I hope.
He’ll start by questioning my cell guard. The one who Clarissa, my lovely step-monster, paid off (by selling off my stepsister Chrys into marriage) to turn a blind eye while she peddled me over to a stranger.
A chill scuttles down my spine at the memory of the fae female.
Her pale lips. Icy eyes. The lone blood-red gemstone dangling from her bracelet.
My dear, I’m afraid I wasn’t speaking to you, were her last words to me before the moon rose over the horizon and locked me away.
My instinct for self-preservation has my spine seizing, which would have sent me jolting upright if not for the restraints on my wrists and ankles. Instead, the sudden lurch just sends the back of my head slamming against the stone slab.
Well, at least the stars dappling the edges of my vision brighten up the room a bit.
I don’t know who my captor is, but that’s not exactly the problem.
The problem is that she knows me. Rather, she knows about what’s inside me.
Crap, crap, crap.
Hazy, drug-muddled images come rushing back all at once.
I know you’re in there. You can’t hide from me.
In the fragmented memory, the pale female’s face obscures my vision of the dungeon, but her steely breath brushes my clammy cheeks as if she’s still in the room with me.
It’s foolish of you to resist. Think of what we could do together.
Before I can untangle the rest of the memory, a dim light catches my attention in the corner of my eye. I jerk my neck to the side as the light brightens, revealing a stone staircase and a grated door.
Footsteps follow the light, and soon three figures descend the staircase.
Metal screeches, the door opens, and the three fae step into the room.
The first is the pale female who I suppose owns me now, thanks to my gold-licking stepmother. Half of her silvery-white hair flows loose at her shoulders, the other half secured in a knot at the top of her head. That same red-jeweled bracelet dangles from her wrist. She looks more irritated than she did the first day I met her, and I derive no small amount of satisfaction from that.
I’m not sure how I acted when I was drugged, but I hope I had her reconsidering whether I was worth whatever she paid for me.
Behind her stand two males, both of whom have their hoods drawn low over their faces, so I can’t see their eyes. Their jawlines are set, but they’re too still to be human.
“You’re awake.” The female states it as if she’s reading off the accusation of a crime. She sniffs at the air, disgust marring her otherwise elegant face. “You’ve soiled yourself.”
“Twice,” I correct her before I can stop myself. She stiffens, and I should probably take that as a signal to cease talking, but I don’t. “I’m not sure what you expected after keeping me tied up for so long. But who am I kidding? You’re high fae. Tell me, how often do you have to pee? Probably once a month at most.”
The shoulders of the hooded males shake slightly, the sight of which grants a smirk to my cracked lips.
At least someone here thinks I’m funny.
The female, clearly, does not. But she plasters a vindictive smile upon her stony face all the same. “My apologies. I’ll be sure to have Farin clean you up when he’s done with you.”
The male to the female’s right stiffens, and so do my insides.
Farin has yet to reveal his face, but if he’s fae like I assume, he’s probably the kind of attractive that’s almost always a positive thing, except for when you need your bottom wiped.
I also don’t like the sound of “when he’s done with you.”
“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” I say, eager to turn the conversation in any other conceivable direction.
Lantern light flickers in the female’s icy blue eyes. “How inconsiderate of me. And to a guest, of all people. I am Queen Abra of Mystral.”
My stomach drops. I knew her ruby bracelet looked familiar. Because it’s not a ruby at all. It’s a magical pendant that holds the poison she used to murder her husband, the King of Mystral.
Allegedly.
Though the fact that she keeps her torture dungeon in good use lends credence to that particular rumor.
“I’m no lawyer, but I’m pretty sure bribing a foreign kingdom’s jailer and purchasing one of their prisoners is considered an act of war.”
Queen Abra just smiles, and that’s all the answer I need. Her identity isn’t the only thing that inspires dread. That she’s been open about her identity can only mean one thing.
She doesn’t intend for me to make it out of this dungeon alive to tell anyone.
Yep. Really hoping Evander has my jailer tied to a table with a poker at his eye right about now.
“I take it my little friend hasn’t been cooperative,” I say. The shot lands, and for half a moment, the queen looks taken aback. Like she thought she’d waltz into the dungeons and explain my situation to me.
But for the blip when her confidence falters, it returns with full-force. “No, she hasn’t,” she says, her lips curving in derision.
She approaches the dais on which I’m currently splayed and, Fates, she’s going to touch me, isn’t she?
