We never should have come here.
I should have fought harder, I should have done more to convince Seren this idea was cursed from the start.
Barring that, I should have just locked us both up somewhere, consequences and my mate’s ire be damned.
Anything. I should have done anything in my power to keep us from this place.
But there’s no time to undo it, no way to fix it, nothing that can be done except to stand here and meet our fate.
“Two hunters I see before me,” the fae queen says, voice brittle as dry autumn leaves. “And no heart. Tell me, why have you come to my court empty-handed?”
41
Seren
The fae queen’s terrible court holds its collective breath.
On her throne, she sits with a sharp, inhuman smile twisting her lips as she waits for one of us to move, to step forward, to give her what she wants.
Beside me, Callum shifts, but I’m faster.
Let it be me.
I wanted to come here. I wanted to tempt fate and this monarch’s wrath on the off chance she actually accepts a letter and a token rather than the lover she’d send hordes of hunters to reclaim.
If she wants someone to punish, let it be me.
“We found your heart, your majesty.”
Do I call heryour majesty? Do I bow? Curtsy?
Who the hell knows, and it’s a little too late to wonder about fae court etiquette.
Her eyes narrow. “I don’t see my heart.”
“You’re right. And we apologize, but we don’t have him with us.”
The vines around her writhe. Twisting, growing, spreading from the throne, down the dais, and further, like they’re just waiting for her say-so to reach out and snap me up.
“But we do have something else.”
All those dead, dessicated tendrils halt their advance. They still twitch and coil, still give me the damn creeps, but at least they’re not any closer to pulling me into their depths.
“Let’s see it, then.”
With the deepest breath I can manage, I reach into my bag and draw out the ring box. I keep my eyes on the fae queen the entire time, and though she tries to remain impassive, a flash of recognition sparks in her fathomless black eyes.
She gives a dismissive snort. “A ring is not my heart.”
“No,” I agree. “It isn’t. But I do have a letter from him.”
Another break in her mask of cruel indifference, something wanting and a little bit desperate as I pull it from my bag.
“Here,” I say, extending my hand.
Her bark-skinned courtier walks woodenly down the dais to collect both the paper and the ring.
As he returns to her, everyone in the court is entirely still.
