9. The Fae King
Istudied her, clutching the sea glass in her hand. Her inviting eyes, the color of the sea, tilted up toward me in awe. Her coral lips were parted ever so slightly, and I had the strangest urge to press my lips to hers.
Did her mother’s magic run in her veins? Was I ensorcelled?
Certainly not. Don’t forget your part, I thought sharply. Win her heart. Win your freedom.
She shivered, and I was caught off guard once more. ”You’re cold,” I said in surprise. How could she be cold? It was a warm evening, and she had her wretched magic to warm her. Didn’t she?
”I don’t suppose you have a cloak, your majesty.” Her tone was meant to be biting, but shivering from cold and fear, she hadn’t managed it.
I never expected a witchling to be so delicate. Was it a trick? Mortals were masters at deception. I knew better than to underestimate her.
But no. Her dress was clinging to her curves, and her golden hair toppled down her back. Her cheeks were pale.
How utterly fragile all mortals truly were.
She would collapse before we even made it to the castle. I sighed inwardly and scooped her into my arms.
She let out a tiny gasp of surprise, and I must admit I rather enjoyed it. Other than her little outburst moments ago, she had been reserved since I went to collect her. Shy. Anxious. Diminished. Nothing like the girl I had met by the pond that night—the one running barefoot through the woods, drinking champagne straight from the bottle, and diving into the pond in her undergarments. It was a shame. I rather liked that girl.
I conjured a warming glamour and allowed it to spread down my arms and envelope us both. Her teeth stopped chattering.
It made me feel something.
Pride? Happiness? I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t like it. Not one bit.