Page 37 of The Beast King's Bride

“I’m saying that not all stories are to be trusted. Though some Lesser Faeries have grown accustomed to cream and…” He can’t help a sharp intake of breath when I prod around the wound. “And travel to your lands for that.”

“Are you saying we’re in fact inviting them over to do mischief when we think we’re protecting ourselves?”

His mouth quirks to one side, as if he wants to smile.

“Good Gods. I have to tell people about this. We have enough problems with your kind as it is without inviting more trouble.”

“It’s not only the cream,” he finally concedes.

“The Empress sends them out to scout us.”

He nods, his almost-smile fading.

I lift his shirt higher to see better and my fingers slide over smooth skin stretched over hard muscles. It makes my face heat and I’m about to snatch my hand away when I encounter what feels like raised scars.

Indeed, when I push his shirt a bit higher, I see them in the glow of the fire, thin white lines over his ribs and pecs.

“What did this to you? What left these scars?”

“They’re old,” he says dismissively. “Long ago, my brothers tried to kill me.”

I gape up at him, at his dark glare. “Your brothers? Why?”

“They wanted the throne but I wanted it more.”

“Oh, only that.” I file that information away, not willing to look at it just now. “And this?” I uncover another slash higher up, almost at his shoulder, a fresh wound, though not infected from the looks of it. By now I’m distracted enough not to drool at his impressive chest. “What did this?”

“It’s from a fight last night.”

“A fight? Is that what you do at night? Go out and spar?”

He snorts, not losing his glare. “Yes, that is exactly how I like to spend my time. All play and no work. Is that a problem?”

“It is, when your kingdom appears to be dying and you don’t give a damn. Shouldn’t you be searching for a cure? Because, no offense, king, but that cure isn’t me. It can’t be me. Tell your sages to look elsewhere and let me be on my way.”

“Yes, I’m selfish. You said.”

“King… Talen.”

He glances back at me, dark brows lifting, the annoyance melting away. Something smolders in his dark blue eyes. “You said my name.”

“Is that so strange?” I suppose it is. I didn’t use it before because I was so angry at him. I still am, for the record. “Please, Talen. I’m not a magical being. I can’t cure your land.”

He looks away. “And yet the riddle says you can, Ash. I have to think of my people.”

It’s like slamming my head repeatedly into a wall.

“My name is Princess Elayne. I’m not who you think I am. I’m human. Therefore, I’m not the answer to your riddle—and besides, are you even sure it’s magic that’s afflicting the land? What if it is a natural ailment, what if you need to let your fields go fallow for a while, what if you need to plant other crops—”

“So good of you to give advice.” He sneers. “We certainly never considered such options.”

“And here I thought the Fae couldn’t use sarcasm.”

“We’re excellent at sarcasm. It’s lying that gives us problems.”

“So I see.” I drop the soiled bandage on the table and find a vial of oil, thoughtfully provided by Jassin. I coat my fingers in it and apply it to the edges of the wound. The king flinches but then holds himself still.

“The Decay is a curse caused by magic,” he says. “And I know exactly who is behind it.”

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