Page 37 of Crown of Roses
Casimir groaned.
The wind barreled into her, and a wall of silver clouds stretched before her. “We can still bargain with any fae, right?”
“If we have something he wants,” Saoirse muttered, rolling her wrists, ready for a fight.
“She’s right.” Rowan’s lavender gaze flicked to Maeve. “There’s not much a High King would want or need from a group of mortals.”
“I can think of something.” Casimir scoffed, and his stiff frame turned toward the mountain of mist.
Chills riddled Maeve’s flesh and the fae magic in her blood rippled and sang. Called and beckoned. Longed to be free from the cold, hard metal binding her wrists. The surge of it was dizzying. Captivating. It left her lightheaded, so her entire body tingled until her toes were numb and she couldn’t feel her fingers. Then, as quickly as it came, it was crushed, dampened back down, swallowed whole by the charms and spells of her mother’s sorcery. A longing she didn’t know she possessed tugged at her, whispered for her to listen.
Maeve brushed off the murmured pleas as the most terrifying being she’d ever seen strolled out of the storm.
He headed straight for her.
Chapter Thirteen
He was summer and death.
Terrifying and striking.
He walked with storms but ruled the sun.
His hair was dark like a night without stars. Haphazard, windblown pieces fell across his tanned face and a pair of startling blue eyes watched her from beneath a drawn brow. His ears were long, pointed, and exceptionally fae. A ruby glittered in his left lobe. He strolled toward her with his hands tucked in his pockets, the sleeves of his cobalt silk shirt cuffed to nearly his elbows. A swirling tattoo crawled up his neck; it looked to be made of gold dust. His pants were white in color, nearly cream, and a gold belt slung low at his waist. Sheathed on either side of him was a set of matching swords. But there was something about him, something about the way shadows danced around him and lightness kissed his skin, as though he was a prince of summer who owned the twilight hour.
Maeve’s blood surged and the magic in her sang, a violent melody only she could hear. The burst of magic inside her collided with the charms of her cuffs, then crashed, leaving her breathless. Her knees quaked until she thought the ground would split open and swallow her down to the sea below.
“You okay?” Saoirse’s whisper came from somewhere to her right.
She could only nod.
Three other fae flanked either side of him. Two males and one female. One of the males scowled. The other smirked. And the female looked bored out of her mind. But then the Archfae shifted, and out from behind him stepped the most beautiful female Maeve had ever seen.
She was nearly identical to the High King, yet opposite in every way.
Cloaked in pale, shimmery gold, her gown swept across her neck and pulled tight at the waist. Layers of silk and chiffon billowed toward the ground like a cloud, the hem dotted with sapphires and golden beads. Her sun-kissed skin was marked with floral tattoos from her hands to her bare shoulders, and the ink was the same soft, pearlescent gold. Rich, golden waves of hair fell to nearly her waist, and woven into the perfectly coiffed strands were ribbons of brilliant yellow and blue; the sun and the sky. A strap of five jeweled daggers was tied onto a satin sash at her hips, a hard edge to counter all of the softness she evoked. Though the planes of her face resembled the High King, they were gentler somehow. Smoother. Not so stern or harsh. But everything else was the same. The eyes. The mouth. The walk.
Sister. The word echoed in Maeve’s mind and she knew it to be right. They were siblings.
The High King stopped before her, inches from her, and she was overwhelmed with the scent of him. Of sun-drenched palms, sandalwood, and a warm floral she couldn’t place. Maeve held her breath while her fingers lightly played along the tips of her throwing stars banded around her waist. She’d fought worse things. She could fight a fae.
”What do you think, Ceridwen?” The High King lifted his hand and his knuckles grazed Maeve’s cheek. She stiffened against the intimate touch.
The stunning female named Ceridwen spoke. “I think she’s missing something.”
“I think you’re right.” He twirled one finger around Maeve’s hair and the strawberry blonde strands whipped and swirled into a beautiful twist over her shoulder. Flowers bloomed down the intricate braid, pretty pink roses, blossoms of aqua and green, all fastened by gold-tipped ferns. Maeve’s heart stopped in her chest.
“Mortals.” One of the males laughed and raked his bright, hot pink hair back from his face. “Always impressed by the smallest of things. Especially the women.”
The bored-looking female jabbed him in the ribcage with her elbow. “Shut up, Merrick.”
The Archfae leaned back, tilted his head as though admiring his work. Yet he still managed to look unimpressed. “I’ve seen better.”
The insult shamed her, burned her cheeks with unexpected heat, and darkness roused inside her. She clung to the vicious strands of it and her magic exploded within her, a blinding burst of everything she’d kept hidden and bottled since childhood. Her blood curse raked over the surface of her skin, snaked past the charms of her mother’s sorcery. For one brief, fleeting moment…she wanted it. Wanted the power. Wanted the fae magic, to rule it, to own it. But just as quickly as that traitorous thought stole into her mind, the cold metal cuffs on her wrists tightened and squeezed. Spells stole her breath, left her gasping, and aching. Tiny beads of sweat slid down her corset, and her blouse clung to her skin. Until a harsh, shuddering sigh escaped her and she trembled from the pain.
Saoirse was there, the warmth of her palm pressed firmly into Maeve’s back to keep her upright. Focused. How could she not possess the blood of dark fae? That fracture inside her, that sudden, spiteful desire to use her magic for harm was a sure sign. It had to be. There was no other explanation.
But then the High King waltzed over to where Rowan was casually propped up against one of the verandah’s pillars. The High King crossed his arms and Maeve looked away when his biceps bunched and strained against his shirt. “Where the fuck have you been?”
