Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 115347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 461(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Immortal fae parents aged ten to twenty years after they sired children. They would age another ten to twenty years if their children sired children.
This dad glared as if Viori had committed some unforgivable crime. Had she?
Whatever. Threat! Hiss. Swipe. Four gashes appeared on his face, blood welling from torn skin.
He revealed no reaction to the injury. “I’ve never seen you in camp, and I’ve seen everyone.” His lids slitted, his grip becoming bruising. “Who are you?”
Waste time explaining she was his doom? No need. She preferred to respond with an example.
Viori yanked free, slammed her palm into his nose, snapping the cartilage, and dashed off. A move she’d learned among mortals on the mean streets of New York—during her first trip—where she had been considered nothing but a gutter rat. This time, Pops reacted with a howl of pain and anger. Sadly, her weakness cost her. He caught up with her in seconds, snatching her wrist and nearly crushing the bone.
“I asked you a question, girl,” he spit, any hint of tolerance eradicated. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
As she struggled, hissing and clawing with renewed energy, he latched onto her other wrist. After that, there was nothing she could do to stop him. He tied both arms behind her back, then clasped her shoulders, attempting to pin her in place. And failing! She would struggle against him forever if necessary!
With his mouth at her ear, he snarled, “The oracle said I’d find a spy today. Is it you? Did Kaysar send you?”
Her brother’s name reverberated in the corridors of her mind, and she went still. “What?” Warmth evaporated from her body. A bombardment of emotions hit, longing at the forefront. “K-Kaysar?” she echoed hollowly. Had he returned to the Dusklands? Had she stumbled upon his land? “Wh-where is he? Where is Kaysar?”
Can’t let myself see him. Not yet. Did he hate her? He must. If he didn’t, he should. He had deserved a far better fate than he’d gotten.
My fault. She owed him, and she would repay. But how? How did you make up for the ruination of a loved one’s life? Nothing struck her as good enough.
With great shame and regret, she recalled how he’d returned to their cottage from the pixiepetal fields to discover the death of their parents. How he’d cried while attempting to alleviate her distress. How he’d vanished from her life only eight months later.
To halt a sob, she pressed her lips together. For more than two years, she had believed him to be dead. Then the whispers had surfaced. After leaving her in the poisonvine tangle, he’d sought supplies...and gotten nabbed by Winterland royals—the same royals he’d spent most of his existence torturing. Many citizens now referred to him as the Unhinged One. All feared him.
“Red,” her captor gasped, combing his fingers through her hair.
The scarf had fallen, she realized, wrenching free, severing contact. Without the use of her arms, she struggled to maintain her balance as she spun to face him. “You do not touch me.” He dared to manhandle her? As good as dead.
The moment she gained her freedom, she would strike. She knew the rules. Retaliate quickly or suffer afresh. Another lesson she’d established early on. No mercy!
Lids slitted again, he stalked closer in pursuit. “You’re coming with me, girl. You can tell the king why you’re here.”
King...as in Kaysar? Or someone else?
Shock warred with aggression, plans for revenge momentarily sidelined. She allowed Pops to grip her biceps and roughly haul her through the growing crowd. If she spotted her brother... One glance. Only one. What could it hurt?
Her captor stopped when they reached a battlefield. No sign of Kaysar but... Viori gawked. An army stretched before her, countless warriors brandishing swords, spears and daggers. Metal clanged against metal. Each combatant wore a wrist cuff adorned with stones of varying shades, leather pants and boots—and nothing else.
So many muscles.
No, no. Look away. Muscles had only ever caused serious trouble for her. In her experience, those slabs of beefcake had been wielded by males determined to take what she hadn’t offered. Fae and human. No matter the world or state or country. And she’d traveled to many. New York on three occasions. Oklahoma. West Virginia. Scotland. Some forest, somewhere.
The only man she’d loved had used his muscles to cause her the most trouble. Laken, a mortal in New York who’d won her over with months of wooing...and destroyed an already fragile ability to trust, turning romantic bliss into a lifetime of memories she wished to torch.
Another lesson learned.
“Micah,” her captor shouted over the sea of grunts, groans and barked instructions. “You’ll want to see what I found.”
Her eyes widened. Micah. Was he—this Micah, her Micah—the king?
Individual battles ended in an instant, combatants splitting apart, forging a path. She traced the expanding breach with her gaze—and gasped. Him. The boy who’d given her jewels. The man she’d observed in her dreams. She would recognize that magnificent face anywhere. The same dark eyes framed by a fan of curling lashes. The same proud nose and stubborn chin. The same pale skin and spiky jet-black hair.