Death Do Us Part (Deathly Beloved #1)

Chapter 1

One

A fairy execution ends with your intestines being pulled out of your anus.

I’d still prefer that over marriage. - King Richard

While standing in the elegant Wedding Room, surrounded by my most loyal subjects, all I can think about is setting this place on fire.

I envision everyone screaming as they fall to their knees, blue flames licking up their wasp-like wings.

My eyes land on the groom weeping at the altar.

He will definitely be the first to go. Drawing the ceremonial sword at my hip, I move through the smoke like a phantom.

My black blade sings through the dark. My eyes stay cold, but my lips curl into a smile.

As king, I’m supposed to protect these people. As a man, I want them dead.

Ideally, before I have to suffer through the twenty-seven minutes it’ll take to witness this bloody wedding. Twenty-one, my inner voice helpfully corrects. With the bride being dead, at least I won’t have to listen to her vows.

My jaw tics as a woman’s face fills my mind. Black hair. Violet eyes. Skin the same colour as the ancient tree we live in. But instead of the smile that used to grace her face when she was alive, now she looks at me in disappointment.

Aurelia loved weddings, especially ones like this, where the bride is a dead war hero and the groom is the fiancé that got left behind. She found them oh-so-romantic. But all I see is tragedy.

All I remember is her.

My chest tight, I let my eyes drift lazily across the room.

War dresses cling to the women like spider webs, hiding predators in fine silk threads.

The civilian men are dressed in their finest suits – jacquard three-pieces in a range of colours.

Shades of black and purple dominate the room though; they’re the colours of our kingdom, Raza, and this is, after all, a noble wedding.

Above us, the high ceiling is criss-crossed with ornate arches.

Between each curve of wood are splendid works of art, and lurking in front of them, camouflaged against the paint, are half a dozen snipers, armed with premade attack wands – those made in factories and loaded with spells so even non-witches can use them.

The wasp-like wings of the snipers make no sound.

Even knowing they’re up there, I can’t spot a single one of the women who make up my Royal Guard.

More guards stand at attention by the windows, peering out onto the city of Kholar as it sprawls over the branches of our tree. Our castle is built inside the thick trunk of it, well within the centre of our kingdom and far from the war ravaging our borders. Still…

“If someone tries to kill me,” I mutter to Jace, the head of my security, “let them.”

“And then have to suffer through this on my own?” Jace whispers back, standing on my right. “Nah, I’m jumping in front of that sword.”

“Asshole.”

“I know I told you I’d be available to you whenever you’d like,” he says deadpan, “but demanding my asshole at a time like this will cause quite the scene.”

I glare at him in annoyance. For fuck’s sake, I didn’t say ‘asshole’ as in ‘[give me your] asshole’, but I should have known better; Jace turns every insult into an innuendo.

You’re a bitch – Of course I am, baby. Who wouldn’t be in heat for you?

Fuck off and die – Spread your legs for me then, love, and I’ll go straight to heaven.

Go to hel – Certainly, boo. Or we can skip the whole dying thing, and you can whip me now.

“If you take your trousers off,” I growl low as he starts to undo his belt with one hand, “I will cut off your hand.”

He chuckles as he drops his arm to his side. “Would you like me to narrate it for you instead, Your Highness?” His voice deepens. “My cock hardens as you drag my –”

“You say one more word,” I bite out, “and I’ll take your tongue.”

“No, you won’t,” he says cheerfully. “You like my tongue. And you haven’t even felt it on your ass yet.”

“Jace.”

“Odin’s eye, you two,” my brother snaps from on my left. His personal bodyguard is on his other side, and circling us is another dozen, most of them women. “This is a wedding,” Nicholas stresses. “Can you two, for once, please show some respect? A noble died at war.”

Jace snorts. “She tried to shoot herself in the foot to get out of active duty and accidentally took off her whole leg.”

Premade wands are a lot easier to use than regular ones, but they’re still dangerous if not handled properly.

“Still, a man is grieving,” Nicholas protests.

“Bullshit,” I say, nodding at the necromancer only a few paces away from the groom.

“He’s going to resurrect his wife before the day is over.

What does he have to grieve?” It’s not like she’s lost to him forever.

My chest aches, that fucking hole Aurelia left growing ever wider.

