Chapter 4
Ash
“You’re lucky I’ve been tapped of magic,” I glare at Kestra. And I do mean glare. Maybe I enforce it with a little growl.
I’ve dealt with her kind before. Cruel. Unusual. She reminds me so much of Sabina.
“Ash, you are being dramatic.” She knocks on the closet door. “You’ve worn dresses before.”
I swing the door open and point a finger in her face. “Don’t you dare.”
She hides her smile. Barely.
“You said breakfast. You know how I feel about food.” It’s the only thing I have to look forward to. “You said—” I stumble over my words I’m so angry.
“I said,” she grips my shoulders and drags me from the closet probably because I’m wearing this abomination of a dress, “if you wear an official Unseelie Court attire you may attend breakfast.”
See. Evil, vile creature. Luring me with food.
“You look beautiful.” Kestra sighs, dropping her grip on my arms and stepping back.
“You can see my nipples,” I tell her bluntly, hoping she might flinch. Anything. No dice. Nothing ever phases this woman.
“Nipples are the most seductive part of a woman,” she says, luckily keeping eye contact.
“You’re my sister-in-law.” Or whatever Fae equivalent there is. “This is a weird conversation.”
“It’s only weird if you say it’s weird.” She pauses. “What is weird?”
“Let’s go to breakfast,” my stomach grumbles at the thought. It’s the perfect segue to not have to answer that question.
“Good choice.”
I step into the room, catching my reflection in the coal black shift dress.
Beautiful and scandalous. Dark black—yes, there is a difference—coiled roses around the edge of the dress that creep up.
Settling right at my thigh in a handkerchief cut.
The sleeves are more of a suggestion and drape off the shoulder.
The only thing keeping the dress on are the straps.
You can still see my nipples. Barely but they’re there.
It counts.
I’m halfway down this stupid tower, or at least I think I am, when Kestra catches up.
“Wait for me next time.”
“Why?” Gods, it feels good to be free.
“Because without me you would get stuck in an endless staircase.” She says it like she knows from experience.
I pause and give her a wide-eyed look, “Is that why there are no windows?”
“Endless spiral,” she reiterates.
“Noted.” I turn back around, hiding a smile.
Kestra is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind. And she surprises me daily with her little quips and personality that grows. She’s so incredibly different from Kieran and yet so similar in so many, many ways.
A deep sadness tugs at my chest. Same as before. Just thinking about him.
Where is he?
Sometimes at night I swear I feel Finnian’s warmth at my back. Orion’s hand heavy on my hip. Kieran’s breath cool against my neck.
Then I wake up and the bed is empty and cold and I remember.
I always remember.
At least I have my powers.
But I won’t use them. Not again.
The last time I reached for that wild thing inside me, I nearly lost myself in it. Detached from the soil, it’s fractured, broken. As though just existing here in this tower is slowly killing me.
I shoved the magic down so hard my nose bled for an hour.
So. Not again.
As we round the bottom I gesture for Kestra to go first, you know, just in case I can’t actually go through the door and end up back at the top of the staircase.
As soon as we step into the castle I smell butter. Cinnamon. Fresh bread.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” I groan, rubbing my stomach.
“Of course I have,” she throws over her shoulder. I’m tempted to tug on one of her braids but I don’t dare.
Kestra holds more power than anyone gives her credit for. Something that also saddens me.
She loops her elbow in mine as we walk through the castle. My free hand trails along the wall, my fingertips ghosting over the stone as it rubs the callouses there.
The castle reminds me of something that belongs on earth circa the early fifteen hundreds. Only darker and more brooding. As though the entire castle has a personality of its own. Which is plausible.
The shadows jump from one corner to another. The sconces don’t hold light but a darkness that disturbs me, casting shadow out, pushing the light from the windows at the ends.
“There’s no décor.” I drop my hand.
Kestra hums, “No, not here.” She leads me around another wing and another staircase.
“Why?”
