8. Chapter Seven #2
Archer scoffed. “You’re a death-loving fire demon.”
Though pain rippled through my abdomen with each breath, I refused to flinch, not wanting him to sense my weakness.
“I should have left you to die,” I whispered, meeting Archer’s gaze steadily.
Even if, deep down, I knew I couldn’t, it felt good to say aloud what I should have done to protect myself.
I knew he would take it as a challenge, and a twisted thrill rippled through me.
It was the smallest sliver of power in this powerless moment, to be able to force a reaction from the prince.
Archer lifted a brow. “Now that would be outright treasonous.”
“And yet you choose to reward me by taking me to be executed?”
“I should,” he said darkly. “Your kind were warned that remaining in Emberglade would mean death. Yet here you are, flaunting the law.”
“It is just as much my home as yours.” I bit my lip as soon as the words left my mouth. Once the usurper king had decreed that our very existence was against the law, phoenix shifters lost every right they’d had to live in Emberglade, the only home most of us had ever known.
Archer glanced away, apparently too overcome with disgust and annoyance to grace my comment with a response. “I have questions I need you to answer.”
“Why would I cooperate when you want to kill me? And all of my family and my people?”
“If you agree to answer me honestly, I’ll let you go. Consider us even for the fact that, for whatever reason, you saved my life. But if you refuse, I’ll escort you to the dungeons.”
“Let me go? I don’t believe you.” If only my power worked as other Emberglade fae, and the nighttime strengthened me. Instead, without the warmth of the sun, I had nothing to renew me after pouring my healing power into the prince and reeling from pain because of it. I couldn’t transform.
“Believe me or not, that’s my offer.” Archer released my hair, and I pulled backward a fraction, standing slowly, painstakingly, to my feet. “Don’t run,” he added, almost sounding bored. “It’s a terrible idea to test my mercy.”
If I hadn’t been in pain, I would have barked out a laugh. As it was, I rolled my eyes. “Shall I kiss your feet now, or wait until you’ve escorted me back to the castle as your prisoner?”
Archer’s eyes narrowed. “Choose your fate. Cooperate or enjoy the hospitality of my dungeons.”
Fate. A funny thing, that. I’d left Everhaven feeling a pull toward Solea's temple and rescuing the phoenixes—or so I’d thought. But had it actually been destiny drawing me toward the one I was meant to destroy?
If I let him question me, he could ask me about Everhaven’s location and hunt down everyone I knew and loved.
I would be the instrument of our own ruin.
Though we could twist our words to disguise the truth, fae couldn’t lie outright, a fact that made holding up under interrogation difficult.
Rumor had it that a witch had cursed us long ago, but perhaps it was simply part of our nature, the way the gods themselves saw fit to design us.
But everyone knew the stories surrounding King Wystan Emberglade. He was half-troll, hideous and terrifying, and he wasn’t bound by the same rules as us. Not only did he have magic that allowed him to read minds—a rare power—but also he could lie.
What if his son could too?
I couldn’t go with Prince Archer, not when the risk was high.
In this moment, my bold words about destiny I’d made to Brook mocked me.
Maybe he was the one harming the phoenixes and killing him was the key, but I’d have to find another solution.
Despite my hatred, I also knew with a certainty that sank deep into my bones that I couldn’t kill this male, whatever Maris had foreseen.
And that meant being near him would only allow him to fulfill his side of the prophecy.
My only hope to protect the phoenixes was to escape.
I was not a violent person, but desperation made me strike—fast. My knife flashed in the moonlight as I slammed it into his leg, avoiding his artery.
For a moment, I gaped, sickened at the sensation of my blade sinking into flesh. Stunned that I’d actually struck him! And deeply enough to slow him down.
I’d done it. I’d wounded the prince. I’d actually done it.
And then I remembered that this small victory, disgusting as it was, wouldn’t help me if I didn’t move.
I whirled to run, only for my leg to flare with fiery agony and give out beneath me.
I collapsed in the grass, head reeling. When I sat up to inspect my thigh, I found no visible damage, but I could have sworn I was experiencing the same pain that Archer was. An invisible knife wound.
Archer cursed, drawing the knife from his leg. “You’re going to make me use my magic, aren’t—” His words died in his throat when he noticed me clutching my leg.
My hand shook. I’d sapped too much of my strength, I feared I was trapped here, wounded and at the prince’s mercy. How did this happen? Some new manifestation of our suffering and loss of magic?
Archer hobbled toward me like I was a feral animal, his complexion pale, the bloody knife still in one hand.
My stomach twisted. I didn’t want to look at it.
I hated that I’d done anything violent, that I’d stooped to his level, and only to fail to escape.
“What did you do?” His words were clipped, cautious.
“Nothing,” I ground out.
Brow furrowed, Archer lifted the knife, seized my hand, and sliced it across my palm. Blood welled as he hissed in pain, studying his own hand. When he lifted it toward the moonlight, there was no sign of injury or blood.
“What’s happening?” I whispered, skin crawling. Had I tethered us together in pain somehow by healing him? The thought made me want to retch.
Archer cursed, tossing the bloody knife out of arm’s reach. “We’re blood-bonded.”