A fracturing chasm that’s so damn close to swallowing me whole.

“She’s still going to be missing a leg when she’s brought back, and –”

“Prince Nicholas,” Jace says softly. Firmly. And it shuts my brother up.

But my hand is already on the hilt of my sword, ready to spill blood to quiet the thoughts in my skull. Jace’s hand covers mine, stopping me from drawing the black blade and making my earlier daydream a reality.

Forcing my fingers to loosen, I release my weapon, and he removes his hand immediately.

I keep my eyes straight ahead, but I know a look passes between the two men, and terrible shame fills me.

Whatever pain I am feeling, I know Jace is suffering worse.

Yet, I’ve forced him into the role of carer yet again.

The wedding finishes in a few minutes, with not one more word from our group. Nicholas vanishes, along with his third of the guards. He loathes crowds even more than I do these days, but whereas I hate the people who surround me, he hates himself.

Beneath his wavy, shoulder-length black hair, the once charming face that starred in the dreams of many women –even though he had never thought to cheat on his wife– is no more.

The left half of it is twisted and melted like a wax doll that was left out in the sun.

The right sports an ugly thick scar running from his brow, across his nose, and to his lip.

They’re permanent wounds that even our healers cannot fix with their magic.

Unlike with the other human races (all those made in the images of our three pantheons of gods, not just those fragile things on Earth), fairies are not free of scars, however, so at least he is not unique in that regard.

At least he has not been made into a gruesome exhibit of curiosity like scarred vampires, angels, or fae are.

Unlike us, those races celebrate perfection, and they ostracise anyone who isn’t flawless.

But even though most Razians are scarred, my brother hides away in shame. For unlike the rest of the people in this room, he did not get his wounds on the battlefield. He got them from his wife.

Ex-wife, I remind myself, as of two days ago. And if I can ever get him to rescind his protection of her, she will be his ex-wife.

But Nicholas is your typical male – soft, kind, and fragile despite the muscles he packs like armour. He does not like violence; like Aurelia once did, he still holds on to goodness in a kingdom that kills it all too soon.

Raza is hel on Gaera, and I am its king.

“Dick incoming,” Jace mutters at my side, pulling my attention away from my brother’s retreating form. For a moment, I don’t know if he’s making another innuendo or –

My eyes narrow as I spot the woman in his sights.

Fucking Petre.

She’s dressed in a black web of silk and sin, with a half-cape off her shoulder, silver spikes running from her neck to her arm.

Her other shoulder is bare. The black of her gown hugs tight to her breasts and waist. Glitters of silver catch the light as she moves.

Her skirt falls in rippling thin fabric, cloaking the movement of her legs so she can strike like the snake she is.

Her black hair is pinned up in a braided bun, with two sharp, blade-like hair sticks slipped through it. Her green-and-silver eyes seem even sharper still. She might be able to stab people with her hair accessories, but her eyes could gut a woman with just a look.

Despite the lethality of her movements, my guards move out of her way. After all, she’s one of the Dragons of Kholar, a title held by the twelve fairy women who make up my Court.

Ironically, though, most of the assassination attempts on my life have come from the Court – not that there’s ever any evidence of that.

“King Morningstar,” she says silkily, lifting both arms at the elbow, then flipping them over to display her empty palms. Unlike the other nobles, the Court is above bowing given their whole purpose is to give counsel to the crown.

If they are forced to take a knee every time we meet, they will not speak freely.

Which is unfortunate given I do not want them to speak at all.

In fact, I am looking forward to the moment I get to ‘retire’ them by plunging my sword into their hearts.

They live to serve the kingdom, and they are to die for it.

As soon as my newest law passes, come tomorrow, the Court will be no more.

“Dragon Petre,” I acknowledge with a feral smile. But it falls quickly as she gestures to someone in the crowd. As the rest of the guests head towards the large double doors leading out into the hall, a single man comes towards us. He’s dressed in the dark-purple and black robes of a High Scholar.

A keeper of our laws.

Fuck.

If he’s found something in some ancient text, he could ruin my plans completely.

I spent six years working on a way to disassemble the Court so I can have free reign over my kingdom, and I’m certain I’ve finally found a way to do so.

But our laws are vast and complicated, hence having an entire order dedicated to learning –and interpreting– them.