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I begin to smile, still confused, when I remember.

The prison, Karnon, my metamorphosis.

My metamorphosis.

I reach behind my back. When my fingers brush against feathers, I let out a choked cry.

It wasn’t a dream.

“They’re … beautiful,” Des says. His hand moves over them. Under his touch, theymove, my feathers making a whisper-soft noise as they rub against each other.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Don’t,” I say, my voice hoarse.

I don’t want to hear about how pretty they are. They were forced on me by a madman. By a psychopath who would’ve laughed had the transformation killed me. The same monster who raped thousands of women.

I was ready to die. I was even ready to live in a state of suspended animation.

I wasn’t ready for this.

And I know it’s not the worst fate, but it feels that way. Because now I look like all those fauna fae. My captors. My tormentors. It was one thing to endure the punishments. Another to look at myself and see them.

“Don’t what?” Des says. “Don’t touch you? Compliment you?”

“All of it,” I say, opening my eyes. I’m horrifying to look at.

My arms shake as I begin to push myself up into a sitting position. I catch sight of those dusky gold scales that run up my forearms like plated armor.

I have an itch to pluck them from my skin, one by one.

As soon as I begin to sit up, I feel pressure at my back. My unwieldy wings are too long, the bones too delicate.

I can’t sit up in bed.

I feel a frustrated tear leak out as I flop back on my stomach.

So weak.

A moment later Des scoops me up. My wings tangle behind me, the tips dragging along the ground. The feathers are pitch black, but under the light, they have an iridescent sheen.

Theyarepretty, and I hate them all the more for it.

As he carries me, my fae king looks at me like he’s the one drowning.

He catches me staring. “We will get through this,” he swears, “just like we did the last time. We’ve done this once before. We can do it again.”

“I don’t know if I can.” My voice breaks.

Des sets me on my feet in front of a full length mirror in his chambers. “Tell me what you see,” he says.

I frown, first at him, then—reluctantly—at my reflection. I don’t even want to look. I don’t want to see if I’m more monster than human. But when I do look, I see my face, and it is utterly unchanged. Forgetting Des is standing by me, I touch my cheek. I thought that maybe … that maybe I wouldn’t recognize myself in the mirror. That I’d truly be a beast. But I’m not.

My eyes move to my hand. For a long moment I stare at the sharp claws, and then my gaze moves to my fingers. Those are still human. In fact, if I filed my claws down, other than my nails’ black color, they would look like regular hands.

My forearms have a delicate sheen of scales, which glitter under the light. They begin at my wrist and end before my elbow, and a few rows of them ring my upper arm before fading back into my normal flesh. They don’t continue up my neck or chest or face. I lift the skirt of my dress to look at my legs. Those too are free of scales. They look how they’ve always looked. And my feet are still human feet—no claws adorn my toes.

And when my gaze moves back to my reflection, I still have the same proportions. I’m the same woman I’ve always been, just with a few additions. And while those few additions—claws, scales, and wings—are painful to look at, I’m not the monster I thought I might be.

In fact, if anything, I look a little fae.