“Where did you get this from?” he asks.
I give him my very best glare and spit as best as I can with my head held at this angle. Thank fuck it lands somewhere and doesn’t splat right back on my face. That would be embarrassing.
The prince stares down at me. The corners of his lips curl up into a smile. It suits the sharp bones of his face andlooks good on him. Bastard. Fey blood has done him all the favours. He makes that shit look gorgeous.
He called me pretty.
Angrily, I shove that thought down. It’s stupid. What a fucking ridiculous way to die. Fail an assassination attempt because nobody has ever called you pretty before. Fucking tragic and humiliating.
One of the guards speaks. “Are you ready for us to release him so that you may kill him with honour, Your Highness?”
Oh my stars! He is speaking Fey, I am sure of it, but I can understand him! It is like a strange, strongly accented version of Welsh. But I can decipher it well enough. Certainly the bit about being killed.
Even though I was fully expecting it, hearing it spoken out loud sends a jolt of adrenaline coursing through me and I swallow audibly.
“No, not yet,” says the prince calmly, still holding my chin up with the dagger.
His gaze slowly tracks down my body and then all the way back up again. It is an appreciative look. As if I am someone desirable. Someone wanted.
“What is your name?” he asks, in English.
Fuck it. There is no reason not to tell him my name. I have nothing to hide and I’m not ashamed of my actions, only mortified that I messed up. If I give him my name, I may still make it into the history books. And the news. Someone else might be inspired and succeed where I have failed.
“Oleander Evans,” I say proudly.
A look of delight gleams in his ruby eyes. “Oleander? As in the beautiful and deadly flower? I like it. It suits you.”
The look he gives me is positively flirtatious, and damn it, I can feel my cheeks heating. He is still holding me in place with the dagger, so I can’t look away. I can’t escape. He can see me blushing.
His grin intensifies. It is definitely a smirk now.
“You really are a pretty little flower.”
Oh for fuck’s sake. I don’t think I’ve ever hated my absent, bat-shit crazy, hippy mother more. She could have at least left me with a normal name when she dumped me with Granny.
“But what is your real name?” asks the prince, as he tilts his head to the side and regards me even more intently than he did before.
Huh? What the hell is he talking about? I just told him my stupid, embarrassing name. The abomination that is on my birth certificate.
“What do people call you?”
I blink.
“Ollie,” I blurt in surprise. How did he know that no one calls me Oleander?
The prince’s smile turns into something truly devilish and the look in his eyes is doing strange things to my insides. He really is absurdly attractive. It is unnatural. But I guess that is fey for you.
He straightens up and squares his shoulders. Is this it? Am I about to die? Are these my last moments on earth?
“I, Prince Tristan Y Mabinogi,” he calls out clearly. Probably loud enough that everyone in the square can hear. “Claim Ollie Evans as my pet.”
Wait. What? Oh god. Did he just say pet?
This can’t be good.
Chapter three
I’m inside Buckingham Palace. Now the home of the fey court. This is so surreal. I’m just a Valley boy. I grew up in a tiny Welsh village. I don’t belong here. I’ve never even been here as a tourist, yet here I am, being dragged through the impressive hallways by two fey guards while Prince Tristan strides a few steps ahead of us.
