Page 22 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

But she was quick. She grabbed his forepaws and wrenched out one set of claws then the other. “Bad boy, Muffin! Bad!”

I…couldn’t disagree with that.

I watched her back disappear as she pulled open the front door, the flash of sunlight momentarily blinding. Only when the door clicked shut did I finally reopen my eyes.

I almost wished I hadn’t.

Because she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Her eyes fixed on my prone form, and I suddenly realized just how little I measured up.

Curls the color of glowing embers, lightly tanned skin, bright, lilac eyes, freckled cheeks, and—cursed gods—slightly pointed ears.

Fae. She had to be Fae—like me. The last thing I’d expected to find after my capture was a mirror of what I’d spent years hiding.

The Assembly had been extremely vocal about the decline in magic since the fall of the Avenfellian Empire. They’d been encouraging mages to breed for the past thirty years, going as far as to forgive families their dues to the organization—and even begging the royal coffers to forgive taxes—if they had enough children. But their fixation on Fae bloodlines had persisted for nearly two hundred, because anyone who could trace their family lineage back to them bore exclusively gifted children. This woman would be one of their prized possessions.

“Oh no. I’m so sorry,” she breathed. She raced to my side and laid her hands on my bare chest in a way that was too familiar. No one touched a prince, much less the Shadow Prince, without invitation. Though I found, with a twinge of shame, that I had no desire to move.

There was something unexpectedly unguarded in her face that pierced me as deeply as the spear that had gone through my side. Not innocence, exactly. More like a kind of quiet goodness I didn’t deserve to lie beneath.

If it was an act, it was a very good one.

She lifted her voice, shouting toward the door, “Muffin is a terror who’ll have to hunt for his own dinner tonight!”

The situation was so ridiculous, a laugh threatened to escape again, but I choked it down to avoid the pain. Her hands roamed across the scratches on my chest, as though she was assuring herself I was still alive. Magic tingled on my skin where she touched me, like a tiny bolt of lightning arcing between us with every moment of contact.

The familiar prickle was the same as the one I’d experienced on the road just before the caravan was attacked. Could it be?

Surely not…

I tensed to sit up, but her hand pressed flat against my sternum. “Don’t,” she said. Not a request. A command.

My hands shot out to grasp her wrists, fingers barely closing. Something in me balked at the action, even as pain exploded through my ribs. My eyes closed from the shock of it, yet I still managed a growl.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to pull away. Just waited.

She’s less afraid than I am.

“Witch,” I breathed, the word a warning rather than an insult. My unwelcome fragility had brought the distasteful slur out. “Don’t—” I swallowed blood. “Don’t use magic.”

A miracle—I could speak, though my voice sounded like rocks grinding against one another. I didn’t want her to hear the desperation, that it was a plea rather than a threat.

The vixen’s only response was a smirk.

I froze—not from the sting of pain, or fear, but because something deep inside me recognized her in that instant in a way I couldn’t yet name. A tremor of panic shook my grip. I was terrified my magic would lash out in the emotional chaos I was trying to suppress. Still, I was more frightened by the part of me that wanted to understand its fascination with her.

It wasn’t instinct alone; I couldn’t bear the thought of harming someone who’d cared for me with such gentleness for…gods knew how long. I couldn’t make myself move against her, even to save my life.

Her hands remained pressed to my chest. My pulse thudded under her touch. She must’ve felt how erratic it was, but she didn’t comment. Her palms suddenly grew incredibly warm, chasing the fever’s chill buried deep in my bones. Then a nearly unbearable itch flared on the scratches.

My shadows should’ve surged at the magical invasion, but with her, they relaxed.

The itching sensation stopped, and she gently eased my hands away. My gaze followed hers to the place where the veska’s claws had opened my flesh.

The scratches were…gone? Tiny pink lines had replaced the bleeding gashes.

What in all of Avanfell?

Shock broke my grip completely. We had healing magi at the Tir. But not any who could perform miracles.