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Maybe he thought it would convince me that the mating bond was wrong. That if I went back to the human world, I would find true love like the High Fae and the Swapling had.

I didn’t care.

I shoved the book back under my bed when I awoke before dawn and plodded into the bathing room to brush my teeth and wash my face.

The bath could wait until later. I’d need it to wash off the stench of Wren’s arrogance after he showed me the weapons collection hidden somewhere in the House.

Morgoya was walking down the hallway when I emerged. She gave me a nod of approval as she surveyed the dress I’d chosen—a sleeveless, floor-length gown in indigo that had a tall neckline and billowing chiffon skirts with a thigh-high split.

If Wren didn’t want to see somuchof me, then he could look away.

“I admire you,” the High Lady purred as we glided through the halls. As usual, she was draped in a brilliant shimmering gown—this one a startling shade of crimson, matching the colour of her lips.

I gave her a sidelong glance. “How so?”

“Most people do what he says without question.”

“You don’t,” I mused, recalling the argument between them in the dining room the day I first met the High Lady.

“I find it an attractive quality in others, too,” she replied through a smile. “But rare indeed.”

Squinting down the hall, I took a steadying breath and muttered, “You mustn’t know many faeries, then.”

Morgoya laughed, the sound musical. “I know plenty, especially the women.” She gestured ahead to where a single door was left slightly ajar and ran her fingers through my hair with that soft, sensual touch again. “Good luck.”

Giving her a grim smile, I made an effort to keep my posture straight as I continued on alone.

The doorway led into a stone stairwell, which twisted around itself tightly as it spiralled upwards. It must lead to the roof—unless there was another floor of the House that I hadmissed entirely in my searches—because Morgoya escorted me to the highest level, and I was climbing even higher.

At the top of the stairwell, an identical doorway opened into a new room in the House. It was not quite an attic or rooftop, but not quite a whole new floor either.

Bland concrete, as cool as melting ice, spanned out across the enormous space. Thin rectangles ran vertically along the walls, which were the same blue stone as the exterior of the House, like tiny open windows.

In contrast, the entire ceiling was made of glass. Light filtered down from the sky as it slowly regained its colour, and the reinforcements criss-crossing over the fragile window panes cast lines of thick shadows onto the floor.

Wren was standing in one such shadow, leaning against a wooden bench on the far side of the room with his arms folded over his chest. He was shirtless, wearing only a loose pair of black lounge pants. A wall behind him displayed weapons; some hanging, others laid flat on the bench, and some in glass cabinets illuminated by tiny balls of faelight.

As I had expected, he didn’t look the least bit happy to see me.

“Unless you’re planning to distract your enemies to death—which won’t work on the caenim, by the way, seeing as though they’reblind—then get changed.” He jerked his chin towards a plain wooden cupboard to my right.

Gazing around the room, I found that the wall at my back mirrored the one across from me. Swords, shields, and maces were strung up, and small tables were cluttered with daggers and other dangerous-looking items I couldn’t name.

A warning chill made its way down my spine, pricking me with its claws.

I had willingly walked into a room of near-certain death with my closest enemy.

Wren watched me, his eyes half-lidded, and extended a large, heavily muscled arm out towards the far wall. He looked like he could tear down the House with his bare hands.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I lifted my chin and took a step forward. I was barefoot, the concrete stinging my skin, and a sharp breeze was ripping through the slits in the walls, gently rustling the skirts of my dress.

“I’m quite content the way I am, but thank you,” I told him, trying not to flinch at the way his eyes darkened with ire at the words.

“I’m not showing you anything when you look like that,” he replied, his voice close to a growl.

Willing my bones not to melt at the very sight of his muscles as they flexed, I shook my head and tried to make it look effortless. “I don’t think different clothes will fix it. My hair will still be red, the meat still on my bones, the mark still above my eye.”

His gaze drifted to that mark—the birthmark above my left eyebrow, like a smudge of dark pink paint that wouldn’t wash off. Wren had never picked on it before, though I was certain he’d ridiculed me for it internally and likely banked his best insult for a future argument. His throat bobbed as if the degrading comment was making its way to his lips, but he simply said, “Fine.”