14

The next day, I avoid my stepmother as much as possible, busying myself around the house, tending to the girls, cooking, and doing the chores. It’s not difficult to stay out of her way, since she spends the whole morning in bed, sleeping off last night’s overindulgence.

In the early afternoon, once she’s up, I go out to shovel the front path—which is technically Worden’s job, but with his poor health, I know he’ll appreciate not having to do it. Besides, it gets me out of the house and away from her .

Or so I think, until Gilda comes down the steps wearing her new fur coat.

When I spot her out of the corner of my eye, I immediately tug my hood lower over my forehead and pull my scarf up over my nose and mouth. My cheeks are already red from the cold, and with those extra precautions, maybe she won’t notice that my face has already healed. I’ve kept my arms and legs covered today, and although Amisa didn’t notice that my face was healed, Vashli did. I shrugged off her questions, saying that I used a special cream on the abraded skin .

“Something you stole, no doubt,” she snapped, but at least she let it go. My stepmother won’t. If she notices that I’m no longer injured, she will ask questions, difficult ones that I don’t want to answer.

Gilda stands on the cleared part of the path, watching me shovel for a moment.

“What happened last night?” she says at last.

“I went to the ball. I danced with the Prince. I insulted him, as you ordered me to.”

“And yet somehow, despite your appearance, your smell, and your foul words, he is still infatuated with you. Tell me truthfully—did you give him a love potion?”

“No,” I reply. “I don’t believe those exist. If they do, I wouldn’t know where to get one.”

“Then how do you explain his obsession with you?”

“I can’t.” I scoop another shovelful of snow and toss it aside.

“Does he expect you tonight?”

“Yes. He’s sending a carriage for me. He said he wants me to arrive earlier than everyone else.”

“He plans to propose.”

“The fuck he does,” I exclaim. “He can’t believe I would make a good queen.”

“I don’t believe he’s considering the needs of the kingdom at all,” Gilda continues. “He’s looking for a partner he can endure. The ladies at the parties I’ve attended say he’s quite odd—finicky, difficult to please, prone to pontificating on dull subjects, and distressed if things aren’t done precisely as he wishes. They say most people annoy him. Except you, apparently.”

She’s quiet for a few more minutes, then says, “He won’t marry either of my daughters, nor anyone else. He wants you. Therefore he shall have you. Tonight, when he asks for your hand in marriage— ”

“No, please—” I gasp.

“—I command you to accept.”

“Please, my lady. He’s a good person.”

Her eyes are slivers of black ice. “Need I remind you that this was your idea? You wanted to make a deal. His freedom in exchange for yours.”

“I’ve thought better of it. He doesn’t deserve this.”

“Deserve?” She laughs, high and sharp. “No one deserves anything. We’re all just swimming around in shit, trying to climb out of the cesspool. And if I have to push a few heads down and step on their skulls to climb higher, I will. I have plans for this fucking country. I’m going to fix it, and along the way I’m going to destroy everyone who has ever insulted or underestimated me. My daughters will marry nobles. And you —your fate will be decided by how well you serve me in the coming days. I command you to attend the ball tonight, to accept the Prince’s proposal, and to be a docile and affectionate fiancée. Tell him nothing to deter or alarm him. Suggest a brief engagement, with the wedding in a week’s time, and convince him that marrying immediately is better than waiting. Tell no living soul about my plan for the Prince.”

My body quakes with rage and despair, hot breaths puffing against the weave of my scarf as the commands land on my soul, one after another, like great boulders weighing me down. But I don’t protest again. If I say anything else, it will only give her ideas for more rules to impose, and the more commands bind me, the tighter the chains wrap around my mind and my heart.

“Good. You have a dress for tonight?”

She didn’t demand the truth, so I leap at the chance to lie to her, to reclaim that tiny freedom. “Yes, the Prince sent another gown he wants me to wear. He told me not to destroy this one.”

“He’s fucking insane. He probably thinks you’re as mad as he is. It’s a good thing I’m going to be in control, otherwise the kingdom would be doomed.” Shaking her head, my stepmother turns away and walks back into the house.

I stand alone, hollowed out by despair and by the knowledge that I did this to myself. I had a plan, and I let it go astray. If the Prince proposes tonight, I’ll be trapped in this marriage, forced to watch him become Gilda’s slave.

And the King—the handsome King who has been so generous to me, both with his library and his body—he will be deeply hurt. He won’t understand why I would sleep with him and then marry his son. In fact, he might hate me for it. Or perhaps he’ll be disgusted by the idea that his son might fuck the same pussy he fucked, and he’ll forbid the wedding. That’s a tiny ray of hope for the Prince, if not for me.