“Not in this wing,” she says. “Father believed if I saw that which I loved daily I’d never detach from that love.”
My mouth drops open.
“You don’t have to say anything.” She pauses. “Go in.”
“What?” I look at the archway to the dining room, my stomach growling.
“I am not invited,” she says bitterly.
Anger surges up my spine.
“Don’t.” She cuts me off. “Not this fight. Save it.”
What the hell does that mean?
I turn back around and enter the dining room. It’s lighter in here. A row of seven windows looks out over the vast twilight to the Dark Forest beyond.
No Kieran. No Finnian. No Orion.
The bond at my wrist stays cold.
The long table is full of foods that I admittedly rush toward.
It’s a trap. A month locked in that tower and they think food is going to soften me. I mean yes, it is going to work. But I don’t care. Whatever the dark king has to throw at me I can handle it. I can.
I grab a cinnamon roll and take a large bite of it.
“I wondered what you’d grab first.”
Fuck me.
I close my eyes, pretending for a moment that I’m alone. Just so I can savor this bite. And savor I do, right down to the icing I leave on my fingertips.
I eat it all before turning to look at king asshole.
His eyes watch me as I use a napkin to clean my fingers and grab a plate. “I’m guessing you told Kestra not to tell me this was a meeting and not a breakfast.” Though she didn’t lie, she said go down and play nice. I just assumed he wouldn’t be there.
I pile up my plate.
“Would you have come?”
“No.”
He holds his arms open.
Rolling my eyes, I take my time. Dread gnaws at the back of my mind. I can’t shelve it or stuff it away.
“Sit here,” he says, drawing out a chair to his right like he’s a gentleman.
I do not want to sit there, it puts my back to the door. But I also don’t know what situation I’m in. Logic says take the seat I want. The one facing the hall.
I don’t. I sit down and let him push me in.
I’m leaning on the theory you catch more flies with honey than vinegar approach my mom always talked about.
He sits beside me again. No food in front of him, just a glass of dark red wine that looks almost black.
“How do you find your quarters?”
“Cold.” I shove ham in my mouth, then chew with it open.
“Charming.” He doesn’t blink.
“Where’s Kieran?” I don’t dare look away from him as I eat. Not. Once.
He leans back in his chair, dips a finger in his wine and runs it around the rim. “My son,” he says and those two words are full of hate. Anger. General loathing.
“Yeah, Kieran.” I grab a glass of wine. Lighter. And sip.
I hate how amazing their food is. Addicting, sweet in the best way and never overwhelming.
“Exiled.” Moros smirks.
“What?” I nearly drop the wine. “You wanted him to—”
“Control you,” he chuckles. “I’ve learned the error of my ways. My son would never hold the ability to control one such as you.”
“That took you a month to figure out?”
“No.” He smiles and my gut detonates. “No, that did not take a month.”
He leans back and grabs his wine, drinking the rest quickly before setting it back down. Holding eye contact, he says simply, “Wine.”
It starts at the back of my neck. Creeps from my shoulders to my crown.
Licking my lips, I stare at him. “What did you do?”
“Only what must be done.”
Footsteps shuffle behind me then into my periphery.
I close my eyes. I don’t want to know who he stole. Who he dares to use as a slave.
But I fucking know.
“Oh but you’re about to miss the best part,” Moros coos. “Don’t you want to know how I’m going to control your every move?”
A lone tear tracks down my cheek and I open them only to come face to face with my mother’s steel grey eyes. Margret Hayes-Morgan.
My chest cracks open. Splits right down the middle.
Mom.
“Now that I’ve got your attention,” Moros’s voice grates.
She slowly pours his wine then steps back to hover over his left side.
I grip my knife and my fork until the metal bites into my palms. But we both know I won’t do a gods damn thing about it. No, I love this silly mortal-adjacent woman.
Wait. She isn’t even mortal anymore due to a pact between her and her sisters.
I stare at Moros, wondering if he knows that.
Let’s assume he does.
