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I swear the silence somehow just got claws and teeth to it.

I lean a little closer and drop my voice. “Remember when I told you you’d pay for your words?”

He glares at me. The fucker remembers.

I swivel around. “Every fae in this room can now move their necks.”

As soon as the words are spoken, the crowd of fairies focus their attention on us.

I rotate to Typhus once more. He still can’t move, but he’s beginning to sweat, little beads of perspiration giving his skin a sheen.

He knows what’s coming. How delightful! I do savor how they squirm in the end.

I step off of him and face the room, raising my voice so everyone can hear. “You, Typhus Henbane, are going to confess to this entire room every single thing you don’t want them to hear, starting with your true intentions for taking their power,” I order.

His face is turning red, and he’s grinding his teeth together in a hopeless attempt to stop the inevitable.

“I … I …” Typhus tries to stall, until the confession is yanked from his lips. “I spent the last century and a half coming up with ways to manipulate fairies out of their powers, using whatever means I could think of. I—I did this so that I could stay healthy and strong in this place. I trade magic for my protection even though I’m the worst thing fairies have to fear out here.”

He takes a breath. “I’ve killed hundreds, maybe thousands of fairies—some outright, and some indirectly after I drained them of too much magic. I have a hidden room filled with countless fairies who are all but dead.”

An unbidden shiver moves through me.

Sounds like the Thief of Souls.

He continues, “I try to keep them alive for as long as possible—”

“Why?” I interject.

“Once a fairy dies, the bond is broken, and Typhus loses their power,” Des says from where he stands. “Dead men can’t uphold oaths.”

Typhus begins explaining the same thing, forced by my glamour to answer my question. Once he finishes, he pauses, ever hopeful that he can skirt around myotherorder—the one where he confesses his crimes.

I raise my eyebrows, bemused.

Around me, fairies flash him venomous glares. Poor little Typhus.

With a shudder, he continues on. “I have blackmailed men and women into having sex with me. I’ve lied about how strong I really am—I cannot singlehandedly stop an uprising, should one happen …”

On and on it goes.

It takes twenty minutes—twenty incriminating minutes—for Typhus to get through the impressively long list of shitty things he’s done. By the end of those twenty minutes, you can feel the room baying for his blood.

Hell, after hearing his laundry list of dirty deeds,Iwant to rip his throat out.

This king knows it too. He’s now openly sweating; it drips into his eyes and down his chin. Gone is his cockiness. I wonder how long it’s been since he’s felt this kind of fear.

“Apologize to all these fairies,” I command Typhus. “Apologize andmeanit.”

His eyes move to the crowd. “I’m sorry for everything I’ve done.” His voice is low and hollow with something like guilt. It’s definitely not regret, but whatever. Some people never do regret their choices, only where their choices landed them.

I walk around the throne, my skin still glowing, high as fuck off my power. I still wear his crown on my head, and I’ll admit, the weight of it gives me a little rush.

When my gaze meets Typhus’s, the devil is in his eyes.

“Alright,” I say, “enough of this.” I use my sweet, cajoling voice, and the king seems to relax at the sound of it.

I can practically hear his thoughts—almost over.