I can’t avoid the ball. I can’t stop the Prince from proposing or warn him about my family. And I still don’t know how to remove the anklet. So I’m truly, terribly fucked, with no way out but to proceed through the events of the evening like an automaton designed to perform someone else’s will.

Instead of making me prepare my stepsisters for the ball tonight, Gilda orders them to help each other get ready. Though she doesn’t say it, I know she wants me to have plenty of time to make myself beautiful for the Prince.

Now that Gilda has devised a different method of reaching her goal, her focus has shifted from her daughters to me. They can feel the change, and they don’t like it. The sounds of them slamming doors and screaming at each other upstairs are like music to my ears as I descend to my cellar.

Once alone, with the door closed, I rub the pocket watch between my thumb and fingers. I’ve used tears thrice to call my Faerie godfather. I’m not sure I can call him again the same way.

“Killian?” I whisper to the watch. It seems silly to talk to an inanimate object, but I know it’s linked to him by magic. Maybe he can hear me .

I wait for a while, and then I decide to fix my hair myself, using the cracked mirror over the washstand. I have time before the Prince’s carriage arrives. It only takes Killian a few seconds to make me a dress, so as long as he shows up before—

A heavy weight crashes onto my cot, and I spin away from the mirror to see Killian sprawled across the bed.

“What are you doing?” I exclaim in a loud whisper. “My family is home? You have to be quiet.”

“Of course.” He tries to push himself up, then collapses onto the thin mattress again, his cheek sunk into my pillow.

“What’s wrong with you?” As I approach him, I spot dark blood trickling from beneath his coat sleeve, down his wrist and fingers, running along the hilt of a small scythe clutched in his hand—a scythe with a black blade. “Killian?”

“I got it,” he slurs. “Nearly killed me, but I got it. Fucking Unseelie monsters tried to eat me.”

My heart thunders as I creep closer. My stepmother has forbidden me to touch actual weapons, but a scythe is technically an implement used in farming, so I should be able to touch it without the anklet reacting.

Cautiously I place one finger on the scythe’s handle. When my anklet doesn’t react, I take the implement gently from Killian’s hand and lay it on the floor. Then I push him over onto his back.

My stomach lurches at the sight of him. His chest has been ravaged, gnawed down until his breastbone and ribs are exposed. Deep in his body, beneath the bones and the glistening, bloody flesh, there’s a faint, pulsing lavender glow, and I realize it’s his heart. His heart glows.

“My god, Killian.” I cover my mouth, fighting the urge to gag.

“Nasty, isn’t it? ”

“Why did you come here?” I exclaim. “I don’t know how to help you—you should have gone home. Your father could fix you, right?”

“I’ll heal,” he says. “There’s no iron involved, so the healing process won’t take long. I wanted to come here at once and give it to you. Try it. See if it works.”

“The scythe?” I ask. “Is it the Wraith’s Scythe?”

“Yes.”

“But you said it was deep in Unseelie territory, that you couldn’t access it without putting yourself in great danger.”

“Clearly.” He attempts a roguish grin and gestures to his torn body. His breaths are labored and wet, his voice half-choked. “I may have started a war without really meaning to… but that’s for King Lirannon to handle. We’ve had peace for too long anyway. He could use a little unrest to spice up his life.”

“You idiot,” I whisper. “You half-killed yourself to get this for me?”

“After what she did to you last night, you bet I fucking did.” His lips tremble, fervent emotion blazing in his eyes even as they glimmer with tears. “You’re worth it.”

“Stop,” I whisper. “You’re going to make me cry, too.”

“Just try the scythe. Please.”

“Alright.” Whisking away the tears with the back of my wrist, I pick up the scythe and sit down in the new chair he gave me. “I just—cut the anklet?”

“Try to cut it. If it doesn’t work for you, I’ll try.”

I attempt to saw through the anklet. The scythe makes a small scratch on the charmed metal, and at first I’m hopeful, but after a few seconds, the scratch disappears, as if the anklet healed itself. I scoot over to Killian and let him try, but the scythe doesn’t perform any better for him.

“Well, fuck.” He lets it fall and lies still, staring up at the ceiling of the cellar. Tears slip from the corners of his eyes .

I reach out and stroke the loose waves of purple hair back from his forehead. I want to tell him about my stepmother’s plan to have me marry the Prince and transfer the anklet, but she ordered me not to speak of it to any living soul. Maybe he’ll figure it out on his own. Maybe, once the transfer is complete, Killian can save me from my stepmother, and then we can figure out a way to save the Prince, too.

