Chapter 44
Ash’s face has gone soft as he looks at me. I want to take that tenderness, wrap it up, and save it, to pull out when I most need it. But I don’t want to need that. I want this Ash to be the Ash I always see.
“I’m sorry for all the times I’ve scared you,” he says, eyes never leaving mine. “You were right last night. As long as you’re here, you need to be able to trust me, rely on me, be safe with me. And I’ve done a terrible job of it. But Stella, I will let you choose what you want moving forward.” He takes a deep breath, as though bracing himself for what he says next. “If you want to leave, I will help you. I’ll make sure you find someplace safe. The human lands aren’t safe right now, but you could find temporary refuge in one of the Small Cities until everything blows over. Or Orawyth. Now, I cannot take you to Orawyth because the only portals to there are in the Nothril Court and the Bridge, but I can get you there.”
His words roll over me. Calm, level. They give me a way out of this terrifying world. They give me a choice, a chance. I don’t say anything, letting him finish.
“You’d be safer if you left.”
I nod once. Safety is very important to me—more important than I thought it would be. And yet . . . is it everything? Is it truly what I want? That after all this talk of giving up fear, of refusing to bend to its whims, I’d choose it over everything else?
But fear isn’t the only consideration here. It isn’t the only reason I’d want to leave.
“Or,” Ash says, dropping his voice even lower, “you could stay with me. You could stand at my side, face the High King with me. It may cost us everything. I cannot promise you’d survive, though you know I will do everything I can to keep you safe. Even if you survived Lulythinar, it is your choice. Whatever you want, I will honor it.”
My choice. What I want.
The notion is so strange I almost balk. I haven’t had much of a choice this entire time, have I? I made no choice except to do as I was told to save my people, no choice except to make the best of this situation.
But now, now, I have a choice. Do I stay here with my fae husband and risk my life for the sake of saving my people? Or do I leave the saving in Ash’s hands and run? Do I choose my life over my sweet sister Amelia’s? Over every human on the continent?
I bow my chin against my fist, staring down at an open book on the floor, its pages wafting in the draft coming from beneath the door.
Ash didn’t ask me what I was duty-bound to do.
What is such a thing as wanting? What is desire? I’ve hardly dared to want anything in my life, because the more I want, the more I’m vulnerable to the stings of disappointment. Of loss.
But now I must decide. Which means I must first know what I want. I want my people’s safety—but how much will my presence here change anything? What can I do to fight for Aursailles when I’m just a human princess in a magical world of lethal bargains and royal intrigue? It almost seems like removing myself from the equation, from the list of things that can be used against Ash, might do more for my people.
Do I want Ash?
The question seems to come from nowhere, but as soon as it’s there, I realize that it is the question that needs to be answered. This isn’t as much about my people as I want it to be. If it were, the answer would be easy. But ever since I became a way to hurt Ash, my aid in the situation has gone down drastically.
This choice isn’t about them.
It’s about me. And Ash.
Do I want him? Him, with his unbuttoned shirts and disastrous treatment of books. Him, with all the wars he’s taken upon himself to fight. His determination, his kindness, his chaos, his strength. His weakness. His faults. His throne, his people, his power.
His deadly cunning.
His broken heart.
Do I want my husband? Everything that makes him, him? Or would I rather walk away, give him up, and save my own life? Do I want him enough to give up my life for him?
It’s not a simple question.
And I don’t have an answer.
“I need to think about it,” I say finally, lifting my head and meeting Ash’s steady gaze. He maintains eye contact, then nods.
“Send a note for a white dress, then.” He gets to his feet and picks up a sheet of parchment. He steps around his desk and approaches me, holding out the paper. “If you decide you want to leave before Lulythinar, it’s important to have arrangements in place.”
I reach out, close my fingers around the paper. It almost feels like a betrayal to accept it. “If . . . if I choose to leave before Lulythinar, what will you do?”
His chest rises with a deep breath. “I’m not sure,” he says quietly. “Oleria said I could marry her at the last minute if I needed it. If you decided to leave. Or perhaps I’ll just . . .”
Just marry his father’s choice.
There’s no alternative. If I leave, he’ll be forced to remarry one way or another. There is no option to leave and come back later. If I leave, I give him up. Forever.
