Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Jack
“Jack.”
Blearily, I open my eyes. It’s morning, and Dyfri is standing next to the bed, looking down at me. He is neatly dressed in human clothes, and his hair looks amazing, all tied back in braids and plaits. Each one threaded through with one of the ribbons I gave him.
He must have been up for hours. Clearly, fey don’t get hangovers. Lucky bastards.
“You need to redo my braid.”
I blink. One small section of Dyfri’s hair is loose, and there is a comb in his hand, and the white ribbon I wove into his hair on our wedding day is in the other.
I sit up.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, back to me. He hands me the ribbon and the comb.
“By redoing my braid, you are reaffirming the marriage,” Dyfri says. He sounds tense. On edge. His shoulders are stiff.
“Okay,” I say.
“I wanted you to understand the significance,” Dyfri snaps, but he sounds far more anxious than bad-tempered.
“Thank you,” I say. It is considerate of him to make sure I understand what I am doing.
His shoulders ease a little.
Carefully, I pick up the loose strands of his hair. I’m fairly confident I can remember how to do this. I practiced it enough times before our wedding.
I run the comb through his hair, but it’s already perfectly smooth. And soft. Like liquid silk. Dark enough to shimmer.
I put the comb down, pick up the ribbon, and let my fingers get to work.
It only takes me a moment. “There,” I say as I finish tying it off.
Dyfri runs his fingers over my work. Then he seems to breathe easier.
“After the honeymoon, I can do it myself. You will not be forced to play hairdresser forever.”
A grin stretches my lips. “I’d be honoured to give you a marriage braid every day of our lives.” Especially if he is happy with my work.
Dyfri turns so sharply that his hair whips me in the face. He glares at me over his shoulder. Dark eyes blazing.
“Do not say stupid shit like that!”
He gets up and strides away, slamming the door behind him.
Still smiling, I flop back down onto the pillows.
Dyfri is my moody little black cat, and that’s okay because I’m going to shower him with so much affection that eventually he will have no choice but to get used to it.
Finding Agent Morrison isn’t difficult. Dad’s MI5 liaison has a habit of lurking in the corridors of Number 10 like a particularly well-dressed vulture, always watching, always listening.
Today I spot him near the back staircase, checking his phone with the sort of casual alertness that screams ‘intelligence operative.’
“Agent Morrison?” I approach him with what I hope looks like confident purpose rather than someone who doesn’t really know what the hell they are doing. “Can I have a word?”
His pale eyes fix on me with laser-like intensity. “Of course, Mr Caxton. What can I do for you?”
“Somewhere private, if you don’t mind. It’s about my husband.”
Morrison’s expression doesn’t change, but something sharpens in his gaze. He leads me through a maze of corridors to what appears to be a disused office, all dusty furniture and drawn curtains. The sort of place where conversations happen that never officially took place.
“What’s on your mind?” Morrison asks, settling into a chair across from me.
I take a breath, trying to organise my thoughts. This has to be convincing. Morrison isn’t the sort of man who trusts easily, and if I get this wrong...
“Dyfri wants to help,” I say simply. “Help humans, I mean. Overthrow fey rule.”
Morrison’s eyebrows rise slightly. “Does he now? That’s... interesting. And why would a fey prince want to betray his own people?”
I’ve been dreading this question, because the answer, that Dyfri has been treated appallingly by his own court, that he’s half-unseelie and has faced a lifetime of mistrust and abuse, feels too personal to share. Too much like a betrayal of his trust.
But I need Morrison to believe this. I need him to think Dyfri is a genuine asset, not a potential threat.
And the notion that Dyfri wants to help the people who hurt him, is far too much to swallow.
Especially for a bitter and jaded man like Agent Morrison.
A man who has seen nothing but the very worst of humanity.
So I have to give him the dark reason, whatever the truth of Dyfri’s motivation may be.
“Revenge,” I say finally. “The Seelie Court has never treated him particularly well. There’s... bad blood there. Old grievances. He sees an opportunity to get back at people who’ve wronged him.”
Morrison nods slowly, as if this makes perfect sense to him. “Yes, we did suspect that being publicly used as entertainment might turn him against his people.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Used publicly? What the hell does that mean? I knew Dyfri was treated awfully. But this doesn’t make sense.
“I’m sorry?” I manage, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
“The rhocyn business,” Morrison says casually, as if he’s discussing the weather. “Being forced to perform for the court’s amusement. Quite the psychological motivation for rebellion, I’d imagine.”
Perform. For the court’s amusement.
Through the cloud of horror, is the sinking realisation that Morrison knows this. That MI5 knew more about my husband than I did. That I needn’t have worried about divulging Dyfri’s secrets, because he had none. He wasn’t even permitted that dignity.
