“We just have to get ahead of the curve.” I grimace, feeling the weight of my resolve settle firmly onto my shoulders. This started as Fer and I looking into our parents’ death, especially after she turned out to be a wolf, but now it’s something much bigger. If we don’t figure out who’s sending demon creatures and why we’re being targeted, we won’t get answers about that or why we were lied to.
That said, Tier packs up the first aid kit, and I fold the map of Faerie carefully. Tomorrow, we delve deeper into the heart of corruption. Tonight, though, we rest—bruised but unbroken, and resolutely undeterred.
If our enemies think we’ll give up just because they sent an assassin, they have another thing coming.
The relentless flash of cameras blurs into a single pulsing glow as we shuffle from one sterile conference room to another. I can feel the weight of expectation heavy on my shoulders, the need to be everywhere at once, to smile, to charm, to play the part of the prince they all expect.
I love it and I hate it at the same time, especially since I found my mate and her coven.
“Revelin,” Khorinea’s voice cuts through the murmur of the crowd like a serrated blade, “tell us about your latest charitable endeavor. Is it true you’re merely doing it for the optics?”
Her smirk is as sharp as her words, and I curse the fact that I didn’t kick that bitch out of the entourage when she got into a fight with Fiadh in Briarvale—both times. This appearance has Amethyst written all over it, as the earth Fae never mentioned being a blogger until now. Beside me, Fiadh tenses, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. I catch her eye, offering a silent plea for patience. She nods stiffly, but the glint in her eyes promises retribution.
The day drags on, each moment stretching out into eternity. Amethyst and her audience plants are relentless, their questions more barbed than the last. They masquerade as social media influencers, but their intent is clear—to provoke, to prod at our defenses until they find a crack. The lass bears the brunt of their vitriol, her temper making her an easy target. The invasive queries about her furry sister, disguised as innocentcuriosity, leave her seething.
And I can’t do a damn thing about it with this many eyes on us.
“Lass,” I murmur under my breath as we finally make our way back to the bus, “don’t let them get to you.”
She shoots me a withering look, too exhausted to muster her usual fire. “Easier said than done when they’re not insulting your sister or questioning why someone like you is allowed to tag along with royalty,” she replies, her voice laced with fatigue.
Once we’re back on the bus, the tension seeps out of us like air from a punctured tire. We collapse onto the worn seats, our collective energy spent. Khol offers to run back to town to grab food, and Tiernan volunteers to help. Fi gives them appreciative looks, but heads for the fridge to grab two huge cupcakes from their visit to the dragon bakery. She’s halfway through wolfing them down when I bring her a small glass of the Fae liquor to help soothe her jangling nerves.
“Thank you,” she whispers and I smile softly, reaching out to get the remnants of the icing on her face.
“You were a trooper,” I reply. “You deserve a little pampering tonight. I’m sorry my people are torturing you as thoroughly as yours did. That wasn’t my intent.”
She snorts. “Rev, if bitches want stitches, they can keep up their shit. My goodwill to you only extends so far. Eventually, they’re going to answer to me.”
If that isn’t terrifying, I don’t know what is.
Tier and Kholcome back with enough greasy, insanely unhealthy food that my heart thumps a bit in my chest just looking at their haul. Fiadh, however, looks like she’s going to gorge herself into a coma, and we all share a pleased expression. Working as ateam, we get the table set up, filling it with tasty food and the materials we need to continue plotting our course through my lands. Without another word, we begin our work, pouring over ancient texts and scribbled notes for any clue that might lead us to the feystag’s artifacts.
I watch as Fiadh’s hand moves over the parchment, penning missives with a fervor that speaks of her desire to make up for the day’s earlier impotence. Sitting beside her, my research a scattered mess of possibilities and dead ends, I pause to pick up a cheesy potato treat and she chomps it from my fingers with a grin.
At least I can make sure she’s taking care of herself if I can’t keep the women from coming after her.
Hours slip by, marked only by the scratching of pens and the occasional sigh of frustration. When my eyes grow heavy and my thoughts muddled with exhaustion, I know it’s time. “Guys, we need to pack it in. Tomorrow is going to be a bitch and a half.”
The mess is cleared quickly, and our mate growls loudly when Khol picks her up, carrying her to the bedroom. It only takes a few minutes to get everyone settled in the warm pile of pillows, especially since we’re damn near exhausted to the bone.
“Tomorrow will be better,” I whisper into the darkness, more a hope than a conviction. Beside me, Fiadh’s breathing evens out, the rhythms of rest claiming her at last.
With that, the rest of us surrender to the night, letting the promise of dreams soothe our weary souls.
The next morning,we shuffle into the Holy Grail, the clinking of dishes and sizzle from the kitchen offering a comforting backdrop to our banter. The air is rich with the aroma of frying bacon and freshbread. Our laughter weaves through the steam rising from hot plates as we slide onto the worn benches.
“Revolution by breakfast, rebellion by lunch,” the tavern owner’s wife proclaims, slamming down a tray laden with eggs and sausages. Her eyes sparkle with mischief, her voice laced with a challenge to the world outside her doors. We chuckle, her fervor injecting a dose of levity into the gravity of our quest.
I can’t believe I’m actually growing fond of this old troublemaker.
Our mugs clink in a toast to simpler times, but before the first swig of mead touches my lips, a glint of green catches my eye. Rowena, all six inches of punk rock pixie attitude, materializes atop our bottle, striking a pose that demands attention.
“Morning, dears, with your heads full of dreams, I bring news that’s not quite what it seems,” she rhymes with a mischievous twinkle.
Fi groans, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling. “Oh, it iswaytoo early for this shit.”
“Why the surprise visit, Rowena?” I ask, one eyebrow arching in curiosity.
