Page 23

After being thoroughly eviscerated, I managed to crawl in the opposite direction before finally passing out again. By the time I came to, a human male by the name of Harlan offered to help me.

Now, still dressed in blood-drenched and mud-crusted clothes that hang off me in ribbons, courtesy of the wild beast, I’m sitting safely in some box-like room wrapped up in an itchy wool blanket.

While my external wounds have healed, my body still feels like it’s been trampled by a stampede. After the whirlwind of horrific events, I’m under the spell of a soul-deep shock and exhaustion that has made me too numb for tears.

Hugging the blanket a little tighter, my trembling hands trail the space on my head where my petite horns normally protrude.

Gone.

Like my tail.

My beautifulverdelume.

And most of my magic.

I have no fucking clue what Violette dosed me with, but my body is trembling like an autumn leaf in the wind in my effort not to break down into tears again.

What I wouldn’t give for a hot shower and a warm bed to just curl up in and die peacefully right now.

I can hear Harlan—the muscled behemoth of a middle-aged human with a surprisingly fae-like face and kind eyes—who scraped me off the side of the road and assured me he would find me someplace safe to stay until I could find my way back home.

Something I’m becoming increasingly certain isn’t going to happen.

And I have a month or two, at best, before I need to feed off of some poor soul’s blood. What will happen then? I couldn’t hurt a fly if I tried. Much less sink my teeth into the flesh of a human being or some other poor unsuspecting creature. It goes against everything in my nature.

The conch shell Violette gave me is still in my pocket. I even foolishly tried to use it, though I now have no doubt that uttering the cursed female’s name three times into the mouth of the shell does absolutely nothing other than exacerbate the shame of my glaring naivety.

So many red flags that I blatantly ignored. All because I wanted a vacation.

Warmth trickles down my face. Before I can swipe away my tears, the door swings open. Harlan steps through, followed by a man whose head is only inches from the top of the door frame. He’s built like one of my sentries, or even more intimidating, like my cousin, Queen Theia’s, warriors. He’s scarred like one, too, though a little unkempt. His dark hair is a mess of shaggy waves, and the scruff on his jaw doesn’t look entirely deliberate.And somehow, it only makes him that much more offensively handsome.

There’s a thick scar on his face, peppered with symmetrical dots on each side from having been stitched shut.

My fingers curlinto fists as my stomach gives a squeamish churn as memories of sewing mortal flesh for two years in the Paltorian prison camp resurface.

The heat of the scarred male’s stare and ensuing scowl snap me back to the present.

“Winnow, I’d like you to meet Gideon Kincaid.”

Gideon’s eyes rove over me, but his tense expression is unreadable.

A hoarse“hello”is all I manage, to which he only grunts in reply.

Harlan grips his shoulder. “Gideon is the gentleman I told you about. I know his demeanor is a little rough around the edges, but I can promise you that?—

Harlan gives Gideon a pointed look before continuing.

—no matter how surly or crass he may be, he’s just a big ol’ teddy…”

Harlan’s sentence drifts, brows pinching as his throat works, and he musters an apologetic smile.

“… what he lacks in manners, he more than makes up for with a heart of gold, is my point.”

Harlan gives Gideon an encouraging pat on the back, the kind one might give a hound or a beast of burden.

“Isn’t that right, Mr. Kincaid?”

Gideon remains silent; his wary gaze still fixed on me.