A phantom hand squeezes my throat.
“Whatever Your Magnificence requests,” I say past the presence pushing against my windpipe. Sweat dampens my neck.
“Which do you prefer?”
The hand tightens, and my knees almost give out. Maxian squints at me through the haze of smoke, blinking. Perhaps if he weren’t drunk, he could see it. If he wanted to use his truth magic on me, I would welcome it, just this once. But no, he just watches, and my heart sinks as he considers that he must be the exception to the rule, that I would choose truth for integrity’s sake, and not a lie to save my skin.
“Avery,” the king repeats.
“Illusion.”
A muscle tics in his jaw, but he nods, puffing a spark and looking away. “I see.”
My insides crumble as Dominik pulls me onto his lap, banding an arm across my midsection like the first time we met. My bodyshudders as my spine presses against his torso. His breath reeks of the alcohol I fed him.
“We’re going to talk, you and I.”
Lila glances our way, biting her lip. The king puffs and dishes out cards on the table between him and Eli, who rests his chin on his fist. The Healing fae mutters something to Maxian, who just shakes his head.
“About what?” I ask, breath coming in tight.
“How quickly you wrapped your lips around the king’s cock.”
“I—”
A phantom hand returns to my throat. I watch in horror as the males across from us exchange cards. Do they not see the assault happening, or am I just unworthy of saving?
“You think the king will protect you, just because he fucks you? He’s done that to a thousand other faerie whores. You won’t be the one to change him.”
Taking a breath, I think about what I can use. What do I have?Information. Access. Influence.
“You fear I will tell the king what you do to his future bride,” I say.
“I fear nothing,” he snarls.
“Then why prevent her from joining tonight? Why resist—”
“You know nothing of our politics.”
I bite down, teeth scraping the Illusion of flesh, the trick so advanced I can even taste the salt of sweat. Dominik curses, the Illusion dropping away.
“Explain it to me, then,” I urge, reaching for my genius. “So that I may better encourage their engagement.”
“The king needs awife. Not a wild thing.”
My mind stutters, slips along a frozen pond of horrifying images. It is easy to rage in my room alone; out here, I am trying to pry myself from the predator’s grip as he whispers how I will be eaten.
I need time.
“Then let the king tame her,” I say.
“The king doesn’t even know himself,” he hisses. “He thinks he wants a wild fae to whom he can sell submission, but he needs a wife who can take his temper so that the kingdom does not have to.”
“Temper?”
“It worked for Gregor the Great and his queen.”
What the planes is he saying?
