Then he pounces.
I roll to the side, but it’s too late. The king’s arms bracket me, and his body descends, the full weight of him pinning me to the mat. Wriggling, I try to knee his crotch, but Maxian’s thick thighs spread mine wide. Too late, I slap palms against his chest to shove him off. His hands circle my wrists and push them down on either side of my head.
Our breaths come ragged and fast; our skin is sleek with sweat. The king’s scent fills me, musky and sweet, his heft all encompassing. My chest pushes up against his with each swallow of air, but it’s not enough to slow my slamming heart.
His face shifts once more from aggression to awe.
“Your eyes,” he breathes. “They’re gold.”
“Maybe we should leave,” Carter murmurs from the sidelines, but neither the king nor I look his way.
“They’re brown,” I correct, but blood roars in my ears.
Maxian shakes his head, leaning closer so that we’re almost nose to nose. He examines each iris, gaze flicking side to side in minuscule movements. I turn my face, hide, as heat flushes up my chest and into my cheeks, but he shifts my wrists into one hand above my head. Then his other thumb and finger hold my chin, turning my face back up to him. I stare off to the wall of weapons, glinting and beautiful in the light. It cannot assuage this feeling of display, spread like a star under him with others watching. It does not feel alluring and powerful to have this attention. It feels like the stripping of armor and skin.
“Look at me,” he commands, and I do.
A noise gets trapped in the back of his throat.
“I’ve never seen this on a faerie before,” he marvels. “Your eyes are the color of sap.”
I shift under him. “Can we…”
“If you want something, ask for it.” The king smiles.
His thumb strokes the skin of my wrists. I try to tug them out of his grasp, and his focus slides up, watching me struggle. The plane stirs.
“Avery,” he says, voice smooth like rich cream. “What’s this on your arm?”
“What do you—”
Then he’s kneeling back, yanking me onto my knees in front of him. His grip on one wrist tightens to the point of discomfort while the other rips at my sleeve.
“Wait—” I struggle.
“My king?” Carter asks, bending under the rope to get onto the raised mat. “Is everything—”
“Not another step,” Maxian barks.
The faerie freezes, meeting my gaze. Behind him, the executioner shifts. “Your Magnificence?”
“Show me your arms,” the king growls. We kneel knee to knee, but still I try to twist away. The training hall booms with power as he shouts: “Stop resisting!”
He doesn’t even give me a chance to obey.
Reign magic crashes through my entire body once more, forcing me to hold my forearms out to him in silent supplication. It is the violation of the coronation once more, what little agency I had yanked away from the inside out, like a hand up a puppet.
His attention roams over the rings, mouth moving without sound, brow furrowed.
He’s counting. He’s counting my debt.
“I checked your books. It should’ve been enough to take off half your rings,” the king snaps.
The ten-gold-coin tip.
His magic releases my tongue, demanding an answer.
“It—it was,” I stammer. My genius batters against the rocky wall that blocks me from my own will. It beats and beats, printing bloody wings across the surface. The stony façade shrinks tighter around my genius until it is nothing more than an insect dying in a jar. Until all it can do is cling to the shelter of a darkened crevice.