The thought creates a burning sense of wrongness in my gut. I don’t want to think of him marrying that beautiful winged fae. I don’t want to think of him bound to Listhra either, forced by the terms of the bargain to sire an heir.
The thought of him being with anyone else, touching anyone else, kissing anyone else—it makes me want to vomit.
He’s mine, a desperate, primal part of me demands.
I grit my teeth. I won’t make decisions based on jealousy. And yet, I cannot ignore it.
I cross my arms over my chest again, self-conscious about my nightgown. I wish I were just wearing something simple and modest. Like that dove-gray dress I wore the first morning after I arrived. It would be so much easier to have this conversation fully dre—
Something shifts in the air.
Ash’s eyes go wide.
I blink. Hardly daring to think, I look down.
The nightgown is gone. In its place? The gray gown I’d just wished I was wearing. I shoot my gaze up to Ash’s, where his jaw sags open.
“Did you do that?” I hiss, terrified of the answer.
He shakes his head vigorously. “I—no, no, I didn’t. Stella . . .” His voice trails off as his eyes trail me up and down. A slow smile spreads across his face. “You just glamoured yourself.”
“I definitely did not!”
He looks up at me, his face splitting into another of those devastating grins. He’s so beautiful like this, I’m afraid his happiness will go straight to my head, make me dizzy with the desire to be near him. Here I am, trying to make a level-headed decision about whether I’m going to go or stay, and then he looks at me like that. It’s simply not fair! And not conducive to clear thinking.
“You do have magic,” he whispers, perhaps to keep the staff from overhearing. “Stella, look at you!”
I look down again at the dress. It feels real to me, so very real. And yet, when I peer closer, it’s almost as if there’s a very slight shimmer on the hems. A shimmer that I never noticed when Ash had glamoured me.
I peer up at Ash, searching him for the same telltale shimmer. He is so tall, it takes me a moment to run my gaze over him from the top of his tousled hair, down the deep V of his blousy white tunic, to his rolled-up trousers and bare feet. His beauty, both his muscled form and his handsome face, could easily be glamoured. But . . . I find no shimmer.
“Are you wearing any glamours?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Shall I don one for you?”
“Please.”
A second later, those trousers and white shirt are replaced by . . . by . . .
A chortling laugh catches in my throat and I slap my hands over my mouth to keep it in. “You—Ash!” And then I can’t help laughing outright.
He’s wearing the very same dress I am, only slightly adjusted to his proportions. Enough that his broad shoulders don’t bust the bodice at the seams, but not enough to lend the dress length, so it hangs just below his knees, baring his calves.
It’s so unexpected, so vastly ridiculous and incongruous, that I double over with laughter, leaning back against the door, fighting to breathe. I barely remember to check for the little shimmers around the edge of him, but I find them between gasps of laughter. A distant part of my brain registers that I can see glamours like a fae.
Ash just stands there, grinning down at me like an idiot. He dismisses the glamour, and he’s back to his own clothes, but I’m still laughing, sliding down the door until I’m sitting on the ground.
He drops to the floor next to me, stretching out his long legs. I try to swallow my laughter, but a giggle emerges as I swipe the tears from my eyes. “You have just scarred me for life,” I say, and giggle again. “I need to scrub that image out of my mind with soap!”
He smiles softly at me. It’s one of those smiles that makes my insides turn to warm honey. For a moment, I’m caught in that gaze, forgetting my laughter. Forgetting everything.
And then, before I quite know what’s happening, Ash wraps an arm around me and pulls me onto his lap. My thoughts fly away like a swarm of bees. He’s looking up at me with half-lidded eyes as he threads his arms around me and pulls me against his chest.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says. “Or I’ll kiss you.”
His mouth is so close, it would take hardly any effort to press my lips to his.
But that would just be too easy.
“Sometimes, when you come near me,” I breathe, “I get a little dizzy.”
He lifts one eyebrow. “Dizzy?”
“Dizzy.”
He frowns, as though considering this, his brows drawing together. “Am I supposed to be complimented?”
I give him a little grin. “If you’d like.”
He chuckles, low and raspy. “Then I’m complimented. Now tell me another thought, or else I’ll kiss you.”
“I’m not mad that you kissed me last night.”
