Chapter 1
When the fae king comes to court, I’m supposed to disappear. Not spy on him from inside the armoire in the receiving hall and wonder if I’ll be chosen as his mate.
But the moment I peer out through the armoire’s slatted door and glimpse our immortal visitor, that’s what I do. What if, when my sisters and I are presented to him tonight, he picksme? What if he steals me away to his castle beyond the Wildwood? What if he forces me to spend my life there, cut off from my people, on the far side of a forest no human can cross?
My breath shortens as I mash my eye against the slats. Beyond the door, the fae king strides through our airy receiving hall like he owns the marble he’s walking on.
One glance, and dread pools low in my stomach. Because Ishanna’s blood, he’s like nothing I’ve ever seen—an imposing tower of muscle and sinew, with long white hair that spills to his waist. His face is both harsh and unfeeling, his cheekbones as sharp as the elongated tips of his ears. That, coupled with his yellow eyes and the brutal slash of his brows, makes him look like someone’s downfall come to life. Like sin and corruption and ruin, if sin wore leather armor and had golden, sunbaked skin.
My lungs suck at the armoire’s stale air, but the attempt to steady myself does nothing. This man, this…fae…is everything people whisper about: wicked, immoral, cruel. I can tell by the careless roll of his steps, by the scornful set of his lips. That twist to his mouth looks permanent—a message etched in stone, warning all who come near that Amriel of the Fae does what he likes, to whoever he likes, whenever he chooses.
Morals—and consequences—be damned.
My cramped hiding place shrinks, the armoire pressing in around me. Maybe it’s a fresh wave of fear, or maybe everyone feels this way when they first lay eyes on the fae king. Or any fae at all.
I wouldn’t know, because the last time the fae delegation visited, I was only three. I wasn’t even allowed downstairs—only royal women who’d come of age in the past quarter-century were. As the stories go, the fae king perused each one, then turned away and made the same pronouncement he always does.
“None of these women. We’ll try again in twenty-five years.”
Now, as I crouch in the darkness, I grab hold of that truth and press it close. The fae king might visit every quarter-century, and we might let him. We have no choice—two hundred years ago, at the end of the war, we signed a treaty that grants Amriel the right to claim a human mate as a sort of living, breathing peace offering. But in the centuries since, the fae king hasn’t actually chosen. He comes to court once in a generation, then sneers at his options and leaves again.
I have no reason to believe that will change tonight.
I’m still bolstering myself with the thought when Amriel’s approach slows, his casual stride giving way to…well, I don’t know, exactly. Something that raises the hair on my neck. The air around him seems to thicken, while at his sides, his hands curl into fists.
He draws abreast of my hiding place and stops. So do the half-dozen delegates who flank him. The fae contingent glances around, searching for the source of the delay.
All except for their king, who raises his nose and sniffs. His head swivels, his golden eyes scanning for whatever has caught his attention. And…oh, goddess. He’s looking at the armoire. Atme.
Lightning touches down beneath my skin.He can’t actually see me, my mind insists, but the way my heart rattles against my ribcage tells meI don’t believe it. The cabinet conceals me, but Amriel’s gaze burrows between the slats, drilling beneath my skin, probing toward my core.
An involuntary whimper leaves my lips. I try to muffle it with a trembling hand, but too late—the king’s eyes narrow to slits. He tests the air again, then steps toward my hiding place.
My heart slams against the back of my throat. Oh, no. No, no, no. Why did I think this was a good idea? Why didn’t I just stay upstairs, like I was supposed to?
I scramble backward, my spine melding with the wood as I inch as far from him as I can get. Blindly, I grope for the crescent moon pendant at my throat.Help me, Ishanna.Protect me from this brute.
But my fevered prayers have no effect. Amriel’s boots clack across the marble, each footfall louder than the last.Clack. Clack. Clack.
I curl into myself, bracing for the door to swing wide, to expose me to that ruthless yellow gaze, but at the last moment, my prayers are answered.
My father’s voice booms through the hall. “Amriel. You’re here.”
That familiar tenor wraps me in relief. It also halts the fae king’s steps. Cocooned as I am in shadows, I can’t see him anymore, but I assume that’shimclearing his throat, just inches away.
“Edmond,” he says. “Still alive, I see. And looking far more grown-up than last time.”
A shiver coasts along my skin. The fae king’s voice is deep, resonant in a way the hall’s acoustics can’t claim responsibility for. But a thread of chilly boredom runs throughout, as if this conversation, this entire endeavor, amounts to nothing more than an inconvenience for him. Just a fleeting annoyance amid the endlessness of his existence.
A new set of footsteps approaches—my father’s, this time. “Welcome to Aethrolia. It’s good to see you again.”
Despite my predicament, my mouth twists at the lie. My father hates the fae. It doesn’t matter that we only see them once every twenty-five years for the Claiming, or that in the interim, they keep to their kingdom beyond the Wildwood, where no human dares to go.
My father detests our immortal neighbors. Most every human does, and with good reason—during the war, we suffered at their hands, for a crime no greater than setting foot on their land. It’s hard to believesomethingthatinsignificant prompted such bloodshed, but the history books are clear: two hundred years ago, my great-great-however-many-times grandmother, frustrated by the eternal gulf between humans and fae, took it upon herself to find a way through the Wildwood. She arrived at Amriel’s castle with her advisors in tow, intent on establishing diplomatic relations.
But the fae king answered her overture with violence. With a war that then raged for a decade.
Needless to say, we humans don’t go into the Wildwood, anymore.
