Chapter Twenty-Five #2
I watch him, never looking away as we both start to circle. I think of the very first time I wanted to hit a king—the day the halfling guards tortured my mother for giving me slices of—
“Apple,” I say.
The executioner sighs. “Surrender will be three taps to the ground, not a word, since words may not be possible.”
“I’d like to see you speechless,” the king says as we circle closer.
What is going on? Has every fae lost all sense? But from the look on his face, the king does not see another prospect to be won, more like an accessory to have. An extension of Kassandra. Perhaps he wants us both, together.
Closer still, I can hear his breathing.
My gaze drops to his shorts, then back up again. Our eyes lock, heat smoldering in his, and I know I’m caught looking. Those lips pull up in a crooked grin.
“Start,” the executioner says.
I advance, a small step forward with my left leg, a quick jab with my right arm. The king blocks. I duck his counterpunch and weave beneath his outstretched arm, then swing an open-palmed left hook toward his jaw. He’s quick to block, pivot, trip me. I stumble forward, find my balance again.
We orbit each other once more.
“Faster than I thought,” he remarks. “For a faerie.”
“Slower than I thought for a High Fae.”
His expression flickers, smile dropping.
So that was too far.
Maxian lunges. I sidestep. He grabs my shirt, yanking me toward him. Damn sleeves. Breath puffs out of me as my back slams into his torso, and he wraps large arms around me.
Trapped.
“So we’re grabbing clothes now,” I gasp, squirming.
His mouth drops to my ear. “Too bad yours cover so much.”
I shiver.
Maxian shifts, one hand reaching up to the neckline of my shirt, his other arm still banded around my front.
I freeze, unsure what to do. To smack him when he’s off guard is dirty fighting, and for as much as he’s teasing now, I don’t think the king would appreciate an elbow to his pretty face.
Worse yet, if I succeed, I’d knock out the royal in one hit.
So I guess I’m like every other opponent of his: holding back.
Unacceptable.
Maxian’s fingers tug on my neckline, gentle. Cool air tickles the raw skin of the bite, the bandage site itchy where it adheres to my skin.
“I’m sorry,” the king says, low, his thumb grazing my neck.
I don’t move, feigning uncertainty. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.” His voice is so soft it makes me shiver again.
My heart knocks against my ribs, and I’m sure he can feel it where his thick arm binds me to him.
His nose is in my hair, curling wildly with sweat, and I hear him swallow.
He adjusts to give more room between our bodies, as if he’s changed his mind about his front pressed against my back.
I have the advantage.
I twist in his loose grip, one hand clamping down on his arm as the other snakes beneath his pit to find the small of his back. He braces, realizing what I’m doing.
“Wait—”
Tipping us forward, I push my tailbone into his quad to lift him off his feet.
The move would flip his body over my shoulder so that he slams onto his back on the ground.
I would keep hold of that one arm so I can control how he falls and ensure he can’t get up, maybe jab a pressure point and twist his arm so he’d surrender.
But I don’t.
Not because he’s the king and I could win with this move.
But because there’s something on his back, rough like tree bark. My palm slides under the hem of his shirt, feeling the expanse of gnarled—
Reign magic tumbles through my legs, bringing me to my knees. It’s so abrupt, my own genius flails, a moth trapped in a stony room. His power shoves me away, and I sprawl across the mat as it releases me. My head spins, a protest rising to my mouth.
“We said no—”
Breath seizes in my chest. The king towers over me, panting, fingers twitching, gaze unnaturally bright and shining. Something has died in him; something new has come alive. Power thunders into the plane like a rockslide. On the other end of the room, a shield crashes to the floor.
No one says a word.
He takes a step forward, plane rippling. I scrabble back.
“Never do that again,” Maxian says.
Then he pounces.
I roll to the side, but it’s too late. The king’s arms bracket me, and his body descends, the full weight of him pinning me to the mat.
Wriggling, I try to knee his crotch, but Maxian’s thick thighs spread mine wide.
