The soldier stumbles forward, his entire body trembling, eyes wide. His breath comes in ragged gasps as he forces out the words. “Sir—there’s another attack. The Nephilim…they’re back.”
Fuck.
General Mason is the first to sprint out into danger, already shouting orders outside the tent. Zephyr looks at me, and we lock eyes. Our bodies gravitate toward one another, and then my lips are on his. I kiss him deeply. Kiss him like it could be our last. I hate how many of these kisses we share these days.
When I pull back, his pupils are blown wide. “Stay safe. Don’t fucking die.”
“Is that an order, Your Majesty?” Even amid war, my mate sasses me.
“You bet your ass it is.”
Zephyr’s teasing smirk fades, and he gives me one last curt nod before running out of the tent to join the fight. I can’t dwell on his safety because, if I do, I’d never be able to let him leave my sight. Zephyr is a trained warrior, one of the best I know. He can handle himself, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy being separated from him.
I whirl on my mother and brother, who puffs out his small chest. “I’ll help,” Finnick says, flying toward the tent flaps.
I manage to grab hold of his tunic, forcing him back before he can escape. “You’ll help by staying with Mother.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue with me, Finnick. You and Mother stay together. Don’t leave this tent unless your lives are in danger,” I command.
“Our lives are always in danger!” Finnick snaps, throwing his hands in the air, exasperated.
Before I can reply, my mother takes Finnick from me, placing him back on her shoulder. “Go, my boy. We will be fine. Your people need you.”
“Stay put!” I command, my voice sharp with authority as I push past the tent flaps and step into the chaos beyond. The thin walls of the tent offer little protection, but out here, beneath the open sky, where steel meets flesh, I feel truly alive.
Despite the looming danger, a surge of adrenaline floods my veins, setting my pulse ablaze. A wild grin spreads across my lips, unbidden. I crave this fight—the clash of blades, the raw intensity of battle. The thought of cutting down every Nephilim in our path sends a thrill through me.
I’m going to enjoy this far more than I should.
Chapter 4
Evangeline
It all happens so quickly the moment The Guardian swoops me up in the air and flies me—with his real-life wings—to his house. My eyes were closed the entire time, but it was still the scariest experience of my life.
When my feet finally hit the plush earth, and Ender’s arms around me vanish, I nearly cry in relief. I’ve never been happier to have my feet planted firmly beneath me. My stomach churns from the abrupt landing, and the breakfast of French toast and bacon from this morning threatens to come up. I knew I should have opted for something bland and boring.
“You look pale, Ms. Ward,” The Guardian remarks like one would comment on the weather. There’s no true concern in his voice. If anything, he sounds put out—like throwing up on his lawn would be a big inconvenience to him. Jerk.
I don’t humor him with a response. Instead, something he says earlier comes back to me, piquing mycuriosity. “What do you mean by husbands? Was that just a slip of the tongue?”
The Guardian turns his back to me and starts stalking toward the wrought iron arch covered in vines in the middle of a small but lush garden. Flowers, many I don’t recognize, bloom and sweeten the air with their smell. “If you’re asking me if I made a mistake, no. I rarely make mistakes. I learned from my biggest ones centuries ago.”
“Okay…” I draw out the word, puzzled. There’s a story there, and if I thought The Guardian was the talkative sort, I’d definitely ask him about it. But, as it is, he hardly seems interested in having a conversation now. “Then, did you really mean?—”
“Yes, Ms. Ward. Two husbands. King Niko and his mate, King Zephyr,” he cuts me off, stopping just shy of the arch. Again, he holds his hand out, and my body stiffens, hoping he doesn’t plan on taking flight with me again. No doubt I would throw up this time.
“How is that possible? Won’t they be upset that I’m going to marry an already married man?”
The only sign of The Guardian’s frustration is the subtle narrowing of his eyes. From my limited encounters with him, I’ve noticed he rarely betrays emotion. He wears a mask of cold detachment, one that time has undoubtedly perfected. It must be a lonely existence to always appear composed, untouched by emotion, and separate from others. In my experience, those who shroud themselves in isolation often carry a burden of pain and guilt so heavy, they believe solitude is their only penance.
Which begs the question, what egregious crime is he punishing himself for?
“The fae don’t have the same…conservative views on relationships as most humans do. They often take multiple mates, and it is not seen as taboo, as it is here. This was all detailed in the contract, Ms. Ward,” he lectures like a teacher disappointed in a student for not doing the assigned reading.
I did read it, though…mostly. There was a lot to it, and my focus was, and still is, on leaving Grym Hollow. This was the only way I knew how.
