“I am doing what’s best for Rhodria!” I snap, my voice cutting through the murmurs. The crowd’s stares burn into my skin, hot and suffocating. I push through the crush of bodies, silk brushing against my arms, the air thick with perfume and sweat. My pulse hammers in my ears as I search for a quiet corner to breathe and pull myself together.
???
Gasping from the exertion, I stumble upon a mulled wine shop tucked beneath the shade of a wide-branched tree. Perfect. I sink onto one of the empty benches outside, and when an ancient-looking Fae approaches, I give her my order. She nods briskly and hurries inside to fetch my wine.
The chill beneath the tree’s shade cools my skin, a brief relief.
Hoping, but not believing I lost him, I stiffen when muscular arms entwine around my throat. I don’t strike back, only because I know that scent.
The Fae deal between us prohibits me from harming him. The ancient binding prevents any dishonourable participant from simply killing the master; the magic itself would strike me down if I even tried. One never knows how the magic chooses to punish dishonour. It is unpredictable.
I once heard of a mated pair who vowed never to hurt one another. One day, the female struck her mate in a moment of anger, and the magic killed him instantly. For her, losing her mate because of her own loss of control was deemed the greatest possible punishment.
Still, I will not let his insult stand.
“Take your hands off me,” I warn, my voice low and menacing.
Aidon obeys, but leans, combing my hair behind my bully-worthy ear. “Do you honestly believe that the Berigander’s army, marching on Sindral, have the Fae’s best interests at heart?” His tone is soft, though the words are anything but.
What?
War?
Why?
Ridiculous.
“Wow, you don’t care. That’s the way the cookie crumbles for you,” he states, tone full of accusation and walks around to the bench in front of me.
The implication stings like a whip on my heart.
My fingers tremble. He weaponises every word. Is he enjoying my despair? Or is he generally disappointed in what kind of Fae I am and can’t force himself to be decent for a heartbeat?
You know what, I am freaking disappointed too.
I need to find a way out of this deal. Sooner, rather than later.
Maybe Jestin will help me grant a favour from Gorok. It’s the Trading Festival after all. Even the terrible old me can beg for a little aid.
“For once, you could also be honest with yourself,” he suggests, dismissing my inner monologue as nothing more than the bullshit it is.
“I am being fucking honest,” I lie, and the approaching Fae fumbles with the vase of mulled wine, spilling it on the table.
“I am so sorry, My Lady. I will get it cleaned right away,” she says, wobbling to the shop.
“So why aren’t you in the Capital?” He returns to the subject again, and my power snaps on its own. The tall stone wall rises from the ground, cracking the table in half. The vase explodes, scattering pieces of glass, and the hot liquid hits us, burning skin.
My temper got the better of me once again.
The female hides in her shop, closing the door. The terrible guilt adds to my rage, and I spin to Aidon.
“Why?” he asks, unmoved by the damage.
“Because I am not a good choice.” I hear myself say it before I can rethink the words.
“You are better than theatre. Cheaper at least.” He muses, walking around the magical stone wall and leaning on it, indifferent.
“Listen, mutt,” I hiss, watching his sharp jaw tick. I swallow the lump in my throat, letting my anger drown out any hint of regret.
