Page 50 of The Mortal Queen

“Yet you offer me to the Unseelie?”

“Not an offer,” he said, “more like parading you before the Unseelie.”

Aisling’s temper flared but she wouldn’t take the bait. Not if that’s what he wanted.

“And that’s so much better?”

“You tell me: would you prefer to be offered to the Unseelie so they may do with you as they like, or merely brandished till they crawl from their holes and I can protect you?”

The very mention of such aberrations skulking from their cavernous depths was enough to make Aisling’sskin crawl, much less dangled before them like a prize pig. But despite herself, Aisling was eager to lay eyes on the Unseelie. To witness them in all their monstrous glory. To behold what demons dwelled in the darkest corners of the wild. To unearth the horrible mysteries she’d shamefully and so secretly obsessed over as a child.

“Neither,” Aisling replied and Lir tilted his head curiously.

“Another lie.”

The fae king lazily eyed her undone hair––tresses that gushed down her chest in unruly, raven torrents––before studying her eyes. Eyes as violet as Nemed’s and all the other mortal sovereigns in her ancestry. What loathing brewed within him each time he met her eyes? He must’ve seen her father, the blood spilt between himself and this mortal adversary. The blades they raised in loathing for the other. The fires that lit the North, stoked by Lir’s very forests. Within the fae king lived untended gardens of hatred for her father, devouring all that was near and fostered by centuries of rivalry. Not only for Nemed but for all the mortal sovereigns before him, all tied to Aisling by blood of iron.

“As much as my people may pray for it, I won’t let you be harmed.” Lir released Aisling from his gaze, eyes gilded by the glowing city down below. “Despite my own loathing of your kind, not only are weensorcelledto one another, but I also made a vow the night of our union. Perhaps mortals don’t treat such vows as sacredly as do the Sidhe, but political treatise or not, I made the decision to speak those promises and I don’t intend to break them.”

Lir clenched his jaw, an image of a scarred knight, kissed by iron blades and jaded by grief’s arrow.

“By the Forge, I vow to you the first cut of my heart, the first taste of my blood, and the last words from my lips,” Lir said, repeating the words they’d both sworn that night. A sacrifice they’d both made for the sake of their people. An obligation that weighed heavily on the fae king, the signs ofache written across his burdened shoulders, as tangible as when Aisling felt them herself. Yet Lir’s responsibility to the Aos Sí far outweighed Aisling’s own. The mortal queen was a sacrificial lamb. Lir, the axis on which the Aos Sí revolved.

Aisling swallowed, unsure how long she allowed herself to drown in his eyes, dishonorably, guiltily admiring the bestial, primeval king all the mortal isles feared.

“No harm will befall you,” he repeated, stepping back from Aisling and slipping his hands into his pockets once more.

Aisling’s brows pinched. Lir still wasn’t aware of what Aisling knew: the night of their union hadn’t been the only time he’d sworn those vows. There’d been a time in his life when he’d spoken those verses to another, his firstcaera. One he hadn’t been forced into speaking those words to for the sake of his kind. Someone he’d attempted to raise a child with. Someone he’d lost and with it, a part of himself. A few weeks ago, Aisling would’ve thought the fair folk incapable of love or human emotion. But the pain in Lir’s eyes was sharp. A shard Aisling could prick herself on should she dwell on it further.

Aisling didn’t know how long they stood like that. In silence.

“My father,” Aisling began abruptly. “I’m expecting a letter from him. If I do not reply, I fear for my race should negotiations with the Unseelie not fare well.”

Lir considered her for a moment, eyes darkening. For each time Nemed was mentioned, a shadow seeped beneath his skin.

“I’ll ensure any letter addressed to you will find you even as we travel,” he said, turning his back to her.

“That’s possible?”

“Our ravens can find a recipient anywhere in the known world. In fact, your father should be in possession of our raven until he responds to your initial correspondence.” He started towards her bedroom door. So silently didhe move that Aisling would’ve believed him already gone if she weren’t counting his every step

“And what of it being inspected?” Aisling asked, hoping Filverel wouldn’t be joining their mission. The very thought brought bile to her throat.

“If your father does indeed respond, we’ll prune that flower when it blooms.” Lir reached for the crystal knob, turning once and opening the door. The age-old entrance groaned, freeing a pillar of floral light from the corridor beyond.

He turned one last time, meeting Aisling’s gaze. His hair curled around his pointed ears, the occasional braid loosely tied and sweeping his cheekbones.

“You may not realize it now, but you can trust me, Aisling.”

The mortal queen tilted her head, doing her best to interpret his expression. But, once again, it was unreadable. Schooled into that forest of ice he’d mastered over lifetimes.

At last, she nodded, ignoring the knotting of her stomach the sound of her name on his lips inspired. Something she believed she’d never grow accustomed to. On his tongue, her name didn’t belong to her. It sounded wilder, more feral than on her own.

“They will spin lies as easily as they spin their thread.”

The mortal queen could and likely never would trust the fae king. Lir despised her too greatly and she him for any loyalty to bloom between them. He’d protect her on this trip, but not because of any vow he’d now pledged twice. Once to her and once to another.

“Never let your guard down around him, Aisling. Never give him an opportunity to choose between you and what he covets.”

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