Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Araya didn’t ask Belanis for help again.
The other female had tried to speak to her the first morning after Rian Sterling’s visit, but Araya had simply taken the cup and turned away, staring out over the slowly greening garden as she gulped down the bitter brew.
Belanis took it back without a word when she was done, slinking out of the room with her head hung low.
The days bled together after that, broken only by Jaxon’s erratic visits.
She’d wake from a restless nap to find him sitting beside the bed, studying her face like she was a puzzle he meant to solve.
Sometimes he berated her, accusing her of breaking his trust and destroying everything they had together.
Other times his voice turned gentle, plying her with soft words and the same poisoned promises of safety and acceptance she’d once believed were love.
They wanted her to cooperate—to submit. Because fae magic answered to will. Whatever they wanted from her, they’d have a much easier time getting it if she stopped fighting.
Well, fuck that.
Loren had survived twenty-five years of torture in Arcanum custody. She could endure whatever they did to her here.
So the next time the door opened, Araya didn’t move from her place on the window seat. She kept her focus on the garden, on the way evening swept over the spring flowers. Let Jaxon say whatever he wanted. Let him stare, let him rage, let him beg. She would not submit.
“Time to go, Miss Starwind.”
Araya jolted, her heart leaping into her throat. It wasn’t Jaxon Shaw standing in front of the door—the open door, swung wide to reveal the hallway beyond—it was his father.
High Magister Garrick Shaw.
For half a heartbeat, instinct screamed at her to bolt—to take the chance and leap for the open door. But Garrick loomed between her and freedom, his stern expression warning her without words exactly what would happen if she tried.
“No,” she said. Her voice wavered, cracking under his stare. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Garrick’s eyebrows lifted. “It wasn’t a request, Miss Starwind.” He held out a hand, palm up. “Don’t waste all your fight when you have no chance of winning.”
Araya stood as slowly as she dared, willing herself not to flush. The plain shift they’d given her fell only to her knees, the thin fabric leaving little to the imagination. “I need something to wear.”
“What you have on will suffice.” Garrick’s gaze flicked over her, lingering just long enough to make her skin crawl, though his indifferent expression never shifted. “After all, we’re family.”
Araya swallowed hard, lifting her chin. There was no way for her to win here, but she could keep her dignity at least. She stepped forward, ignoring Garrick’s outstretched hand.
Garrick chuckled, his fingers closing in a vice grip on her arm instead.
“There’s that defiance again,” he said mildly. “I’m not surprised you have my son all twisted up. He always has loved a challenge. A pity we’re going to have to break you of it.”
He propelled her through the door and down the hall, setting a pace that forced her to trot or be dragged along behind him.
She’d been to his home once before—for a birthday celebration.
But there were no guests or music tonight.
Just door after closed door, the silence as cold as the marble floor under her bare feet.
He was taking her back to the cells—he had to be. They’d given her weeks to cooperate, and she’d repaid their generosity with silence and defiance. Now their patience had run out.
Araya’s heart beat wildly against her ribs, each step heavier than the last. She knew what came next. She’d seen what they did to fae prisoners who refused to submit. Worse, she’d participated in it, standing by Jaxon’s side while he tortured Loren.
But when Garrick stopped, it was in front of a carved wooden door, not an iron one. Two Arcanum soldiers stood before it, their gazes flicking over her bare skin with practiced disinterest.
“They’re all inside, sir,” one said, his gaze fixed on Garrick. “The appetizers have already been served, just like you requested.”
“Appetizers?” Araya asked, her voice strangled.
“Just so.” Garrick’s grip on her arm shifted, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Behave yourself, Miss Starwind. You won’t like the results if you embarrass me tonight.”
Araya stumbled through the door at his side, her bare feet sinking into plush carpet instead of meeting cold stone. A blazing hearth sent a wave of warmth over her chilled skin, casting golden light over rich upholstery and polished wood.
But even more unexpected were the people.
Jaxon stood in front of the bar cart, dressed in a dark waistcoat with his commander’s sash cutting across his chest. Her stomach turned at the sight of the bone staff looped onto his belt, its pale length gleaming with silver runework.
She hadn’t seen him carry it since he dragged her off the boat, that staff in one hand and the other fisted in her hair.
Kai leaned against the wall beside him, a glass of amber liquor frozen halfway to his lips.