Or maybe my stepmother will kill me on the night of my wedding, and all this will be over.

Once, not so long ago, death might have sounded like relief, like the sweet end to a bitter struggle—but now, I can’t bear the thought of my life being cut short. In oneweek, I’ve gained three people in my life whom I care about—the Prince, his gorgeous father, and the sweet Faerie who is currently bleeding all over my bed.

“There are things humans can do to help Faeries heal,” Killian murmurs.

I sigh. “Why do I suspect those things have to do with sex?”

“Because you’re as smart as you are beautiful.”

“That’s two compliments in one, motherfucker.” I lean down and press my lips to his.

His mouth is warm, mostly smooth but sticky at one corner with his blood. At first, kissing him is a comforting pleasure, like sunbathing on a warm rock, or snuggling a soft cat, or sinking into a hot bath. But the intimacy of it heats inside me, building until the act moves beyond comfort into something more urgent—a twining of wet tongues, a melting glory of liquid heat and soft mouths.

His bloodied hand comes up and cups the back of my head, deepening the kiss. I lash my tongue inside his mouth, suddenly desperate to explore him.

A guilty voice speaks in the back of my mind, shaming me for doing this when a large piece of my heart belongs to the King. But I need solace, and Killian needs healing, and fuck it .

Reluctantly I end the kiss. “Will it hurt you, if I—” Lightly I touch between his legs. His body seems undamaged below the waist, but I want to be sure I don’t cause him worse agony.

“Do anything you want to me,” he says desperately. “Please.”

I loosen his pants and drag them down to his thighs, exposing his pretty cock. Then I slip off my work dress and my underthings, and I arrange myself astride him on the bed.

He watches me with a look of mingled anguish and awe, as if he can’t believe what’s happening. I stay up on my knees at first and tease myself with the tip of his cock, letting him watch as I use it to manipulate my clit. Then I tuck him inside me and slide all the way down.

He cries out, and I have to lean forward quickly and clap a hand over his mouth. “Sshh, pretty Faerie,” I whisper. I move my hips up and down, using my thigh muscles so I can fuck myself on him faster. I try not to think about how I did this with the King in the greenhouse. I try not to think about my stepmother, or the Prince, or the anklet, or anything else. I blot out every other thought and focus solely on the fullness of him gliding inside me, his lips warm against my palm, his eyes rolling back with agonized bliss.

He comes before I do, whimpering against my palm, groans quaking from his ruined chest. I keep riding him toward my climax, and as I do, I notice that he’s healing. Torn tissue is knitting back together even as I watch.

I did that. I helped him. The knowledge rushes through me in a burst of emotion I can’t describe, and I come on his cock, throbbing with ecstasy. I remove my hand from his mouth and lean back, pressing my fingertips to my clit to coax out every bit of pleasure.

“I love watching you come,” Killian whispers.

I smile at him. “After everything you’ve done for me, I’m happy to do a favor for you. ”

“A favor?” His eyes harden slightly.

“Of course.” I climb off him and fetch a cloth from the washstand to clean myself up.

“Right,” he says. “That’s what it was—a favor. One good turn deserves another, fair is fair, and all that.” There’s a noticeable edge to his tone.

“You’re angry?” I frown. “I helped you heal. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing at all.” He sits up and smiles, bright and brittle. “My energy is a bit low at the moment, but I assume you want me to make you a gown?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble. It’s my duty , after all. Part of our business arrangement.” He’s still smiling, but I hate this smile. It’s like I’ve broken something inside him.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” I venture.

“No one is upset, darling. Hold still. I’m going to do a bit of blood magic. Two birds with one stone—a clean room and a new dress, and it will cost me less energy.” He makes a circular gesture, and all the blood from his clothes, the bed, and the floor lifts up and whirls around in a tornado of scarlet drops, expanding into a red cloud before condensing around my body in the form of a velvety crimson gown. My pocket watch transforms into a ruby pendant, and when I turn to look in the mirror over the washstand, I can see more rubies winking from the pile of golden braids on my head.

“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe, even though I’m a little concerned about the fact that he literally used his blood to make the gown. “And… shoes?” But even as I speak, shoes are forming around my feet. I lift the gown to look at them. “These look as if they’re made of glass.”

“Crystallized air, actually. Like the mirror I made for you.”

“And they’ll be all right for walking and dancing?”

“Trust me, they’re quite comfortable. ”

“Since you applied the glamour earlier than usual, do I need to leave the ball by eleven instead of midnight?”

