Torvil claimed my heart would slow, but right now, it’s beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings.
He’s offering me everything I want. Minus the babies, of course. But I’m not surprised Torvil would assume that just because I am a woman, I must want to be a mother.
He creeps closer, the tip of the thorn piercing his charcoal hunting jacket. “I’ll give you land, a title, the reassurance that you and Lachlan will be safe. As long as you agree not to get in the way of my new world order. And give me the novillum seed so I can end thisfarceof a monarchy.”
His spittle-coated lips pull into a mad grin. “Alanthe Áine was right about one thing, you know. Why should a mortal woman be queen of our kind? And why should every House have an equal chance to rule, when it is so clear that the Áines are the only House capable of it?”
I am fairly certain he’scompletelymisinterpreted Alanthe Áine’s story, but what would be the point in correcting him now?
“Once I have the seed, I will forge it into this crown, destroy the ring, and the Wild Hunt will be over, once and for all. The Áine dynasty will rule the celestial kingdom forevermore, as our gods intended.
“So, Miss Fitzroy,” he shakes both vials in his outstretched arms, “what do you say? Do we have a deal? You get your blissful ending, I get a permanent crown, and we all live happily ever after.”
I wish I were a better woman. That Torvil’s offer wasn’t so,sotempting. It’s the reinvention I’ve been chasing this whole time, in a more literal sense than I ever thought possible.
And the thought of spending a lifetime with Lachlan? I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything in either realm.
I close my eyes, a single tear spilling down my cheek.
Because regardless of who I am at this moment, old or new Charlotte, there is only one right answer. The same answer Lachlan would give, were he in my place.
“No.”
“No?” Torvil tilts his head, brows knit as he slips the vials back into his pockets. “You did understand what I just said, didn’t you? Do you need me to explain it all again?”
God, he really is the fuckingworst.
I lurch forward and bury the thorn between his ribs. He grunts, but recovers quickly, grabbing my other arm and pulling me forward. I lose my footing, and he slams us to the ground, crushing me beneath him. His crown topples off, but my thorn stays wedged in his side.
He makes no move to remove it, focused instead on wrapping strong, cold hands around my throat and pushing down on my windpipe. I have never felt so fragile, thin-boned and eminently breakable.
My lungs burn as I suck down air that doesn’t move past his grip, and shale bites into my arm each time I strain for the thorn. I can’t get more than a finger on it before he pushes down harder.
His violet eyes sparkle, exuberant. “Was this your plan all along? To kill me? Did you hate me from the very start?” He leans in, his chest compressing my own, his lips grazing the corner of my mouth. “I thought you were quite a little treat when I first saw you at that presentation ceremony. Too bad you turned out to be such a lying whore.”
Tears coat my face, and I can’t breathe.
He lets up a fraction, enough for the barest sip of air, and oh thank god, I?—
He chokes down again, sneering and sitting back on my hips. “If you won’t drink the poison on your own, I’ll pour it down your throat. Now, be a lamb, and just”—he slams my head into the ground—“fucking”—slam—“pass out”—slam—“already.” And once more for good measure.
My head throbs and spots bloom behind my eyelids. I am no longer a person, just a fog of pain. Whatever power the novillum gifted me is likely the only reason I’m still alive. Torvil’s blows would have surely cracked my skull otherwise.
My world narrows to the pound of my heart and the rush of blood in my ears.
Torvil’s hovering face holds no emotion whatsoever. No anger, no gleeful violence, not even disgust. It’s dispassionate and sterile. Like he’s crushing a bug.
Is it because I am human?
Or because I am a woman?
I have been underestimated so many times—by George, by Desmond, by Sir Quinn, by Torvil’s courtiers, by Torvil himself.
And I am not the only one. I think of Jane, forced to stay in an unhappy marriage. Of Lisande, desperate for the love of a man who did not flinch at her death. Of Aowen, living in the shadow of a brother not nearly as qualified to lead. Of Alanthe and Granny Maggie and my mother and every woman who’s ever sacrificed her joy to meet a man’s expectations.
It is for them and all the women who came before and will come after that my ember of frustration flames into adrenaline-fueled rage. I let it consume me as I surge upward and wrap my fingers around the thorn’s handle. Torvil roars as I rip it from his side. It’s drenched in blood, wet and slippery, but I hold tight.
“There will be no king.”
