THE STITCHES WERE HEALING SLOWER THAN I EXPECTED.
It was the worst injury I’d ever sustained, but still. My lighte was diminished for some reason. I searched the room with my eyes for
the hundredth time for any clue as to who had saved me or where I was.
Dark, bloodred tiles stretched out across the floor. I examined them, noticing the slight sparkle from the sliver of sunlight that slipped between the drawn brocade curtains. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the tiles were made of rubies.
My eyes trailed upward, flitting across the jet-black marble armoire lit with at least thirty white candles that never seemed to drip an ounce of wax, let alone snuff out. And next to that, the fireplace of the same obsidian marble, rectangular and covered by a thin layer of glass. I had glared at that roaring fireplace for hours now, trying to figure out how the logs were placed inside, or where the chimney was. I would have thought it some kind of illusion or sorcery if I couldn’t feel the licks of woody heat wafting over my face.
And above me, a pearl-covered chandelier. Glittering and elegant and seemingly floating in midair with no rope, chains, or cord. Another mystery that had occupied my mind when I grew tired of wondering how I survived the fall into Lazarus’s claw, who saved me, why I was tethered to this bed, and where in the world I was.
That was, of course, in between full emotional breakdowns not very fitting of the savior of the realms, or the chosen one, as Beth had called me.
Breakdowns during which I tried so hard to loose myself from my impossible restraints that I either panicked until I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion or sobbed until my eyes were swollen shut.
Or breakdowns during which I thought only of Kane.
Of how I had failed him. Failed Evendell, in killing Lazarus.
Of how, most likely, he believed I was dead. And that I had died in vain.
The thought echoed such misery through my body, I could hardly avoid convulsing against it. It didn’t help that I had no idea what time it was due to the closed curtains and lack of any clocks. My guess was that it had been at least fifteen hours, and when I thought about how long I might be kept like this, panic sluiced through my chest all over again.
I took a long, filtered breath through my nose and out of my mouth, waiting for my chest to untighten. The room smelled of rich sandalwood and apricot syrup and the medicinal scent of various antiseptics, balms, and salves from the marble bedside table.
Trying to find comfort despite the stitches that nearly bisected me, I tossed in the sheets, as fluid and rich as the fine red wine they shared their color with. Atop them, a dense scarlet duvet interwoven with glittering gold thread painting a pattern of flowers and leaves and little bees. The pillows I had been lying on for hours now were filled with heavy down, and I had enough around me for seven other people to fit beside me comfortably.
But despite the richness of the room, the undeniable beauty, the comfort of the lavish bed, there was something . . . sinister about it all.
Though, maybe that was just the restraints.
I tugged once again on the fabric. Despite its soft feel, the ribbon could not be torn, chewed through, or set on fire with the candle on my bedside— I had tried all three at least a dozen times.
Rather, they were deceptively thick and strong, and I wasn’t able to use any of my lighte no matter how—
Oh, Stones.
I was an idiot.
Lilium.
The ribbon must have been woven with lilium somehow. It would explain why I was healing so slowly, why I couldn’t summon my lighte, why I felt so weak and tired.
It wasn’t just the sewn-up wound across my stomach. I was being drained.
Whoever was healing me must have somehow known I was Fae. But who—
The slick marble doors opened and two women in identical black uniforms and nursing hats strolled in. Neither spoke a word to me as one brought in a tray with more surgical tools and the other began to make the bed around me.
“Who are you?” Nothing.
“Where am I?” Nothing.
“Why are you healing me? Why aren’t I—” “Dead?”
I whipped my head to the doorway. The breath whirled from my lungs. In a rich, rosy robe, holding a steaming bronze mug, stood Lazarus.
The picture of a cozy king on a frigid morning. And yet my heart was racing as if I beheld a monster.
Because I did.
“That’s not very kind,” he tutted as he walked toward my bedside.
I had forgotten that Lazarus could hear my thoughts, and I scrambled to move away from him as he sat casually on the edge of the mattress. Maybe he had done all of this to kill me in his own home. His own bed.
It was despicable. Twisted. Perverse. It was— “Now, Arwen, why would I wish to kill you?”
I swallowed hard as he feasted his silver eyes on me. I had been wrong before, when I met him the first time on the beach of Siren’s Bay. They were nothing like Kane’s. Nothing.
“Maybe because I’m the only person in this world that can end your life?”
“Yes,” he said, sipping from his mug. “A valid point. You are also the only thing in this world that can create life. At least, the only life I’m interested in creating.”
I blinked.
Once.
Twice.
I wasn’t following. And my mind was pounding and spinning. It was just dawning on me that I was likely in the Fae Realm of Lumera. I wasn’t mere days or weeks away from Kane. I wasn’t even in the same realm as him.
“I’m sure my son will show up here soon enough.” Lazarus smiled. “Won’t that be a nice surprise for him—the woman he loves, betrothed to his own father. A little perverse for my liking, but—” He shrugged. “What can you do?”
“Betrothed?”
Lazarus patted my thigh through the duvet and I recoiled. “I would never kill you, dear Arwen. In fact, I need you. For you shall give me the one thing I have desired for over two thousand years. The one thing I have never been able to succeed in giving myself. Full-blooded Fae heirs.”
Revulsion crawled through my veins like beetles and ants.
“Now that the blade has been destroyed, neither you nor any of our true Fae children can harm me. And why would you wish to? Together, we will repopulate this once-flourishing land with true, pure Fae.”
“I will never, ever be your queen,” I breathed. “I’d rather die.”
“After you’ve given me my heirs, I’d be glad to oblige you.” His lips curled back from his teeth as he beheld what must have been defeat or horror—or both—in my eyes. Then he stood from my bedside and swept through the ornate entry, closing the door behind him with a sickening click.