He shakes his head. “Since I used my own blood, it should last a bit longer. You can leave when the clock strikes twelve. Now if you don’t mind, I must be off. I need to rest.” He picks up the scythe, twirls it around a few times, then fashions a portal out of thin air and walks out of my sight.

I stand there, twisting my hands together, wishing he’d stayed a moment longer. I know I hurt him when I said I only fucked him as a favor. He wanted it to be more than that. But how much more? Anything he might want from me is more than I can give. I am not my own, so how can I give myself fully to anyone?

“Cinders!” Amisa bawls down the stairs. “The Prince’s carriage is here!”

“What a very ladylike way to inform me,” I mutter as I mount the steps.

My stepmother and Amisa are waiting in the hallway. “Vashli is crying in her room and it’s your fault,” says Amisa. Once again, I think about how she often sounds like a petulant child, like a girl half her age. But at least she’s feeling some measure of sympathy for her sister.

Gilda says nothing to me. She has already delivered her orders. But she and Amisa watch me from the doorway of the house as I descend the steps in my scarlet gown.

Killian didn’t make me a wrap this time. I don’t mind—he was exhausted, still healing, and hurt by my words. But it’s cold, and I shiver a little as I traverse the path I shoveled earlier. My breath creates puffs of pale smoke in the air.

The Prince’s carriage is warm, though, thanks to a small heater full of hot coals under the carriage seat. It’s protected by a sort of cage to let the warmth out while preventing wayward skirts from getting too close to the heat .

When we arrive at the palace, I’m greeted by a pair of attentive footmen and escorted inside. I thought the palace might feel quiet and empty, but there’s a flurry of activity as the servants prepare for yet another ball—the last one. One of the footmen escorts me to the left, down a hallway I haven’t followed before.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“The family’s private dining room.”

“But I’m dressed for a ball, not for dinner.”

“They will not mind, my lady. And we will provide a covering to protect your gown if you desire it.” He bows, ushering me through a doorway. “Welcome.”

I step inside and, to my horror, see both the Prince and the King standing behind ornate chairs, waiting for me.

The King looks more deliciously handsome than ever in a smoky gray suit and a white silk cravat. His silver eyes, shaded by those dark brows, meet mine with an intensity that sends my stomach flying into some distant universe. His beautiful lips curve slightly, the ghost of a smile.

How can he smile when we’re in this situation? How can he stand there, knowing me as intimately as he does, knowing also that his son is probably going to propose before the end of the night?

“Welcome, Celinda,” says the King in that rich, deep voice, and I glance around despairingly, certain that I’m going to pass out from sheer panic. None of the servants are close enough to catch me.

The King jerks his head slightly, and Brantley hurries to pull out my chair for me himself, rather than having one of the servants do it. I drop gratefully onto the cushioned seat and try to remember my manners. I didn’t curtsy, but I’m sure neither of them will mention it. Thank Fate my stepmother’s order from last night no longer applies, so I don’t have to listen to rude phrases spilling from my mouth without my consent .

“Thank you for having me,” I say as calmly as I can manage.

“We’re having roast duck,” says the Prince eagerly. “My favorite. But first, an autumn soup, very light and foamy. I think you’ll enjoy it, though the primary ingredient is the humble squash. So many kinds of squash, you know, and so much that can be done with them.”

He launches into a lesson on the types of squash and their uses, including whole recipes complete with the quantities of each ingredient. One of the servants approaches and offers me a sort of bib that I can drape over my gown, but I decline, not wishing to look even more foolish before the two royals. When the soup arrives, I do spill a few drops on my dress, but the material absorbs it instantly, leaving no stain.

I could get used to wearing magical clothing.

When the Prince pauses for breath and a mouthful of soup, I smile at him and say, “It’s incredible how you can remember all those recipes. I’ve never met anyone with such a wonderful memory.”

“Thank you.” His smile is so delighted and genuine that warmth floods my heart.

I truly care about Brantley. I want him to be safe and happy. I want him to have a partner who appreciates his strengths and complements his weaknesses. Maybe, if I’m forced into the role of his wife, I will find some way to bear it—to help him govern and free us both from my stepmother.

But then I glance at the King, and my heart breaks. He’s smiling too, looking at me with so much affection and appreciation for my kindness to his son that nausea surges in my stomach.

I can’t do this. I can’t be married to his son, be part of his family, and move in the same circles as him. Much as I might try to resist him, I will fall at his feet again. I know it.

How did my life become such a tangled mess ?

It’s all her , of course. My fucking stepmother. Without her, none of this would have happened.

“Are you well, my dear?” asks the King. “You look a bit pale.”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Excellent. Tell me about your family.”

