Gilded Cage
U nseelie was rife with festive energy. They were already celebrating The Hunt, even if they had no confirmation that the stag had been caught at all. It wasn’t until Cassimir and Weylyn came forward and hauled the carcass of the beast behind them that their cheers became deafening.
Gwyn and Glyn trailed behind the stag, looking forlorn because they hadn’t been the ones to catch it. Rainer followed, but Owyn was nowhere to be found, not that anyone questioned his absence. His moods were volatile. It would be long before anyone knew him to be dead.
As they approached the throne, jeers and cries grew louder. A crowd had formed near the queen on her throne. Her court surrounded a tall gilded cage, poking spears and swords through the gaps.
And from within, whimpers and cries that Weylyn recognized immediately.
He dropped the legs of the stag and rushed forward, shoving aside bodies that blocked his way until he pushed himself to the front. His fingers clasped around the cold, gilded bars, and he pressed his cheeks between the gaps, staring at his mate on the inside.
She was covered in mud and blood, crouched low on the ground as she shivered. She lay there naked, wounds open and gaping on her back.
When he’d gone that morning with his brothers, he had the utmost faith that his mate could care for herself. She was strong, capable. But he’d underestimated the cruelty his mother possessed.
An instinctive rage gripped him in a bloodthirsty fist. He wanted to lash out, but he only managed to tighten his hold on the bars.
His mate looked at him, her string of curls plastered to her pale skin. Her scarred eyes found him, squinting as though she could barely make him out through her hazy vision.
“Weylyn.” Her voice cracked and her shaking hand moved towards the bars.
That’s when he saw it.
A golden band tattooed around the flesh of her arm, pulsing and burning with a terrible magic he never wanted for her.
Slowly, he turned to find his mother and her entire court smiling malevolently at him. They awaited his reaction, and as much as he wanted to give them one, he couldn’t. He could not show his weakness, even if it was evident in the furious pounding of his heart, in the whites of his knuckles as he grasped the bars of his mate’s prison.
“She is mine now,” the queen said cruelly. “And she can never leave Unseelie.”
“Release her,” Weylyn gritted out. “Now.”
His mother’s brow kicked up. She was enjoying his pain far too much. He’d never wanted to take a dagger to her chest more than he did at this moment. To feel her blood slip from between his fingers. Feel the warmth of her life go cold.
“You give me orders now?” she questioned.
“Release my mate.” His eyes flashed with the threat of a warning. “Or I will kill you all.”
There was a collective gasp from the court. Weylyn had always been the most hated child. He had never hidden the violence he felt deeply rooted within him, but he had never openly threatened anyone. Least of all his mother. Least of all the Queen of Unseelie.
There must have been something in his eyes. She might have had teeth and claw, but he had something powerful of his own. High Fae magic. And he could render her mind useless within a second if he dared.
And she knew that.
A dagger would be in his heart the moment he tried, but he’d do it before he died. He would die for this. For Bryson Varik, he would die. For his mate, he would kill the queen.
His mother sat back on her throne with a dignified huff. “A fool in love,” she said lightly. The court chuckled, though stared with uncertainty. “Take her from her cage, then.” Her fingers flicked and the cage disassembled itself, falling apart around Bryson, who flinched. “But your mate is still my property.”
Fighting back the snarl that came to his lips, Weylyn went forward and moved as quickly and as gently as he possibly could, cradling Bryson to his chest. Before he pulled her close, her hands trembled over the ground, searching for something. When she found what she was looking for, she pressed a pair of goblin-made lenses to her chest and held them tightly.
Weylyn lifted her into his arms and stood. When he turned to face his mother, Bryson buried her face into his chest, silently sobbing.
“Happy Hunt,” Weylyn said. “Cassimir took down the stag. Long may he bring luck to Unseelie.”
“Long may he bring luck to Unseelie,” everyone echoed.
His mother narrowed her eyes at him, but she echoed his words before she turned to the stag and ordered it be cut up for the feast.
As Weylyn walked away, he caught Cassimir’s gaze. His brother’s eyes were hard and unyielding, but knowing, secretive.
Weylyn looked away and marched away as swiftly as his feet could carry him. His mate cried in his arms, each sob an arrow that pierced his already aching chest wounds. He didn’t stop until they reached their tent.
Brownies were already inside, flittering around and setting out clothes and pouring scented, medicinal soaps into the steaming tub. They scrambled out of the way when Weylyn made a dismissive noise. It wasn’t until they were gone that Weylyn finally put Bryson to her feet.
Her knees shook and nearly buckled, but he held her tightly by the elbows. Once she was steady, he pried the lenses from her grip and set them aside before grabbing a warmth cloth. When he faced her again, there was a broken, vacant look in her eyes as she took him in. When he first swiped the cloth against her body, clearing away the mud, a fractured sob tore out of her.
“Weylyn—”
“Ssh,” he interrupted, giving another pass of the cloth.
“I didn’t—”
“No,” he said firmly. Then, in her mind he added, “Not here, love. Do not speak. Just let me care for you.”
Bryson took in a shuddering breath but nodded to let him know she understood. Then he began the meticulous process of cleaning the mud from her body. He took his time, making sure to get every crevice. As he did so, he took stock of her wounds. Every scrape against her precious skin, every gaping, bleeding part of her he memorized. Every whimper, every flinch, he put deep into his mind so that he would remember forever.
And he vowed he would kill whoever had done this to her.
Starting with his mother.
The wounds on her back were what gave him pause. A single circle like a spear had pierced through her flesh. It was already healing, but still angry and red and fresh.
He took a deep breath to avoid raging and when he made it back to her front, he took her hand, the one with the golden, irritated band, and led her towards the tub. Once she was inside and resting comfortably, he shucked his own clothes and climbed in with her.
Weylyn pulled his mate to his chest and rested his forehead against hers. Then, he sprung into her mind.
“What happened?” he asked.
Bryson began to sob. She clung to him, her mind open and vulnerable. Images flashed through her mind, pushed onto his. She couldn’t recount what had happened to her in words, but she gave him her memories. Bright, full of fear, angry, vicious. The fear that clung to her bones like the mud she’d been stuck in. The way the creature had pinned her to the ground. The way her trembling hand reached for the fruit. The rotten taste as she sank her teeth into it.
The memories pulled away, but the feeling they left behind still clung to him. Sticky, filled with terror.
Bryson shook, her cries and sobs terrible. “I didn’t want to, Weylyn.” She grasped him, hands sliding against his bare skin. “I swear. I’m sorry. I’m so—”
“Ssh.” Weylyn held the back of her head, burying it into his chest. Her nails scraped at his skin, and the hand that held the mark burned. “It will be alright, little mate.”
Bryson shook her head back and forth and pushed away from him. “Stop.” Her voice was hard. Even with her scarred eyes streaked with tears, she looked regal. “Weylyn, this ends now , do you understand? Stop keeping me in the dark about what’s going on here. Your family hates you.” She took a breath. “And I have a right to know why.”