Page 8 of The Fae Warrior's Queen

Slowly coming closer, I lift the waterskin off my belt and shake it so she can hear the liquid sloshing around inside. “I have a drink for you. Please, take it.”

Finally, Queen Ro moves into my view, and what I see has me balling my hands into fists.

She’s too thin, and that fact is obvious because she’s scantily dressed in rags. The torn burlap fabric barely covers her breasts and her lower region. Her ribs protrude from her body, and her stomach is basically concave. Her small thighs have somehow maintained a curvy shape, but I’m guessing that’s her short stature and genetics at play. She’s so petite. I’m used to women who are close to six feet tall, but Ro hardly clears five feet. Her smallness makes me feel even more protective than I already do.

With the lack of food, I’d already known the dark fae resort to drinking each other’s blood for sustenance. Honestly, I’d judged them for it. I thought it was disgusting and feral, and I still do.

But it’s their only alternative to starvation, and it seems Queen Ro has been forced to go hungry.

She’s also filthy. Dirt is streaked on her tan skin, and it darkens her hands and knees as if she’s been crawling around while cleaning.

I grind my teeth when I see the chains around her ankles. That’s completely unnecessary. I highly doubt she could run. First of all, she’s too frail. And second, she has no shoes. Her toes are blackened with grime.

I lift my eyes to hers.

When our gazes connect, my heart starts to pound, but it’s not from unadulterated rage.

I’ve never seen anyone more gorgeous than this woman.

Everyone’s heard the tales of Queen Ro’s beauty. Only the highest nobles and palace staff got to lay eyes upon her, and their opinion of her good looks was always unanimous. In a world where almost everyone has flawless skin and elegant features, that’s quite a compliment.

Even now, the rumors still hold true.

Queen Ro’s sad state of dress, her stringy black hair, and the lack of hygiene are inconsequential—none of it takes away from her attractiveness.

It’s her face… she’s just so unbelievably pretty. There’s something special about the fullness of her lips, her high cheekbones, her wide forehead, her round jaw, and the cleft in her chin.

And she looks so young.

In Valora, people stop aging at twenty-five, and they’re frozen that way for thousands of years. We all get to maintain our youth, but Queen Ro has a special kind of innocence about her.

Maybe it’s vulnerability that shines through her soulful brown eyes.

The top of her ear is sticking out through her hair, and the rounded shape of it is strangely endearing—a reminder that she’s human.

Now I know why Zarid kept her like a prized exotic pet. She’s unique, exquisite, and unfortunately for her, breakable.

For someone who likes to destroy pretty, fragile things, Zarid chose his perfect victim. If he weren’t already dead, I’d murder the fuck out of him.

“It is my honor to meet you, Queen Ro,” I manage to speak up, trying to keep my voice deep and steady so I sound like a strong warrior and not a smitten schoolboy.

“Just Ro,” she corrects. “Only Ro. Don’t call me queen.”

“If that’s what you wish, Ro.” I motion to my bare torso. “I wish I had a shirt to offer you. I’m sorry I don’t have much to give, but I do have this.”

I extend the water between us again.

Licking her dry lips, Ro steps closer. She warily studies me from head to toe as she sizes me up. Probably wondering if she can trust what’s in front of her.

Her eyebrows pinch together when she sees all my scars.

Self-consciousness makes my cheeks heat.

For the first time in centuries, I actually care about what someone thinks of me, and I wish Ro could’ve met me before the mutilation. Back then, I was extraordinarily handsome. I’m not being arrogant—it’s the truth. I was the best of the best, and I would’ve proudly stood before her, soaking up my conceit as she openly admired me.

Now, her attention lingers on the marks decorating my arms. My chest. The long scar running from my forehead, over my eye, and down my cheek.

My old wounds tingle under her scrutiny, and I try not to squirm.

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