Chapter 3
GWEN
I intend to keep you as mine, Gwen. Forever.
Lord Blackthorne’s words echo in my head. Shock ripples through me, followed by a swift wave of fear. He was sent to track me down by order of King Theron himself, but it wasn’t the rescue I was praying for. The black-winged fae male has no plans to free me.
My pulse quickens.
Everything about him should scare me, and it does, but I still feel the pressure of his lips on my forehead from the kiss. Gods help me, but part of me liked the tenderness of that soft, lingering kiss.
Though Lord Blackthorne is my new master, he is the only one who’s shown me any regard since Tribute Day. He flew me away from that awful mountain village, healed my wounds with fae magic, and gave me food and water.
If the wounds had festered, I might’ve died soon. He very well might’ve just saved my life. I’m grateful for the kindness he’s shown me, but it doesn’t negate the fact that he plans to keep me for himself.
A shiver rushes through me, and for a reason I can’t fathom, it prompts a heated pang between my thighs. I resist the urge to squirm on the blanket as he continues holding my face in his huge, cold hands.
What does he plan to do with me?
I think of the kiss again. It was a sweet gesture, one that spoke of tenderness. But also… ownership.
Is he lonely? Is that why he keeps looking at me as though I mean something to him?
Will he use me as a plaything?
Will he force himself on me?
If I were handed over to the Winter Court army like the other tribute-cursed slaves, I’m almost certain I would suffer in that way.
The fae are not known for treating their prisoners or slaves with any kindness.
They are known for their cruelty, especially the Winter and Autumn Court fae, since they possess more Unseelie blood than their counterparts from the Spring and Summer courts.
As I contemplate Lord Blackthorne’s treatment of me thus far, along with his repeated promises not to hurt me, my confusion only deepens. How can he promise not to hurt me, yet declare that I belong to him in a voice brimming with dark authority?
I don’t know what it means.
The wind suddenly howls, and he tucks his wings more tightly around me, protecting me from the chill. Though it’s dim inside the cocoon he’s created, just enough light filters through to allow us to look at one another. Not for the first time, I consider how savagely handsome he is.
To my utter shock, my fingers tingle with the urge to reach out and stroke his long, dark hair. The heat panging between my thighs also increases, and my breaths start coming faster.
He’d looked so wild and fierce as he flew toward me in the mountain village with his hair streaming behind him. Gods, for as long as I live, I will never forget that moment.
“Lord Blackthorne…” I begin, only for my voice to trail off.
I want to beg for my freedom again, but I’m afraid it’ll make him angry.
I’m also certain he’ll refuse, so perhaps I shouldn’t waste my breath.
The only way I’ll ever escape him is if I run away.
But how could I possibly outrun a powerful, highborn aerial scout?
“When we are alone together, you may call me Merak,” he says, his deep voice rumbling through me, eliciting a cascade of heated tingles that almost has me swooning.
He leans closer, and his eyes gleam with… desire. I’m sure of it. He’s staring at me as though he wants to kiss me again. A real kiss. Not a forehead kiss, but a passionate kiss with his lips pressed to mine.
He’s staring at me as though he wants to push me down on the blanket and have his way with me as the snow flurries drift down around us.
Why does the idea leave me breathless and achy?
I should be more terrified about his plans for me.
Yet I cannot help the strange pull I feel toward him.
After the events of the last fortnight, perhaps I’m just struggling to think coherently. Perhaps that’s all this is. I’m exhausted, dirty, and shaken. Perhaps after a bath, a hot meal, and a good night’s sleep, I’ll see things more clearly in the morning.
“Merak,” I whisper, unable to help myself, and warmth fills me as I utter his given name.
His eyes flash with pleasure, and a hint of a smile plays across his lips.
I doubt many others have called him by his given name aloud.
It’s my understanding that among the fae, titles are important.
Titles are only omitted when addressing a friend in private.
But when in public, titles are always used, even between mates.
I picked this knowledge up from the traveling merchants who visit Braemar.
“You are very beautiful, Gwen.” He shifts his hands into my hair and runs his fingers through my long, mussed locks.
My face heats, partly from his compliment, but also from embarrassment.
I’m filthy, and my hair is tangled and matted with grease.
