“I’ll have Kestra bring you to her later,” he says.
My shoulders drop a fraction. Because even if I bring it up to her and he didn’t say anything, Kestra will follow through. She’s the only one in this court I trust.
That ease vanishes when the bitch sits across from me, her strange eyes glaring at me, while a few thorns remain in her hair. Good.
“With my death you inherit the Seelie Court.” She says the words casually when they’re anything but casual.
“What?”
The word comes out hollow. Because she can’t be serious. Me. Queen of the Seelie Court. The court of light and faux beauty and cruelty wrapped in silk.
I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.
But a dark part of me whispers that if I killed her right here, right now, I could have it anyway. I could burn her court from the inside out.
And for one heartbeat, I want to.
Not for power. Not for the throne.
Just to watch her die.
I shove that thought down deep where it belongs. Bury it with all the other things I refuse to become.
Her lips twitch. “I believe you were challenged? By what was his name?”
“Thornback,” I remember. “His name was Thornback.”
“Was it not to the death?” Why is her voice always so condescending? It’s as though she only has one setting. Condescending.
But she’s also right. It should have been to the death. But I put a stop to that. I just didn’t know. I didn’t understand. And what the hell would that have meant for him if he had beaten me?
“If another were to kill me?” I need some Prilosec.
“They would assume the throne,” she says.
“After the trials,” Moros tacks on.
“Seriously.” I gape at them. “The trials.”
“Of which you have one left,” Amarantha says, finally noticing she has thorns in her hair and picking them out one by one.
“You can’t be serious.” I rip a roll in half, shoving one half in my mouth to keep from putting my foot there. “You want me to finish another trial?”
“What? Did you think you didn’t have to complete the trial of survival because you are here?” Her eye twitches. “Well, you killed that pretty plan when you chose to toss out a suggestion to a life debt.” Her voice rises with each word.
And I laugh. At her. At her fucking audacity. “Has no one ever told you no?”
She pauses, her head tilting to the side; her face has this faraway look to it before she smirks, her fingernails tapping on the table. “Finnian.” She shrugs before continuing. “After he said yes.”
Something detonates in my chest.
My magic surges, thorns pressing against the underside of my skin, begging to be released. To wrap around her throat and squeeze until that smug smile turns purple.
Finnian. My Finnian. The one who looks at me like I hung the stars.
I can still feel his hand on the back of my neck. The way his thumb traced circles there when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
I was always paying attention.