Too late, I slap palms against his chest to shove him off.
His hands circle my wrists and push them down on either side of my head.
Our breaths come ragged and fast; our skin is sleek with sweat. The king’s scent fills me, musky and sweet, his heft all encompassing. My chest pushes up against his with each swallow of air, but it’s not enough to slow my slamming heart.
His face shifts once more from aggression to awe.
“Your eyes,” he breathes. “They’re gold.”
“Maybe we should leave,” Carter murmurs from the sidelines, but neither the king nor I look his way.
“They’re brown,” I correct, but blood roars in my ears.
Maxian shakes his head, leaning closer so that we’re almost nose to nose.
He examines each iris, gaze flicking side to side in minuscule movements.
I turn my face, hide, as heat flushes up my chest and into my cheeks, but he shifts my wrists into one hand above my head.
Then his other thumb and finger hold my chin, turning my face back up to him.
I stare off to the wall of weapons, glinting and beautiful in the light.
It cannot assuage this feeling of display, spread like a star under him with others watching.
It does not feel alluring and powerful to have this attention.
It feels like the stripping of armor and skin.
“Look at me,” he commands, and I do.
A noise gets trapped in the back of his throat.
“I’ve never seen this on a faerie before,” he marvels. “Your eyes are the color of sap.”
I shift under him. “Can we…”
“If you want something, ask for it.” The king smiles.
His thumb strokes the skin of my wrists. I try to tug them out of his grasp, and his focus slides up, watching me struggle. The plane stirs.
“Avery,” he says, voice smooth like rich cream. “What’s this on your arm?”
“What do you—”
Then he’s kneeling back, yanking me onto my knees in front of him. His grip on one wrist tightens to the point of discomfort while the other rips at my sleeve.
“Wait—” I struggle.
“My king?” Carter asks, bending under the rope to get onto the raised mat. “Is everything—”
“Not another step,” Maxian barks.
The faerie freezes, meeting my gaze. Behind him, the executioner shifts. “Your Magnificence?”
“Show me your arms,” the king growls. We kneel knee to knee, but still I try to twist away. The training hall booms with power as he shouts: “Stop resisting!”
He doesn’t even give me a chance to obey.
Reign magic crashes through my entire body once more, forcing me to hold my forearms out to him in silent supplication. It is the violation of the coronation once more, what little agency I had yanked away from the inside out, like a hand up a puppet.
His attention roams over the rings, mouth moving without sound, brow furrowed.
He’s counting. He’s counting my debt.
“I checked your books. It should’ve been enough to take off half your rings,” the king snaps.
The ten-gold-coin tip.
His magic releases my tongue, demanding an answer.
“It—it was,” I stammer. My genius batters against the rocky wall that blocks me from my own will.
It beats and beats, printing bloody wings across the surface.
The stony facade shrinks tighter around my genius until it is nothing more than an insect dying in a jar.
Until all it can do is cling to the shelter of a darkened crevice.
A crevice.
A crack in the wall means a crack in his own genius, in his ability to wield magic. My wounded genius spasms to life, one last time, and begins to burrow.
“You didn’t give it away, did you?” he seethes.
“I didn’t,” I force out, my genius digging deeper, deeper into the crack in the wall.
“Then why do you still have so many rings? Did he also not pay the assault fee?”
“I—well—”
“Avery,” he bellows. “The truth!”
My attention snaps, my grip on my genius slipping.
The moth drops to the stony ground, stunned.
I take a breath, eyes stinging at the loss of control, as Reign magic clamps down on my tongue, as it roots through my mind looking for an answer I’m not willing to give, snagging on the memory I wish to hide.
“A complaint,” I hear myself say. “A complaint from House Illusion added the rings back.”
Maxian closes his eyes, forcing air out his nose.
“My king…” Carter tries again. “Shall I get a glass of water?”
The king seizes both of my elbows, his magic all encompassing.
“Your Magnificence,” the executioner starts. “What is—”
The king of Amyria laces us into the plane.