I try to pull away from him, but he tightens his hold in my hair, not allowing me the movement.
Not that I could go very far. His wings are surrounding me, holding me in place.
Despite myself, I am starting to feel safe in his presence. He hasn’t hurt me yet. And though his wings should feel like a prison, instead they feel like a protective shield.
“I’m filthy,” I blurt, still trying to pull away from him.
“Well,” he says with another hint of a smile, “not even the dust from the road can hide your beauty.” He keeps one hand secure in my hair, holding me in place, while he resumes running his other hand through my mussed tresses.
I flush again. I can’t help it. I also can’t help the waves of heat spreading through me, nor the steady pulsations in my core.
“Please let me go,” I whisper, needing to break the tension. “I just want to return to my family.”
His face immediately darkens, and his hands tighten in my hair.
Fear skitters through me, a chill that instantly douses the warmth that was just building within me.
“I will never free you, Gwen. Do not ask again.”
My spirits fall, and I stare at his chest, unable to hold his gaze. Tears burn in my eyes, but I blink them back. He bought me as though I were livestock. He paid twenty pieces of silver for me, and now he thinks he’s entitled to keep me forever. Just because he outbid all those other males.
Despair washes over me.
Will I truly never see my family again?
If I continue to plead for freedom, how will Merak respond? Will he punish me for disobeying him? He’s a highborn fae male with darkness in his blood. Perhaps his kindness has a limit. Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to provoke him.
If only I were braver. If only I were brave enough to openly curse him for keeping me as a slave. But I’m not even brave enough to plead for my freedom one more time. At least not at this moment. Perhaps after some time passes and I’m better able to understand his moods… but not now.
“You’re trembling,” he says, and I’m taken aback by the concern in his voice. “Why are you shaking so? Are you cold? Frightened?” He hisses what I think is a curse under his breath. A low growl then emits from his throat, faint but loud enough that I’m able to hear it.
I stiffen and lower my head, too afraid to move.
Too afraid to breathe.
He hisses another curse.
Then he’s silent for a long moment.
“Gwen,” he eventually murmurs. “Please look at me.”
Reluctantly, I lift my head and meet his gaze. I nearly gasp at the apologetic gleam in his dark eyes. Is it a trick? Or does he truly regret being harsh with me just now?
He moves his hands from my hair, very slowly, and cups my face again. He brushes his thumbs over my cheeks in soft circles.
Then I feel it. A wave of his emotions. I nearly gasp, but somehow, I manage to keep quiet.
First, I sense his regret, as well as his confusion, though I’m not certain what it is that’s confounding him. Is it me? Before I can contemplate it any further, I feel a surge of longing from him. Longing for me. But it isn’t just carnal longing, it’s so much more. The desire to possess my heart.
Oh, gods.
What is happening?
How can he feel so much for me so soon?
We only met a short while ago. Two hours at most.
I don’t think he’s aware that I can sense his thoughts, or if he is, he’s very good at keeping it a secret. But I can’t forget what he did in the mountain village. He spoke directly into my mind. As I stood on the auction platform, I heard his voice clearly in my head.
Perhaps I absorbed a touch of his magic when he healed my wrists. Perhaps that is why I can suddenly sense his emotions. I pray the effect will soon fade. I don’t want to feel his emotions. It’s too dangerous. Too intimate.
“You miss your family,” he says.
“Yes. More than anything.” My throat tightens, and for a reason I can’t fathom, I feel like telling him more.
I feel like telling him what happened on Tribute Day.
“When we arrived at the castle on Tribute Day,” I continue, “my stepfather immediately offered himself as a slave. But the newly appointed warden scoffed and refused his offer. Then the warden looked at me, snapped his fingers, and ordered the guards to take me instead. My mother screamed, and the guards dragged me away before I could hug her goodbye. I couldn’t hug my little brothers and sisters goodbye either, and gods, how it broke my heart to see the frightened looks on their faces.
And throughout it all, the Winter King just sat there on his throne surrounded by frozen heads mounted on stakes, watching the proceedings, saying nothing.
But I swear he seemed amused by all the scenes of families being ripped apart.
Which is why I find it difficult to believe he asked you to track me down, even at the request of his mate. He seemed so coldhearted.”