Page 4 of The High Mountain Court

Chapter Two

“You have no right to bind my friends,” Remy spat out. “Witches are free in the West.”

The fae male had not yet shown his hand. Fenrin was right; the fae could assume they were all brown witches. They may be traffickers looking for some cheap money. If that were the case, showing her red magic would be a death sentence.

“You are as cunning as you are beautiful, little witch,” the fae looming before her said with that charming, deep voice.

His eyes swept over her face, as if assessing her beauty. Remy couldn’t help the flush that crept up her cheeks. He was truly stunning, this fae, like no one she had ever seen before. Tanned smooth skin swept over high cheekbones, and he had a strong, stubbled jawline. A whole head taller than Remy, he blocked the entire doorway with his large, muscled body.

Remy tried not to fall victim to the male flattery. So, this was the game he wanted to play.

She recast herself to fit his ploy: not the fighter, not the fool, but the vixen. Sabine and Josephine were not only skilled in the art of the bedroom, they also were experts in the art of the hustle, and Remy was a quick study.

She allowed her eyes to sweep over his body with an arched eyebrow. She wanted it to look like she was indulging in his form, but she was assessing her opponent. Remy had been sizing up strangers her whole life.

It was clear that this fae was a warrior. Not only in his muscles, but in his stance. He wore carefully selected leathers. Well-cared-for blades belted to his narrow hips, and Remy could tell there was a secret dagger hidden, sheathed, in the ankle of his boot.

Her gaze purposefully lingered for a beat on his full lips before sweeping back up to his entrancing gray eyes. She smirked up at him.

Remy swept a stray hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear.

“Cunning indeed,” he said.

“If you have come for our brown witch services, I don’t see how tying up my mother and brother will garner you their aid,” Remy groused.

The fae warrior glanced over her shoulder to where Heather and Fenrin sat bound on the floor. Remy looked nothing like either of them. They both had fair complexions, and Remy had rich brown skin. Heather’s hair was a coppery red, Fenrin’s a straw blond, both pin straight, and Remy had thick loose curls the color of midnight that fell to the small of her back. Clearly not related by blood, Remy raised her chin at the fae, defying him to contradict her.

“Besides, you don’t seem like the type to be seeking a love potion,” she said with that coy smirk again. The male’s eyes danced with surprise. “So, I can assume you’ve come to take us to the North and sell us into servitude. If that is the case, I can assure you a brown witch will gain you not a single piece of gold, barely enough to cover the cost of dragging us there.”

“What is your name?” the male asked with a toothy grin.

“Remy,” she said.

“Remy.” He paused, as if savoring her name.

“And yours?” Even at a head shorter, she still leveled him with a look.

“You do not recognize me then?” he said with a flicker of surprise. A devious grin spread across his face. “I suppose a backcountry witch would not know my visage.”

Remy’s stomach tightened. He was not merely a fae male, then, but an important one. Her fingers twitched to use her magic.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Hale Norwood, Crown Prince of the Eastern Court.”

Remy’s stomach dropped. She had heard his name before. Of course she had. He was the eldest son of the Eastern Court’s King Norwood. Rumors said he was born a bastard but given a royal title anyway. They said he was a reckless warrior prince. He had taken over villages and scourged through towns in the name of his father, the King. No one knew where the Bastard Prince would pop up or what havoc he would wreak. Now here he was, in her tiny attic, all the way in the Western Court . . . and that could not be a good thing.

Remy dropped into a quick bow. “Your Highness.” The prince’s lips curved. Remy was certain now he saw through her. “Are you seeking the services of the brown witches?”

The prince rubbed the stubble of his chin, assessing her. “I am not seeking the services of a brown witch at all.” Those lead-colored eyes lit up as he added, “But you can help me, can’t you, Red?”

Shit.

The game was up.

Vixen be damned, time to be a fighter.

The prince advanced. Remy grabbed her bow beside the door and swung it with all her might. The wood broke over his muscled bicep in a pathetic snap.

Cursing the Gods for her broken bow, Remy cast out her magic. She blasted the door behind the prince, who stumbled and cleared the doorway. She bolted past and leapt down the stairs, willing her magic to slam the room’s door behind her and hold it fast.

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