Page 52 of Bound to the Fae Assassin

“What is the meaning of this?” the king demanded angrily.

Blackthorn began striding forward, toward his destiny.

“You,” the king cried, spotting him.

The guards began to move toward him.

Quick as a thought, he leaped onto a table and launched himself forward, ignoring the ladies who squealed as he landed in a squat on their pretty tablecloth.

He jumped off, wheeled to the right to avoid a guard’s cudgel, and sprinted for the king.

By now, the last pair of guards was halfway to the tables.

But they were too late. Prince Blackthorn of Swordbrake grabbed the cake server from the silver platter and placed its edge against the king’s neck.

The crowd moaned and went silent, and the guards froze in their tracks.

It wasn’t much of a weapon, but he thought it would do the job. He pressed the makeshift blade closer, until a single drop of scarlet blood slid down the king’s neck through a smear of pale frosting.

Even in the heat of the moment, he couldn’t miss the irony.

After all the precautions, it turned out that magic had brought a blade to the king’s throat after all.

Blackthorn and the king were locked in a fatal embrace. Both men would die today - the king by his blade and Blackthorn by cudgel when it was done.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now.

“Stop,” Farrow cried out.

He looked up to see her standing on her chair.

Her legs were shoulder width apart, arms extended, palms up. Just as he’d taught her. Good girl.

She closed her eyes and began to whisper, and time seemed to slow.

He screamed for her to stop. She would be put to death by her own people for openly using magic like this.

But she was deep inside her own power now, too far away to hear him.

Swirls of brilliant emerald energy flew from her hands and sailed out of the tent.

A moment later, a thicket of roses and thorns rushed into the tent. Stalks unfurled and buds bloomed in a fragrant blur, moving faster than his eyes could follow.

The king moaned in fear, reminding Blackthorn what he was here to do.

But he never had a chance to deliver the fatal cut. Ropes of thorny vines wrapped themselves around his wrists, locking him in place.

“Stop,” she called to him again, opening her eyes.

“I can’t,” he told her, fighting against his bonds, muscles straining. “This is my duty, my destiny.”

He had come too far. His life was already forfeit. There was only one way she could stop him.

He watched a single tear trail down her cheek as understanding dawned in her eyes.

Then the pressure on his chest increased as she began to curl her hand into a fist.

He closed his eyes, ready to meet his end.

---