He’s behaving like any father would when his grown son brings a potential bride to the family dinner table. He’s acting as if he doesn’t know me, as if his tongue hasn’t been inside me. I can still feel the brush of his scruff on my inner thighs, and I pin my legs together under the table.

I do my best to tell him about my family, but my stepmother has surrounded that topic with so many rules and laws that I find myself pausing constantly to skirt around things I’m not allowed to mention. At last I manage to turn the topic back to food, specifically the best ways to cook different cuts of meat, a topic which allows Brantley to exercise both his memory and his love of detail.

At last, after thin slices of chocolate cake, the King rises. “We should prepare for the ball. I’ll be attending tonight, and Brantley, if you will permit it, I would like to claim one dance with Celinda.”

“Of course, Father,” replies the Prince. There’s not a trace of suspicion in his face or voice. I suspect that despite Brantley’s expertise in everything else, he’s not good at reading expressions, or he would have picked up on the meaning of my blushes and discomfort during dinner.

“Celinda, there’s a chamber prepared for you upstairs if you need to freshen up before the ball,” the King says. “I’ll escort you there, if you like.”

I should say no. But I want to speak with him, to question him about what the fuck he’s doing and how we’ll manage to stay away from each other if I’m married to his son. So against my better judgment I hear myself saying, “That would be lovely, thank you.”

I don’t miss the way the King waves off the guards who try to follow us, or the way his large hand presses lightly at the small of my back on the way upstairs. The hallway is cloaked in beautiful paper, vines and flowers swirling over the walls. The lamps are shaped like hands holding glass flames.

The King opens a door and beckons me inside. I enter, my mouth and throat dry as bone despite the water I drank at dinner. Did I eat more than a few bites? I can’t remember. My stomach is twisting itself into knots.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I spin around, hoping he left, hoping I’ll be alone.

But he’s there, in the room with me, his fingers still on the door handle. He’s looking at me like a beast who has finally cornered his prey.

“Kneel before your King, Celinda,” he says quietly.

“Your Majesty, we should talk.”

He’s taking off his belt. I can’t tear my gaze away from those large, masculine hands. I watch him undo his pants, and I melt to the ground in my scarlet dress. Fuck him… I can’t resist.

“Don’t come on my dress this time,” I whisper. “I’ll swallow it.”

He hesitates, a faint alarm in his eyes. Then he puts himself away and grabs the belt from the bed, putting it back on. “We can’t do this. Not now.”

Disappointed, I frown. “How responsible of you.”

“I simply realized that as much as I want to make a mess of you, I should wait until after the ball.”

“Until I’m engaged to your son?” I get to my feet, desperation in my voice.

“He may ask you,” says the King. “You do not have to accept.”

I turn away, silent, unable to explain that I have no choice .

“Unless…” he hesitates. “Unless you do plan to accept.”

I can’t reply. Anything I might want to say falls under the restriction of my stepmother’s command.

“I see.” His voice is distant, cold. “Then I will leave you to prepare for the ball. You and I will dance, and after that, we will be nothing to each other except polite acquaintances, and eventually, relatives. You will be my… daughter.”

I want to scream, Fuck that , but I can only stand motionless, voiceless. The King releases a heavy sigh, looking so utterly weary that for the first time, I can see his true age. It hurts that the idea of losing me brought out that distant shadow of death in him, and before I can think better of it I leap forward, flinging my arms around his neck and sealing my lips to that gorgeous mouth of his.

He wraps both arms around me, and it feels right. It feels perfect. Here is strength and shelter, passion and purpose. Here I am safe and desired.

“Your friend,” he murmurs, still kissing me. “The one for whom you were searching the Faerie spellbooks…”

“Never mind that right now.” I kiss him again, and he opens for my tongue. I’ve kissed him before, but never this deeply. And yet, the inside of his mouth feels familiar. Slowly I trace the shape of his teeth, uncertainty tugging at my consciousness.

He breaks the kiss abruptly, backs away, and leaves the room with a curt, “Goodbye.”

Incensed, I fume for a second, then yank the door open, determined to call him back. But he’s gone. He must have run down the hallway out of sight, desperate to escape. Even though I’m angry, I don’t blame him.

I use the guest bathroom, then look at myself in the huge gilded mirror above the porcelain sink. No need to make use of the available cosmetics—the Faerie godfather lightly enhanced my natural beauty, as usual, and the glamour remains in place. I wait a little longer, peering through the drapes of the large bedroom window, watching the carriages come and go as guests arrive for the ball. At last, I take several long breaths, steeling myself for what’s to come, and I open the door.