At this, his shoulders visibly relax, and he closes his eyes. “I was sure you’d hate me for that.”
“Well, I’m glad you stopped, but I don’t blame you for starting.”
He gives me a wry look. “It was part of the deal that you wouldn’t be mad at me.”
“Perhaps I’m adjusting to the way you fae make bargains.”
“That was not a bargain, but sure.” His gaze falls to my mouth, his hand lifting to trace circles on my ribs, leaving fire in its wake. “Another thought, darling.”
I can’t help leaning forward just an inch and pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose before pulling back. His eyes widen slightly, and they lift from my mouth to hold my gaze. My heart hammers. “Sometimes, I think I’m falling in love with you. And other times I think it must be one of your fae glamours or spells making me feel this way.”
His thumb stops moving on my ribs.
A scrap of sense returns to my addled mind. Enough that I think to ask, “Have you ever put me under any kind of spell, Ash?”
“No,” he says immediately, and the word rings true in the air. No iron stench assaults me. And it makes me realize that not once yesterday evening, or this morning, has Ash lied to me. “Not besides glamouring your appearance and hiding your human scent.”
This lifts a weight I didn’t know I carried. It’s confirmed. Fact. Ash hasn’t manipulated me with magic. I didn’t think he had, but at the same time . . . there was always the possibility.
“I . . .” Ash pauses, clears his throat, a flash of pain cutting across his features. “Stella . . . I don’t want you to be afraid of me. Of who and what I am. I know I’m many things that I shouldn’t be, and not a lot of things that I should. But I want to be a better man for you. So if you decide to stay, if there’s even a chance we might have a future together that lasts beyond the next four days . . .” He trails off again, lifts one of his hands from my waist, and slowly, almost tentatively, reaches for my cheek. As if afraid I’ll pull away. His eyes bore into mine, a tender intensity that makes me forget to breathe. His palm cups the side of my face, and it’s cool against my flaming skin. “I’m a broken mess, Stella, but if you want me, I will be completely yours, and only yours, for the rest of my days.”
The tips of his fingers brush the hair at my temple, and it might be my imagination, but when he ducks his head, I could swear he says, “I already am.”
I’m not sure what to say to such an enormous proclamation, so I swipe my hair behind my ear, my gaze fleeing to my lap, and mumble, “Thank you.”
His answering expression is half-amused, running his fingers through my hair with a gentle touch. Then the smile vanishes, replaced by a firm jaw. “I’m not going to be cruel to you in front of other fae anymore.”
I look up, and both protest and hope rise in my chest. “But—but if the High King knows the truth . . .” I stop, unsure of what the High King might find out. “If . . . if the High King doesn’t think that I’m your pet, that you take our marriage seriously, wouldn’t that change things?”
“It’ll probably make him more determined than ever to take you from me,” he replies, that hardness not leaving his jaw. “But you don’t deserve to be treated like that, even if it’s an act. You’re my wife, Stella, and I want to give you every dignity before my father, before this court. It’s time they saw you for who you are. A woman whose soul and goodness shine brighter than the sun.”
I blink against the sudden urge to cry. And then I stop. I stop stopping myself, stop bottling myself up. I press a hand to my mouth, lean forward so my head rests on his shoulder, and crumple into tears.
He stiffens, and then wraps both arms tightly around me, holding me close. “Stella?” There’s shock in his voice, but he seems to set it aside, pressing me closer and stroking me softly. I curl into a tiny little ball on his lap, and with his arms around me—even though I cry—I can breathe easier than I have in a long while.
Safe. Home.
I don’t want to leave.
“I’m so sorry if I . . .” He trails off, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
“It’s alright.” I’m almost laughing through my tears. The poor man is so bewildered and here I am, unable to reassure him that everything is fine! “That only . . . that means a great deal to me.”
“I didn’t know it hurt you this much,” he says, remorse heavy in his voice. “You’ve taken so much in stride. I know it’s been tremendous pressure, and I knew it taxed you. I’m sorry, Stella. It’s done, it’s past. Never again. I’m so sorry.”
I relax against Ash’s chest and shoulder, surrounded by his comforting warmth. And I think . . .
I don’t want to leave him.
