Page 13

AMELIA

My throat burns as I take a seat on the sofa.

I open the bag and start sorting through everything.

To my delight, nothing is missing. The velvet pouch of gemstones my late grandmother gave me is still inside, and so are the drawings of my mother, sisters, and favorite pets I’ve had over the years.

I glance at General Dalgaard as my heart wells with gratitude.

My hands tremble as I continue looking through the bag.

It’s all here. Even the perfectly shaped, flat circular rock Ben gave me when we were both eight.

Ben . The burning in my throat intensifies.

Though I hadn’t spoken to my childhood best friend in years, not since I started working in the castle, I’d learned he died during the Summer Court army’s attack on Sorsston.

“How did you find this? Did you really go traipsing around the forest in search of my missing bag?” I’d told him I left it somewhere but hadn’t provided any details.

He offers me a warm smile and sits on a chair facing the sofa. Facing me. His knees are so close they’re almost touching mine.

“One of my soldiers, Officer Yemmel, is a good tracker, and I asked him to hunt down your bag. I believe he followed your tracks in the forest. I was told the bag was found in a cave.” He shoots me a questioning look. “Were you hiding from me in a cave, sweet human?”

“I was.” I close my bag and hug it to my chest as I hold the general’s gaze. “Until I had an unpleasant encounter with a furry, red-eyed beast.”

“Ah. I see. I knew you’d met with a hurllan—that’s what your so-called furry, red-eyed beast is called—when I saw the oozing green bite marks on your leg.”

A phantom pain throbs in my calf right where the hurllan bit me. If I manage to escape General Dalgaard, will I run into more dangerous fae creatures in the forest? I shiver at the thought, and a second later, summer warmth surrounds me.

“You don’t have to keep doing that,” I say, and guilt pierces me when my tone comes out ruder than I intended.

Why am I so averse to hurting the general’s feelings?

He’s a monster. He’s the leader of the Summer Court army.

His soldiers killed Ben and Uncle Kellen and Cousin Walt.

My friend, Riley, a fellow servant in the Sorsston castle, disappeared on the second day of the fae occupation in the city, never to be heard from again.

General Dalgaard’s eyes darken with… heat?

A flush steals over me, and gods how it makes me feel like a traitor.

I don’t understand why his presence makes me so achy between my thighs.

I don’t understand why I long for his touch.

Never mind that I’ve flinched from him a few times.

But as I sit across from him now, I can’t help but wish he would lean closer and place a hand on my thigh.

“I want you to be comfortable, sweet human,” he eventually says, and his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. A noise that’s almost a growl rumbles from his chest, and it vibrates through me and causes the heat that’s panging in my core to deepen.

“You don’t need to make me comfortable, and I wish you would stop calling me ‘sweet human.’” I’m his captive.

I’m human and he’s fae. Unless we are mates—a near impossibility—there will always be an imbalance of power between us.

He’ll have all of it while I’ll have none. My heart sinks at the realization.

He gives me a wary look and shifts in his seat. He clears his throat, and I sense his sudden worry. The emotion is so strong it almost feels like it’s coming from me, and yet it’s not. Oh gods. What is happening?

“Though I cannot explain why I feel this way, the thought of you being cold or hungry or in pain is deeply upsetting. The thought of you being afraid is also upsetting. I want to make you as comfortable as possible, and I want to keep you safe.” His confession hangs in the air, and though I can’t see it, I swear the magic in the tent swirls around us, a whirl of lavender and summer enchantment.

The magic must be coming from the general. From Tristan. The male who’s drawn to me and wants to keep me. The male who seems to care very much about my comfort.

I inhale a shaky breath, and when I meet his dark gaze, the emotions rolling off him almost become too much.

He’s aroused, and intensely so. He longs to claim me.

Yet he’s resisting, and just as easily as I can detect his need, I also feel his restraint and the level of regard he holds for me.

It’s so shocking, I can’t stop my mouth from falling open.

“I know I’m sort of pretty,” I say, “but I’m no great beauty.

So, it can’t be my appearance alone that makes you so drawn to me.

” I’m thinking out loud. “Perhaps I remind you of someone?” I won’t admit that I can sense his emotions.