My stomach lurches, but I force myself to nod. “Quite.”
“Well then,” Morrison continues, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I’m barely holding myself together, “if your husband is genuinely interested in cooperation, I’m sure we can find ways to make use of his... unique position.”
The rest of the conversation passes in a blur. Morrison talks about intelligence gathering, about strategic advantages, about the importance of verifying Dyfri’s commitment to the cause. I make appropriate noises and nod in the right places, but my mind is stuck on those words.
Publicly used as entertainment.
The moment Morrison dismisses me, I’m pulling out my phone, fingers shaking as I search for Professor Whitfield’s contact information. It takes several tries to find the right number.
“Professor Whitfield?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “This is Jack Caxton, Richard Caxton’s son. We met at the British Museum.”
“Ah yes, Mr Caxton.” Whitfield’s voice is coolly polite. “I remember our conversation. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering... could you tell me more about rhocyn? The fey custom you mentioned?”
There’s a pause, and when Whitfield speaks again, there’s a note of academic excitement in his voice. “Fascinating subject, actually. The rhocyn system is one of the more disturbing aspects of fey culture, from a human perspective. Essentially, it’s institutionalised sexual slavery.”
“Sexual slavery?” He has said those words before, but now I know he means far more than I realised.
“Oh yes. Individuals designated as rhocyn have no legal right to refuse sexual advances from anyone of higher social standing. Which, in practical terms, means anyone and everyone.” Whitfield’s tone is matter-of-fact, as if he’s discussing crop rotation techniques.
“They’re considered communal property, available for the entertainment and pleasure of the court. ”
Entertainment. There’s that word again.
“But surely there are protections...” I start weakly.
“None whatsoever. In fact, public exhibitions are quite common. The court finds it amusing to watch, apparently. Rather like gladiatorial games, but with a different sort of combat.”
Public exhibitions. Public performances. For the court’s amusement.
I think I’m going to be sick. I had been assuming something along the lines of an escort. A courtier from human history books. Discreet. A veneer of respectability. But mostly I had been trying not to think about it at all. And nothing, nothing, like this had crossed my mind.
“Of course, combat is precisely how rhocyn status begins. How it is bestowed. When an individual loses a duel, the victor unbinds their hair and uses them, sexually, in front of the assembled crowd.”
My ears are ringing. A high-pitched whine that’s about to split my head in two. A white-hot noise.
“Mr Caxton? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I croak. “Thank you, Professor. That’s... very educational.”
“Quite welcome. If you need any further information about fey cultural practices, please don’t hesitate to call.”
I hang up and lean against the wall, my legs suddenly unsteady. Publicly raped. Public exhibitions. Forced to perform for an audience. No right to refuse anyone.
Dyfri. My beautiful, brilliant, sarcastic husband, who flinches when people touch him unexpectedly. Who looked so amazed when I gave him a simple Christmas gift. Who looked so quietly delighted when his brother braided his hair.
How long? How many years did he endure that? How many times was he forced to...?
I’m moving before I consciously decide to, striding through the corridors of Number 10 towards our flat. I need to see him. I need to... I don’t know what I need to do, but I need to be near him.
The living room is softly lit when I enter, and Dyfri is sitting on the sofa reading what appears to be an ancient scroll. He looks up when I come in, and his expression immediately shifts to concern.
“Jack? What’s wrong? You look upset.”
I can’t speak. Can’t find words for the rage and horror and heartbreak churning in my chest. Instead, I stride towards him, and he gets to his feet with that fluid grace, scroll still in his hand.
Without a word, I wrap my arms around him and pull him close.
He goes rigid immediately, his body stiff and unyielding against mine. “Ah yes, a hug,” he says awkwardly, patting my back with one hand.
I don’t let go. I can’t let go. I hold him tighter, pressing my face against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of jasmine that always seems to cling to him.
“Jack?” His voice is uncertain now, confused. “Is this... are we still hugging?”
I squeeze him tighter, and after a moment, I feel some of the tension leave his body. He sighs, a soft sound of surrender, and melts into the embrace. His head comes to rest on my shoulder, his body rests against mine, no longer maintaining any distance.
I whisper against his hair. “That’s right. Get comfortable.”
Because I am never, ever letting him go. Not now that I know what he’s survived. Not now that I understand what he has been forced to endure.
He’s safe now. He’s mine now. And I swear to God, I will burn down anyone who tries to hurt him ever again.
We stand in the soft lamplight, holding each other. My new promise burning through me. Whatever it takes, whatever the cost, I’m going to make sure Dyfri never has to experience any kind of horror ever again.
He’s not alone anymore. He’ll never be alone again.
Not while I’m breathing.