Page 2

CHAPTER 2

Seraphine

Why was a damned raven in the temple?

I swallowed thoughts of the bad omen and kept moving.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-three.

I knew it would take me precisely one-hundred and seventy-seven steps to reach Prince Urik of Havenshire. I had counted them the night before, practicing my gait towards shackles and the title of princess, which, if I made it through inevitable childbirth, would lead to the title of queen.

Goddess save me , I wanted to run.

Had I a choice, I’d have chucked my cascading bouquet of white lilies right in Urik’s perfectly chiseled chin, turn on my heels, and bolt down the aisle to freedom.

Obviously, I had no choice.

None whatsoever.

My parents forced me here on this day, in this travesty of a wedding gown, which weighed me down and chafed my skin. All my life, I’d been happily living with the Forestfae, seeking nothing more than the pleasures of walking barefoot through the meadows, eating bramble berries directly from the vine, and rolling in the long grass with whichever handsome faerie sought the company of a human woman.

I had no desire to become a princess, to learn of my true heritage, or to join hands and sheets with this prick they called a prince.

I must be cursed , I thought to myself for the thousandth time, and the raven cawed again as if in agreement.

Fifty-five.

Fifty-six.

My hands itched to adjust the crown on my head, but that would be frowned upon. My fingers ached to pull at the oversized satin bow across my chest, but that was hardly something the future Princess of Havenshire would do.

The last month of my life had been in preparation for this task to be handed off as no more than a bargain-priced princess—uncursed, unwed, most certainly not untouched, but there was nothing to do about that now.

When the King and Queen of Riche had traveled to Moonstone Wood, arriving at my small cottage in the dead of night, I hadn’t opened the door. After all, Fiola, Goddess of the Forestfae, wasn’t keen on me speaking with people outside of her inner court, even if they did claim to be my long-lost parents. But when Fiola had shown up with them the next day, the royal carriage waiting, I had finally understood what this meant for me: shackles.

So there I was on step number eighty-nine with a Goddessdamn raven in the temple cackling alongside fate, for fate must have had a sense of humor to put me there. I didn’t want to become the Princess of Havenshire. I did not want to bear the next line of kings—something I made sure I would not do anytime soon by taking the monthly tonic ahead of time.

Fate be damned, I enjoyed the life I had. I lived in my own home and concocted my own jars of salves using the crystals grown in Moonstone Wood. I attended court of the Forestfae twice a month to give my devotion to their way of life and offer any new tinctures I had conjured from their lands. I had lovers, some friends, favorite clearings of soft grass and tall trees to shade me as I lie naked in the sun, soaking in the rays. I had plans to author books, dance with as many men—human or fae—I could find, and eat delicacies fed to me by such willing creatures.

I wanted to indulge, to seek pleasure, to please, to live.

I would do none of those things now.

I would be wed. Havenshire would finally have its matching princess to its handsome prince, and I would be paraded, and shown off as the long-lost Princess of Riche.

One-hundred.

One-hundred one.

Prince Urik’s face became clearer as I neared. His pale blue eyes watched me with possession, with that royal pride that could fuck right off. I’d seen it in my own parents as they had explained my betrothal on the carriage ride to their castle in Riche. I’d been alone with him twice since then.

At first, I believed him to be quite handsome until he opened his arrogant, ugly mouth. He had boasted of lavish gowns and jewels commissioned for our tour of his kingdom after the wedding. He had draped a necklace around my throat, dripping with garnets, and pulled it tightly to choke me as he whispered in my ear, “Soon I will have you, and then that pretty little voice will sing for me alone.”

One-hundred twenty-seven.

One-hundred twenty-eight.

I gulped, feeling the cold sweat slide down my back. What was really stopping me from running? How far could I reach in this gown before the guards hauled me back? What if I refused to participate? What if I fell to the floor, feigning illness so the wedding would be postponed? Maybe then I could find a way to escape. I couldn’t go back to Moonstone Wood. Fiola had helped keep me hidden all my life, but had also promised to give me up when the time came.

If I married a prince, it would be difficult to deliver the curse I was destined to receive, for formal curse-giving would need approval from my husband, and my husband was to be the King of Havenshire. That meant protection. That meant a prison.

One-hundred fifty-two.

One-hundred fifty-three.

The orchestra weaving my song of chains to a man I did not love nor care to know seemed to grow louder, timed to my racing heart and the trailing sweat I felt everywhere in the bolts of fabric upon me.

My hands shook. One-hundred sixty-five, one-hundred sixty-six.

Urik held a well-manicured hand out to me as I reached the bottom steps of the altar. I halted, staring at the hand which held my future. The hand which was not my own.

The raven flew silently from its perch, soaring above us across the blue and violet stained glass windows depicting features of the fae Goddesses. I swallowed once again and looked into my betrothed’s eyes. I took two more steps up to the altar and reached out my palm to place into his.