Why did you choose me? Why did you reject me?
What are we doing?
Asmo clears his throat, and my chest feels too tight. I mutter some excuse about needing to shower and escape into the private bathroom, desperate to create some distance between us.
The shower is nestled inside a small, stone alcove with a built-in stone bench. With barely a thought, I twist my hand in the air and turn the shower on.
Regret sits on my shoulders as I remember Elle teaching me how to do that. I feel so heavy, so weighed down by everything that’s happened. Everything that we still have to do.
Water rushes from the showerhead, falling onto the stone floor in a soothing, rhythmic pattern. I peel my trousers and blouse from my too-slender frame and toss them into the corner.
My hip bones jut out farther than they did before, and my stomach is flatter than it’s ever been. My body is a collection of black marks—the one on my chest from Cora’s lightning, the dark magic sigils, and scarsfrom dark creatures’ teeth. Apparently, dark magic takes a while to heal, but the marks fade with every day.
The one on my chest from Cora’s lightning is still sore. It doesn’t hurt like it once did, but a brief pain still lingers. The scar on my ankle from the cambion has faded, but a black outline of its teeth still mars my pale skin, now joined by the black outline of the Cursed wolf’s teeth just above. I wince as I think about the cambion embedding its sharp teeth into the delicate curvature of Elle’s neck.
Like everything these days, I shove the thought away.
Just like I shove aside the effects of the dark magic whenever we use it. Every time we carve the marks into our skin, my head pounds and my magic comes slower. I swear it gets worse every time.
I can’t imagine being forced to do this every day.
The shower water is freezing, and I don’t bother warming it. The cold water pelts my skin and makes me feel alive, reminds me that I’m still breathing.
I throw my clothes back on and step out of the bathroom. Asmo is already fast asleep, curled up on the floor in a pile of white pillows and blankets. I stop and stare at him, waiting for him to move. But he doesn’t. His chest rises and falls in deep breaths. His long lashes rest against his cheeks, fluttering slightly. He looks so calm.
My feet are quiet as I pad to the bed, already messy and unmade because of what Asmo stole from the top layers. I sink into the soft mattress and close my eyes.
Chapter 17
ELLE
Four days have passedsince Asmo last visited me. Four days since I learned Mae is still alive. Since then, I’ve spent every day waiting for Marik to reveal he knows who I met with. Luckily, he’s been too busy with Cora to pay me too much attention. I’ve never been so happy to be locked in my wing.
The days have been filled with pacing my room and trying to distract myself as I read through every novel in Mae’s private collection. The slim forest-green book slides from the bookshelf, the embossed stag head on the front cover shining as it catches the sunlight. The stag is smooth to the touch, but the rest of the cover feels rough and weathered.
The spine cracks as I open it. I flip through several blank pages, each one stiff and brittle. On the fourth page,The First Deer Queenis written in neat cursive.
I skim through the tale, finding some comfort in the familiar words. My mother used to tell me this story to help me fall asleep, her calloused hands gently rubbing my back as she wove the tale of Wrena’s true daughter. The story would always seep into my dreams, images of me wearing a crown sticking with me for the next day.
But this isn’t the tale I was told. No, the tale I was told was Mae’s prophecy.
The story in my hands tells of Wrena’s creation of the High Houses.
This tale is about Mae’s grandmother. Mae’s mother, a High Fae princess, was the daughter in the story. Has Mae read this? She must have, since this was in her private library. This is not a book that was housed in the royal collection. How did she get this?
I flip through the rest of the book. At the end, there’s a hurried script written on a singular page. The words are nearly illegible, but I can make out some—flowers, moss, blood, essence, two, light,andShe.
Someone pounds on the door and I nearly jump out of my skin. I shelve the book and roll my shoulders as I mentally prepare myself for a visitor.
Marik stands in the foyer, lanky frame leaning against the wall. His head snaps up when I clear my throat.
“What do you want?” I ask.
He raises an eyebrow. “Is that how you wish to speak to me?”
I force a very-clearly fake smile to my face. “What can I do for you, Your Highness?” My voice is full of faux sweetness, as if I just bit into a rotten candy apple.
And suddenly, my back is against the wall, every muscle and joint locked. Marik stalks toward me, features darkening with every step. He stops inches from me. His eyes, the perfect embodiment of a solar eclipse, pierce into mine.
