. But it didn’t seem like anyone was truly enamored of the flavor.

The servants scurried to take the plates away once more, and Lady Gwinn approached the king with the second cake, once again using the silver server to slice and serve his piece, then cutting slices for everyone else.

This cake had the intricate sugar work and white chocolate swans, but the elderly baker had no trouble plating it. This clearly was not her first experience with such delicacies.

As the servants distributed slices of cake to the rest of the court, the king lifted his fork, ate a bite, and closed his eyes in appreciation.

“Rich frosting,” he declared, gesturing for the others to try.

The tension in the room was rising. The king had liked both of the first two cakes. And if this one tasted half as good as it looked, it would be tough to beat.

But Blackthorn wasn’t worried about winning the competition. Just a taste from the king would suit him.

Blackthorn fixed his gaze on Farrow’s dessert.

Was there poison inside it? Would there be blood at last in Fairweather, and a somber celebration of long-sought revenge in Swordbrake?

She doesn’t love you.

The voice in his head was devastatingly correct. She had not loved him before, and now she saw him only as a liar.

But he had seen her tears fall when he told her his kingdom’s story. Surely there was a chance, however small, that she would help him.

Lady Gwinn served the king a piece of the final cake, then proceeded to cut the rest.

As he servants ran more plates to the court, Blackthorn heard some remarks and light laughter about the meek appearance of Farrow’s plain brown cake.

As the whole room went silent, the king lifted his fork to his lips and took a bite.

Blackthorn waited, his whole life focused down to this tiny instant.

The king’s expression turned from amusement to horror.

Blackthorn felt a moment of triumph that quickly vanished when the man did not vomit or clutch his stomach.

Instead, his eyebrows slammed together in an expression of intense fury.

Farrow had not chosen to help Blackthorn after all. There was no poison in the cake.

Sighing, Blackthorn dropped his facade and revealed his true appearance, so that all present would know who he was when he took matters into his own hands.

The king’s men were all present. He would not make it out alive.

But neither would the king. Blackthorn could not allow such a monster to live. Not when it was in his power to save his own kingdom, and gift his mother with a whisper of revenge for all she and her people had lost.

---