We stay like that for a sweet while until I twist my neck to peer up at him. His eyes are closed, his breathing steady, but at my movement, they open slightly, looking down at me.
“Tell me a thought,” he murmurs. “Or I’ll kiss you.”
My lips curve, and there are many things I could say. Many thoughts fly through my brain, ready to be spoken and shared. But I close my mouth tight. I look up at him expectantly.
Waiting.
His eyes widen, then narrow, almost playfully. His lips part, and his throat bobs. “Last chance,” he says, and it’s almost a growl. “A thought, or a kiss.”
I push back a little on his chest, lifting my head so we’re level. And then I just smile mischievously at him. His eyes darken.
He surges upward, one hand catching the back of my head and pulling me into a sudden, glorious kiss. I close my eyes, slipping one arm around his neck, the other into his hair as I kiss him back. I think I might be getting better at this, at how to angle my mouth, how to move my lips against his, and each passing second is sweeter than the one before. I’m lost, and heavens, I never want to be found. Not when he holds me like this, touches me with such infinite gentleness and fierce passion.
He bends his knees slightly, bringing his legs up so I’m forced to lean into him even more. “I want you closer,” he murmurs between kisses. “I need you closer.”
“You’re making me dizzy again,” I say, half giggling, not even opening my eyes.
His response is almost pained in its earnestness. “And you’re making me happy again.”
So this is what marriage can be. This is what goodness can be had on the other side of promises and commitment. Marriage was always my one duty, my one purpose. It was not something to eagerly anticipate. My husband’s attentions were not something to covet. It was a lifetime sentence to unhappiness—and one I was prepared to accept.
I think of my four sisters, three of them wed to men who won’t ever ask their thoughts, or pursue them, or care for them. One of them, perhaps, will have a man who is genuinely kind and respectful, a man she might one day come to love.
And though I’m in a new and terrifying world where powerful forces want me dead, I pity my sisters more than anything. They’ll never know what it is to be kissed like Ash kisses me right now. They’ll never taste the glorious beauty of what passion can be. All they will know is a life of being set aside, trampled, and unloved.
I regret every resentful thought I had about them. No matter if I don’t even survive the week. In a few short days, I’ve lived more life, experienced more goodness, more beauty, than they can even dream of.
A little moan catching in my throat, I pull Ash closer, and I let myself imagine a life together. So unexpected. So improbable. That a fae heir and a human girl could forge something new and beautiful, something bright and glimmering.
I want this to be my future.
I want to fall asleep with Ash’s arms around me, to wake up to his kisses, hear his laughter when I try to choke down mothweed milk. I want his smiles forever. I want to see him as High King.
I want to see him as a father.
A sharp knock on the door behind us makes us both jump.
Then Ash groans and pulls me into another kiss before breaking it off and growling, “Go away. I’m punishing my wife.”
Edvear coughs on the other side of the door. “The tailor is here, my lord. With Lady Stella’s Lulythinar gown.”
And just like that, the reality of life crashes back down on us. Ash lets out a great sigh, looking at me from beneath hooded eyes. As though he’s very tempted to tell the tailor to go find someone else to deliver dresses to.
“I’m not done with you,” he growls, pressing one last kiss just below my jaw. His shoulders drop slightly, and he stays there, his mouth hovering above my neck. “But you should probably order that white dress.”
“I won’t,” I almost whimper, almost pull him back to me. It’s nigh impossible to imagine leaving now. My heart would be too broken. But even if I have no intention of leaving, Ash is right. I shouldn’t close off my options. There’s still time before Lulythinar for something to happen. The High King could pull some trick that Ash can’t counter.
But maybe, if it was bad enough, Ash could come with me. We wouldn’t have to separate. We could go together. He could hide until his father died, until it was time for him to take the throne.
I’m not sure if the tailor lets princes come, but if there’s a chance that Ash and I can be together . . .
I don’t want to give up on that.
My cheeks are warm when I leave Ash’s study. His presence looms behind me, prickling my awareness as we enter the living area. This glamour thing is coming in handy; I have only to wish my hair was primly arranged and my dress wrinkle free, and it is so.
My husband, on the other hand, feels no need to make himself presentable, and when he flops on the settee in the living room, he looks even more disheveled than he did when I first entered his study.