Nope. I’ll take that secret to the grave.

If I admit such a thing, it’ll only encourage him to keep me longer, and I really hope he decides to release me soon.

“I think you’re a great beauty, sweet human,” he says, disregarding my wishes as he uses the endearment yet again.

“Not only that, but when I look at you, especially when our eyes meet, warm emotions tighten in my chest, and I have difficulty breathing. I wish I could hold you on my lap right now and caress my hands through your golden tresses. I wish I could place kisses along your neckline while you quiver in my arms.”

His gently spoken words are a stark contrast to the violence of which I know he’s capable.

I want to hate him. I want to dislike everything about him.

Yet I find myself yearning for the very things he just spoke about.

The mere idea of sitting on his lap while he strokes my hair leaves me breathless, and the thought of allowing him to place kisses along my neckline causes fresh pangs of heat in my core.

How can I desire him so fervently? He’s the enemy. His army killed people I loved, and even more people I care about have gone missing. All because of the Summer Court army. The army he leads. Thousands died during the attack on Sorsston.

I think about Prince Lucas and the human woman he married. Yvette. Despite the Summer Court army’s actions in my home city, I’d willingly given the prince advice about how to make Yvette fall in love with him. I pray I didn’t make a mistake. I pray she’s truly happy.

Is it possible for a human-fae mating union, or marriage, to work?

Does Tristan really think I’m a great beauty?

We’re still staring at one another, and I’m still having trouble catching my breath. His emotions keep radiating outward, and I can’t block them out even when I try. I know just how aroused he is. I know the depth of his tenderness toward me, as well as his confusion over the matter.

He's not the only one who’s confused about whatever is happening between us.

Just as he’s drawn to me, I’m drawn to him.

Now that I’m fairly certain he won’t strike me, I find myself aching for his touch.

The only male who’s ever touched me in an intimate manner is Lord Nevel, and I hadn’t liked his touch. Not even when he tried to be gentle the first few times.

But Tristan? The warmth that emanates from him makes me want to experiment with a male’s touch. Not just any male, but him. Only him. Perhaps I’ve gone mad if I’m craving the touch of my captor, but I can’t seem to suppress the longing and the eager curiosity.

My stomach suddenly emits a loud growl, and General Dalgaard gives me a concerned look.

“Sweet human, you sound famished. Forgive me for not providing the evening meal to you sooner.” He practically jumps to his feet and steps outside.

As soon as he’s gone, I’m finally able to draw in a full breath. What is it about him that makes me so flustered? I can scarcely form a coherent thought in his presence. I also can’t control the lustful urges that keep building inside me.

I can’t hear anything going on beyond the tent, and I’m certain the huge fae male warded the structure to not only keep me inside, but to prevent sound from traveling in and out. Earlier in the day, I’d heard the terrified screams of a human female, and only seconds later, everything went silent.

If he lifted the soundproof barrier, what would I hear? Would I hear the screams of my fellow humans? Would I hear prisoners being tortured?

Coldness grips me, and I wrap my arms around myself as I consider my plight and the plight of other humans in the camp.

Orcs, too. As we’d landed next to the tent, I’d glimpsed a few dark green forms on the camp’s edge.

The chill that’s descended on me deepens when I think about the poor castrated, glamoured servants.

The very servants that are likely fetching my dinner.

Is there any hope for humankind and orcs? What if the fae priestesses are right and a period of total fae rule over the known realm is inevitable? Will any territories remain untouched by the fae?

General Dalgaard enters the tent carrying a tray that holds two large, covered plates. He sets the tray on a table, then turns to face me. The warmth in his eyes chases away the remaining coldness brought on by my musings about the bloody war that might never end.

Technically, none of the four fae courts have declared war on the human and orc territories, though their brutality would suggest otherwise.

Their response to a human or orc attack on a new fae settlement is always overzealous.

For every dozen fae deaths, they claim the lives of a few thousand humans or orcs.

The general approaches me and gestures at the table. “Would you please join me for dinner, sweet human? As I’ve already told you, I would like to get to know you better. I think sharing a meal would be the perfect opportunity.”