Page 47 of Vines of the Underworld

I note that he isn’t bound or restrained in any way, quite the opposite: he’s dressed in lavish burgundy clothes, and his glossy white hair cascades down his shoulders.

The throne room is crowded with Fae from different races, yet all conversations die out when they hear my steps.

Eyes of all colors and shapes land on me. Dairell invites me with a gesture to join him on the dais. I climb the tall steps toward the throne, feeling the scorching gaze of Cyrell on my back. A surprised gasp escapes me when the prince pulls me onto his lap, his glowing sage eyes fixed on the dark elf below us.

I pull my too-revealing dress to cover up, not out of modesty, but to avoid fueling the brewing conflict.

Dairell pulls my hand away.

“Do not hide this beauty,” he murmurs, loud enough for the dark elf at our feet to hear, and his fingers travel along my thigh, lifting my skirt.

I swear I can hear Cyrell swallow hard. Even from the height of the throne, I can see how he clenches his fists so hard that his knuckles turn white.

“Track the other Hunters and bring them here.” Dairell commands, his fingers distractedly trailing the outline of my inner thigh.

“I will do anything for the chance to purge the Siphons.” Cyrell nods curtly, obviously regaining his composure, yet defiance flickers in his feline eyes, “but wouldn’t it be wise to meet in more neutral territory, considering the history our allies have with your kingdom?“

Dairell’s casual ministrations continue as if he’s stroking a cat. What’s the point he is trying to prove here?

“This is a good idea, elf. A gathering on neutral ground," the prince repeats thoughtfully.

“Better than a gathering. A ball where we can present our idea openly and get the nobles onboard. Each sword and each mage’s staff counts.”

“I like that,” he rumbles, his middle finger descending between my legs.

Cyrell’s face pales.

“Is it disturbing you—to watch me touch her?” Dairell demands, his tone sharp. The dark elf doesn’t respond; he shifts his weight as if preparing to take a blow. I stiffen.

“Do you want her?” the prince continues teasing, a cruel smile curling his beautiful lips. “Remember this, elf, you can have her during the ritual, but she is mine. Mine to do with whatever I please.” I open my mouth to object, yet I see the warning in his eyes. He releases me and sends me away with a gesture, and I quietly descend from the dais. Gasps follow my withdrawal. I guess the Court of the Underworld has a new star. Before disappearing into the shadows, I risk looking back. My eyes lock with Cyrell’s, and there is so much longing and desperation in his gaze that my heart sinks.

Later that night, the prince bursts into my room, yanks my blanket away, and pulls me toward the edge of the bed. I try to struggle, when he tears my nightgown, grabs a handful of my hair, and forces my mouth open with his thumb. I spit and squirm while he violently fucks my mouth, my lips sore and wet around his thick shaft, his balls roughly smacking my chin. While choking on his seed, I realize it was all a power struggle. A way to humiliate his enemy, temporarily turned ally. The adrenaline rush of the situation probably got the better of him, and here he is, looking for a release. Maybe I’m nothing more than a pawn to him after all.

His slender fingers gently brush my face, his thumb smearing the tears and seed. I lean into his touch; oh, how I wish he’d stopped sending me these conflicting messages!

“Get ready for a journey, Celeste. Tomorrow, you will accompany me to the Lower Lands, where we will present our plan to the people of Faëheim,” he announces breathily while closing his pants. Then he turns and leaves the room, tall, cold, and regal, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I throw myself on the black sheets. Soon, this mess will be over, and I will go home. We plan to revive the Sentinel and the magical vines, and soon we will have allies. Seeing the door close behind Dairell’s powerful wings, I feel sudden emptiness. And for the first time, I doubt that going home is what I really want.

The following morning, a carriage pulled by four enormous horses awaits us in the courtyard. Black Guardians swarm around us. Winged servants load heavy boxes on top of the vehicle. The clamor dies out when Dairell gives last orders, then gallantly helps me climb into the carriage, handing me a large picnic basket. It’s full of food, judging by the aroma that tickles my nose and the merry clinking of bottles. He stands at the carriage door, inquiring if I have everything I need for the long trip. I nod, stunned by his thoughtfulness, by the flash of warmth in his aquamarine gaze. Then I remind myself of his rough manhandling, how he used me to hurt Cyrell, and close the plush-draped door with a frown.

I settle in the padded seat and watch the melancholic landscape fly by.

We travel fast, accompanied by a small army of Black Guardians and other Fae. I wonder if they are escaped slaves whom Dairell granted refuge.

Cyrell is nowhere to be seen, and I guess he left earlier to prepare our welcome.

The prince rides a massive mother-of-pearl-colored stud, which seems to glow in the twilight.

The road meanders among the trunks of the dead vines, the trip’s monotony lulls me into sleep.

Shouts and a change in the carriage speed wake me up. The tall, black, iron gates of Thuar Haín, the capital of the Lower Lands, rise before us.

From here on, we continue on foot, led through the crowded streets by an escort of dark elves. Dairell strides next to me, drawing gasps and exclamations from the bystanders. I just now notice the thin silvery crown resting on his blackberry-hued tresses.

Soldiers line up on both sides of the broad, paved street, carved directly into the solid rock. Curious faces peek behind their gilded armor. All of them are albino-like, with pale skin and even paler hair, but sporting bright, colorful clothes, the females wearing extravagant jewelry and complex hairdos.

Gloomy passageways stuffed with machinery gape behind the crowds, endless bronze pipes stretch above us, and mysterious cogs the size of watermill wheels turn in the background. We walk among a surreal steampunk fantasy. Large mechanical creatures in different shapes, similar to Cerberus, glare at us with glowing red eyes, some of them mounted by elves. The constant buzz of machines fills the air, and I wonder what clever optical system delivers light to this subterranean world, as it is much brighter here than in Dairell’s domain.

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