The tailor and three human aides carry an enormous garment bag into the living room. I resist the urge to join Ash on the settee for fear the color in my cheeks will never leave. Or . . . can I glamour that, too?
I wish my cheeks to be creamy rather than tomato red. The heat doesn’t dissipate, but when the tailor looks at me, standing beside where Ash leans on the settee’s armrest, his glance is cursory and returns only a second later to the gown he brings.
“Would Princess Stella care to try the dress on?”
“That won’t be necessary. I assume you have made no mistakes,” Ash says.
“No mistakes were made, Highness.”
“I think,”—my voice cracks slightly, but I force myself to keep speaking—“I should also like a white dress. I believe that was an oversight when we first ordered my wardrobe.”
Ash makes no move, just continues staring with infinite boredom at the care the tailor and his aides take to lay the dress on the opposite couch.
The tailor nods once, makes a note on a pad he pulls from his pocket, and says only, “You are quite right, my lady. Please forgive the oversight. I will have the dress sketch to you on Lulythinar’s Eve and if you approve it, the dress will be delivered on Lulythinar.”
I translate this as: I will tell you the plans for escape, then you will leave Faerieland on Lulythinar.
“I hope you had no intention of wearing the dress before then,” Ash says with an irritable scoff that I could have sworn was real.
“I have plenty of dresses, my prince. I’m sure I can wait until then.”
“Thank you for your patience, Princess Stella,” says the tailor. “We will not deliver it late.”
“See to it that you don’t. You are dismissed.”
The tailor bows once to each of us. He doesn’t even glance at me this time, but quietly motions for his aides to follow him as Edvear opens the door for them.
Once it’s shut, Ash’s sharp gaze shoots to mine from beneath the long strands of his tousled hair. He catches my hand, and while I watch, brings my knuckles to his lips. He holds my eyes as he flips my hand and places a second kiss to my palm. It’s warm and tingling and intimate—and I’m suddenly very aware of Edvear bustling around behind us.
“I wouldn’t have guessed his ploy,” Ash says, “but I’m afraid you couldn’t have requested a dress without me knowing something was off.”
“Was I that obvious?” I ask, horrified. Does the tailor think I exposed him to Ash?
“Certainly. Because you never ask for things for yourself. You’re a princess, you know. You have every right to be just a little capricious.” His kiss moves to my inner wrist.
I wriggle away as Edvear and other household servants come to remove the gown. “I will endeavor to become more capricious, if it will please you, husband.”
Ash rolls his eyes, smiling. He waits until the servants are gone to tug me down closer to his level and whisper: “You are such a lovely distraction, I fear I am tempted to throw away kingdom and future simply for the pleasure of engaging your lips for a few hours.”
My blush returns in full force, and I completely forget about my newly discovered powers. In fact, I forget so completely that I find myself once more in a nightgown with loose, tangled hair.
Ash’s mouth curves in a devilish grin. “It seems you feel the same way.”
He tightens his hold on my hand so I can’t pull away, even when I give a solid yank. “You flustered me, that’s why my glamour broke! I think kingdoms are far more important than kisses!”
“Do you?” His arm slides around my waist, tugging me until I stand between his knees and he is looking up at me with too much smug triumph. He coils a lock of my hair around his fingers. “But you like kisses better than murder plots, yes?”
“I suppose it depends on who is getting murdered,” I reply stubbornly, crossing my arms over my chest and refusing to look at him.
“That is quite the vicious response coming from my sweet wife.”
Then he catches me by the hips, pulling me close, and ducks his head to press a kiss to my stomach. I blush furiously, every cohesive thought abandoning my brain like a swarm of hummingbirds.
Except for one thought.
I want to give him an heir.
I dismiss the thought the moment it appears. We’re just trying to survive the next few days. I might be leaving. And the only way I could ever give him an heir is if the High King was dead and Ash sat on the throne. In any other circumstance, it would be far too dangerous.
So I let that little desire go.
Ash pulls back from me when the servants’ quiet footsteps come back down the hallway. In a more serious tone, he says, “We should test the limits of your magic. And then I really do need to shut myself into my study.”
We both regret the separation. But there’s no use trying to pretend away reality.
I nod. “Back to murder plots it is.”