“Why?” Of all the things that could come out of my mouth. “Why is your hatred so deep? What did I ever do to you?”
Hollow. That’s what I am as I say the words. I can’t figure out who I want to keep my eyes on. My mom? Or Moros?
For a moment I think he’s going to ignore me.
What I miss is the restraint that snaps.
He stands so fast his chair skitters back and slams against the far wall.
His palms slam down on the table in front of me, knocking over several pastries and wine. It all begins to bleed together.
“You are an abomination!” he screams.
I stand. Because I would rather die than ever, and I do mean ever, look up to another man again. Fae or otherwise.
“I am no more an abomination than you.” I grind my teeth to even get the words out.
“We spent centuries under their thumb.” He spits the words. “Millennia.”
I’m so surprised at the words that it takes me a full minute to grasp their meaning.
“Who?”
“Your kind.” The words come out like they’ve been through a blender. He stands, and turns to my mother. Luckily he walks past her to the window.
I walk toward her. One step. Then another. Her eyes stare forward but they’re alive. Like she’s stuck inside her body. Trapped.
I lick my lips, knowing the only way to get her out of here is through it.
“Wild Court.” I say the words and stare into my mother’s eyes. Wondering if she knew. If she knew that I was really Fae all those years ago when Graves handed me over. When Artemis…
“Tuatha Dé Danann,” Moros says instead.
I turn to him. He stands staring out at the vast twilight, leaning against the open stone.
“You have no idea what it was like.” He says the words in the same way Kestra said them earlier. With a sadness only rooted in the kind of trauma time doesn’t heal. “Living under them.”
I swallow because there’s a fury rolling off of Moros as he speaks. That’s fine, it gives me a moment to step in front of my mother.
It’s probably a meaningless gesture but I’m not moving.
“They were cruel at the end.” He gives a bitter laugh. “The mad king. They should all die as far as I’m concerned.”
“That doesn’t say much,” I tell him. “They were cruel. They should all die,” I mock, “Over what? Because from what I’ve witnessed of your courts, you’re all cruel.”
Moros’s gaze snaps to mine. “You want to know just how fucking cruel the gods are?” He sneers his lips. “I was eight when my mother was slain. At the hands of her husband.”
I’m not surprised. He did the same.
Looks generational. I think that’s what my cousins would call a red flag.
I say none of this because he’s so lost in his head I think he’s forgotten I exist.
“My father didn’t want to. Just as I didn’t want to, either.
But you see, a weaker man would have allowed her to live and I couldn’t allow that.
” I don’t know if he is trying to convince himself or me but he goes on.
“My mother. Claimed he stole her in the middle of the night. She was gone for three days and three nights. When she came home she was pregnant.”
Oh no. That’s not possible.
Unless, it was a god. Who is he?
I can barely hear his next words over the roaring in my ears.
“He cut off her head, then cut out the babe,” Moros says as though bored.
I want so badly to ask what happened. But I don’t because some horrors once known, you just can’t unknow.
“My brother lives in exile.” He sighs. “I think.” He shrugs as though it doesn’t matter. “The point is, they should die. Die for their petty games. Their vindictive laws. Cruel vengeance. They would have been just as merciless. In fact, they would have killed the babe. My father showed mercy!
“And you.” He finally turns to me. “You aren’t even real.”
I know I shouldn’t let this man get to me. I know better. But his words settle in my stomach and twist.
Because some part of me has always wondered.
If I was made instead of born. If the love I felt was glamour. If the woman who raised me ever looked at me and saw something wrong.
I bury it. Shove it so deep it can rot there with everything else I refuse to feel.
“You don’t even know the feel of a warm womb.”
“Ew.”
“Dirt. You’re full of dirt and roots.” He truly hates me. He steps so close. “No, see, you are going to help me kill them all.” He pinches my chin. “Every last abomination. And you are going to do it for us.”
“Otherwise,” I know her voice. Amarantha. “Your poor mother won’t survive.”
I spin just in time to see Amarantha slide a blade through her shoulder.