His father stood beside him, talking happily to an older man Araya didn’t recognize—another magister, judging by his black robes.
Beside him, Caylin Pryce stood with her arms crossed over the beaded bodice of her dress, her lip curling as her gaze flicked over Araya’s shift.
“What is she doing here?” she demanded. “Why isn’t she being held at one of the black sites?”
“It would be much harder to put a Shaw baby in her belly if she was rotting at a black site,” the older man said, chuckling. “Although I imagine it’s not much of a hardship for them at all, now that I see her. None of your reports mentioned how comely she was, Garrick.”
Araya’s cheeks burned, heat flooding her face all the way to the scarred tips of her ears. Her skin pebbled despite the heat of the room, the stranger’s leer raking across her bare legs and arms like claws.
“She’s not that pretty, Father.” Caylin wrinkled her nose. “At least she’s in iron now—like she should have been the entire time.”
Father. This was Baran Pryce then. An intimate dinner party for three Arcanum magisters and their children—plus her.
“Don’t be crude, Baran.” Garrick steered her to a chair, pulling it out with the practiced courtesy of a man who had hosted a hundred dinners. “You know we needed to confirm she wasn’t pregnant by the prince before removing her ta’nara rune.”
Jaxon took the seat beside her, close enough that his arm brushed hers when he reached to pour her a glass of wine. “Drink it,” he murmured, his voice pitched for her ears only. “You’re going to have a terrible time tonight.”
Yes. She imagined he was right.
Araya picked up the glass, bringing it to her lips. The fruity flavor burst across her tongue, perfectly dry and tart. That one bottle had probably cost more than the Arcanum spent on the fae in a month.
“Baran Pryce is our new High Inquisitor,” Garrick said, confirming her suspicions as everyone settled into their seats. “He stepped into the role of High Inquisitor after Darian Hale’s unfortunate demise in the line of duty.”
“Unfortunate and surprising.” Baran grunted, draining his glass.
“I’ve never gotten a clear answer on what exactly happened on that island.
Jaxon’s report said their fae contact was responsible—but I’d love to hear the story from someone who isn’t capable of lying.
” His gaze lingered on Araya’s face. “You were there weren’t you? Right in the middle of it all.”
Araya froze, Garrick’s stare a brand against her skin. Jaxon’s hand landed heavily on her bare knee—a warning. If she betrayed them here this man might take her away from the Shaws. But would she be any better off in his hands? Her skin prickled under his leer. She doubted it.
“Your daughter was there too,” she whispered. “Don’t you trust her to tell you the truth?”
“I gave a full report,” Caylin snapped from across the table. “If Jaxon says that traitor killed him—”
Pryce chuckled. “She’s baiting you, Caylin.” He shook his head. “Such a tricky little fae. I can see why you’ve had so much trouble with her, Garrick. I’m very much looking forward to taking her apart properly and getting to the bottom of all this.”
Araya reached blindly for her wine glass, her fingers shaking as they closed around the crystal stem. She was too aware of Jaxon’s touch on her bare skin, her heart pounding against her ribs like it was trying to escape. But there was nowhere to go, not with iron around her wrists and throat.
“It seems like an odd priority for you,” Jaxon said, an edge to his voice. He reached for the bottle, refilling her glass. “Didn’t the rebels hit another collection point in Farhallow last week? What is that, the third one this month?”
“Jaxon—” Garrick warned.
“It’s alright, Garrick.” Pryce waved him off.
“It was actually the fourth attack on a collection point this month. We doubled the number of inquisitors sent with the usual complement of soldiers, but the fae who attacked them had far more magic at their disposal than they should—even though their runes appeared intact.”
Across the table, Kai took a long sip of his drink.
“It’s actually a fascinating technique,” Rian chimed in. “Whoever is helping them has a brilliant runesmith at their disposal. Removing the rune altogether isn’t particularly difficult, but to hide that it’s been tampered with—”
“Rian,” Garrick said softly. “We’re in mixed company.”
The conversation shifted to more trivial matters, washing over Araya until it all blurred together, drowned out by the thunder of her own heartbeat in her ears.
Jaxon’s fingers traced patterns on her knee, sliding higher and higher.
She wanted to scream. Wanted to run. But all she could do was sit there.