The one who saved me.
He sits with casual elegance that makes the scene look staged—which it probably is, I realize with dawning suspicion. One elbow rests on the table's surface, chin propped against his palm, those impossible shifting features arranged in an expression of pleased anticipation. His eyes catch me through the gap in the doorway, and something in themsparkleswith knowing that makes my skin prickle with wariness.
"They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach," he begins, voice carrying across the space with clarity that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment.
His eyes lock onto mine with intensity that feels like physical contact.
"I wonder if that applies to fae soulmates."
The smile that spreads across his face is cunning in ways that transcend simple expression. Every angle of it calculated, every glint of his impossibly perfect teeth designed to convey something between charm and challenge. He looks like apredator who has just watched his prey walk directly into a carefully constructed trap.
Which, I realize with a sinking sensation, is probably exactly what's happening.
"Good morning, my Queen."
The title lands with weight that makes my spine stiffen.
"I've been expecting you."
CHAPTER 9
Thorns And Roses
~GWENIEVERE~
Istare at the stranger.
His name remains a mystery—one of many surrounding this enigmatic figure who has inserted himself into my existence with the particular confidence of someone who believes they belong there. Every instinct I possess screams that his presence carries significance beyond simple coincidence, that whatever role he's destined to play in the chaos of Year Four extends far past casual acquaintance.
The library stretches around us with architectural grandeur that demands acknowledgment—shelves climbing toward shadows too deep to penetrate, filled with tomes bound in leather and scales and materials that seem to breathe with contained knowledge. Candelabras float at irregular intervals, flames burning in colors that shift from warm gold to cool silver depending on angles I can't predict. The floor beneath my bare feet carries warmth that shouldn't exist in stone, magic threading through every surface with the particular attention of spaces designed for beings who consider comfort as important as function.
But right now, all I can truly focus on is the food.
The glorious, magnificent, torturous food that saturates the air with aromas designed to break my resolve. Steam rises from platters of perfectly seared meat, carrying promises of satisfaction that make my stomach clench with desperate need. The steaks alone would feed a small army—cuts thick enough to require serious knives, seared to perfection that shows pink centers when the light catches their surfaces at certain angles. Juices pool beneath them, gathering in rivers of flavor that make my mouth water with embarrassing intensity.
The bread looks like it was baked by divine hands, golden crusts practically glowing in the library's ambient light. Loaves of varying sizes scatter across the table's surface—some studded with herbs I can smell from the doorway, others glistening with butter that melts into their warm surfaces, still others dusted with sugars that sparkle like edible gemstones.
Fruits glisten with moisture that suggests peak ripeness—berries in shades of red and blue and purple that seem almost too vibrant to be natural, citrus arranged in spiraling patterns that catch the floating candlelight, exotic varieties I don't recognize but that my body insists I need to taste immediately.
And the desserts—gods, the desserts—seem to whisper seductions that have nothing to do with the man watching me with predatory patience. Cakes layered with creams and fruits, pastries that look delicate enough to shatter at rough handling, chocolate in forms ranging from simple truffles to elaborate sculptures that defy both gravity and good sense.
My stomach growls.
Loudly.
Embarrassingly loudly, the sound echoing off bookshelves and ancient tomes with the particular resonance of biological functions that refuse to be ignored. I bite my bottom lip against the humiliation, though the stranger's knowing smile suggests he finds my body's betrayal more amusing than off-putting.
This has to be a trap.
The thought surfaces with the particular caution of someone who has learned that gifts in Wicked Academy always carry prices. Nothing here comes without cost—not survival, not power, not even breakfast. Whatever this feast represents, whatever this man intends by presenting it, there will be expectations attached. Debts incurred. Leverage gained.
But...
I assess my physical state with clinical attention.
The dizziness from earlier has faded. My limbs respond with something approaching normal function. The magical reserves that felt so depleted upon waking have begun to replenish, power slowly rebuilding in the spaces where exhaustion had hollowed me out.
I could defend myself if necessary.
