Page 59 of Atop the Faerie Throne
“No. I need to get to my knights. We need to sort the city clean up and ensure there’s a full?—”
“A full garrison on the outer wall,” Jaro finishes for him, stepping up beside me and pulling me against his wide chest. “Burials for the dead are underway. Those who died defending the palace are being given wall honours. The high priestess herself is seeing to it.”
My brother’s eyes flutter closed, grief eclipsing his features before he shutters the emotion away.
“The refugees?” he finally presses.
“Already returning as we speak,” Bree pipes up from across the garden, his valravn perched on his arm as they gaze into each other’s eyes. “They’ve formed a caravan from Orvendel, led by the knights you sent with them, and they’ll be back tomorrow. The elders are already organising a plan for a city-wide cleanup. It might take a few weeks, but it will get done.”
The púca blinks and looks away, his valravn disappearing in a puff of ink. At the realisation that all of us are now looking at him, his ears flatten on his head. “At least, that was what Lox gathered from listening in.”
“See? Everything is in hand,” I tell my brother. “Please rest and, once you’re well, there are some things that I think you need to discuss with your mate.”
I manage to stop myself adding any charm to my request, but I do emphasise the last word, glancing to where Prae lingers on the fringes of our group. The Fomorian princess seems a little lost as she stares between her two males. The shorter strands of her white hair have fallen free of her blood-splattered dragon braid, and her war paint is smudged around her eyes—though I know better than to suggest that she’s been crying.
The awkwardness hits hard, the silence thick and cutting. Prae ends it when she reaches back down her spine and draws out a huge familiar sword, holding it out pommel-first.
“You can have your stupid sword back.”
My brother’s ice-blue eyes trace the blade, the corners of his mouth hardening as they reach her arm, where they linger on her fiery mating mark.
“What happened to ‘I’d rather die than mate a fairy?’” he asks, voice tight.
Prae’s mouth parts a little, the sword lowering as she casts about for an answer.
“This is a private conversation,” I murmur, tugging lightly at the bonds inside my chest to get my mates’ attention. “We’ll see you downstairs.”
“Stay,” Florian grates. “I—” He glances at Bree and Jaro, the former of whom senses his meaning and nods as he jumps into the sky, his wings catching him easily and taking him out of sight.
Jaro, of course, simply hugs me harder against him, one brow raised as if to say, ‘you really think I’m going to leave her alone?’
Honestly, his protectiveness is as unwarranted as it is sweet. I suppose I did just die… again. Still, this is my brother.
“Are you sure?” I ask, quietly. “You might want to be alone…”
Florian’s posture softens. “I’m hoping your presence will encourage both of us to be on our best behaviour.”
Prae snorts. “He means he’s fed up with us snarling and yelling at one another.”
“Hate sex can be hot,” Gryffin suggests.
Whatever gentleness that entered Florian’s bearing when he addressed me evaporates at the interruption. “Your input wasn’t asked for, withering prince.”
Jealousy seeps from him, but Gryffin just shrugs, cocky demeanour completely unaffected. “Prae likes my input. She likes it all night long until she can’t walk?—”
“Shut up,” Prae and Florian order at the same time, then glare at each other.
“If I may,” I begin, the tension between the trio making me physically uncomfortable. “I think, perhaps, this whole thing would go smoother if you told Florian how you two ended up mated in the first place.”
I have a sneaking suspicion that half of Florian’s anger is because he thinks she chose Gryffin over him, when really the situation couldn’t have been more different.
Prae lowers the sword. “It was a scheme worthy of a Fomorian, dreamt up by that hateful old crow of an unseelie queen.”
When she says it like that, it’s almost a compliment.
“My gracious aunt,” Gryffin corrects. “Who’s offered to host our mating ceremony once the war is over.”
The princess rolls her eyes. “She’s a she-hag who ordered you to trick me into a mate bond?—”
