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BLURB

An action-packed dark fantasy romance perfect for fans of Raven Kennedy, Krista Street, and Sarah J. Maas.

Desperate to escape marrying a brutal king, Eleanor makes a deal with a Fae Prince…

“I can spin gold,” Eleanor lies.

With her life at stake, she has no other choice.

She gets one chance to turn her lie into truth, and she’s shocked when she succeeds.

But now the cruel human king demands she become his wife—passing between his bed and being locked away in a tower, spinning gold until her last breath.

Her only way out is to summon him .

A brutal Fae prince.

The deal she strikes is sickening, but it’s the only way she’ll live after she’s caught escaping.

Eleanor’s new captor drags her back to his realm.

A place of profound beauty and savage cruelties.

As wicked fairies play sadistic games, the prince is her sole protector.

He’s not just protecting her, though. He’s guarding his own secrets.

She should hate him. But their pact shows her a side his court never sees.

There is more behind his monstrous mask.

She can’t stop herself from looking.

Especially when she learns what he really wants with her.

The Court that Bleeds Gold is the first book in a dark fantasy romance trilogy.

This enemies to lovers series has shades of Rumpelstiltskin and Beauty and the Beast, with a dark hero who will absolutely burn this damned world to the ground for our sharp-tongued heroine.

Expect steam, violence and plenty of barbed exchanges.

Chapter 1

Eleanor

“Exquisite lockets! Magnificent bracelets! Beautiful ornaments made with human hands!” My sales pitch merges with the hubbub of the market as I navigate the narrow aisles between stalls.

I raise my voice a few decibels, hoping that it will find its way into the pointed ears of my potential customers.

The dangerous part comes when the fae decide they’re actually interested, of course, but I try not to dwell on that as I tug one end of a chain from my bag, looped around with my creations.

“Wear the treasures of Styrland on your wrist, in your hair…” I give the chain a little shake, so that my trinkets jangle melodiously and glint in the sunlight. The balmy weather at the market is a trick of fairy magic—on the other side of the twining line Styrland is gray and muddy and damp.

“Treasures, you say?” a lilting voice stops me mid-step, and I spin to find the source of it.

A lady with hair red as blood stands by a baker’s stall laden with sugared buns.

I don’t know the baker; he’s human, but he must be from a larger town north of my village.

He glares at me as she turns her back on him.

I’ve stolen the attention of a customer away.

Meanwhile, the fae woman—for that is undoubtedly what she is—steps towards me.

She’s several inches taller, and I resist the urge to back away as she approaches, her high cheek bones sharp as knives and her lips pressed into something that would resemble a smile—if people could smile daggers at you.

I bow my head but don’t lower my eyes, keeping them fixed on her every movement.

“My creations, my lady, crafted with my own hands.”

I know just enough about the fae to understand that the ones that look like her—almost human, impossibly beautiful—are the ones with the largest purses. If I can make a good deal here, then I won’t have to strike many more bargains before I have what I came for.

She fingers a shiny pendant molded into the shape of a heart.

“What is this metal? I don’t recognize it.”

“It’s a blend I invented myself, my lady.” I don’t bother to hide the pride in my voice. Fae understand it better than false humility. I worked hard on creating this particular metal, the balance of ores giving it a warm, inviting luster.

“You humans do have such a flair for these things,” the woman says, her amber eyes brightening with a look I know too well: greedy desire.

The fae may be magical, but they cannot create.

Not truly, in the way that we humans do.

It’s why they come to the market—the one day of the month sanctioned for humans and fae to trade—and why they covet what we have despite all their mysterious powers.

Our art. Our talents. Even, strangely, our beauty, though I’ve never seen a human as pretty as the woman stood before me now.

“My lady,” I say gently, drawing the pendant away from her hand.

Her expression twists, fast as a slap, into a glower, and my heartbeat speeds up.

I’m dreadfully aware of how quickly her long, powerful fingers could scratch my eyes out if she wished.

I’ve seen the fae do worse. But I’ll risk it for the right deal.

“Might I suggest something more special for one as captivating as yourself? I crafted this just yesterday, and it is unique—one of a kind.” I pull a small pouch from my pocket and hold out a ring.

It’s a band of twisting strands, their colors seamlessly traveling from light to dark, so it’s unclear where one thread ends and another begins.

It took me months to achieve the effect, but I know this will appeal to her.

This is what the fae desire so much; that tangible, tantalizing hint of human invention.

To them our artistry is a phenomenon—unexpected sparks of pure beauty that stand out all the more against our brutal, ugly world.

“Quite stunning,” she murmurs with yearning, snatching it from my fingers and holding it up to the light. I’m suddenly reminded of a magpie twitching a glinting prize in its sharp beak. “I believe it will suit me nicely.”

“Absolutely,” I rush to say. A sneer crosses her lips, perhaps as she remembers that as a human, I might not actually mean what I say.

That’s part of the reason for their lack of creativity, you see: the fair folk can’t lie.

“And what do you want in return?” Her voice turns crisp with anticipation, and the thud of my heart serves as a useful reminder that we’ve reached the most dangerous part of our exchange.

Some people call the market the Faerie Fayre, trying to making it sound sweet and enchanting.

I wouldn’t have put it past the fair folk themselves to have started that one, all the better to lure in unsuspecting humans looking for a magical time.

Oh, it’s enchanting all right—the kind of enchantment that leaves you with your first born traded away or your world in tatters when the clock strikes midnight.

“Coin,” I say stiffly. “A handful of gold coin or two of silver, if you’d be so kind.”

She frowns and I can tell she’s disappointed. “Come, come, surely you can think of something better than that?” She reaches out to press a long, hard finger against my cheek, and I try not to shudder at her touch.

“How about those eyes of yours? I could make them sparkle like the stars, you know. Or your dress?” She eyes my worn, plain clothes with distaste. “I could give you a gown that makes you the envy of your town.”

If it wasn’t so terrifying, I might laugh at her offer.

Sure, my eyes might sparkle like the stars, but I bet they’d shine so bright I couldn’t see through them anymore.

And my dress would certainly make the town envious—but it would be an illusion lasting just long enough for some other jealous human to tear the thing to shreds.

“I would like only money from you, my lady,” I repeat. “A handful of gold coin or two handfuls of silver coin in exchange for this ring, and then our business will be concluded.”

She pouts, but no doubt notices that I’ve been careful in my wording: direct and final.

There’s no room to weave sneaky loopholes into the deal in the way fae love to do.

If there is a way they can turn a deal around to bite you, they will.

I’ve never known if they just find it entertaining, or if they resent having to trade with humans at all, rather than just taking what they want.

Maybe both. Whatever the truth is, fae don’t need to lie to find a way to trick you into signing off on your own doom.

“Very well.” She huffs as if I’ve spoiled her fun before handing over the bag of coin and sweeping away, admiring her new purchase as she goes.

“Here.” I dig out one of the gold coins she’s just given me and hand it to the baker for his trouble.

After all, if it weren’t for me, he might now be able to make the most irresistible cakes this side of Grandom, or find himself sporting a full head of hair where his bald pate currently shines quite cheerfully.

Though, considering how most deals end, maybe I’ve done him a favor. He examines the coin suspiciously, and I can tell this isn’t his first fae market.

“Just remember to trade it to one of the fae for something actually useful before the day is out,” I say.

Fae money is only worth anything to them, really. Take it back across the twining line and it’ll be nothing but a pile of pebbles or dead leaves by morning.

That’s why I need to get busy spending mine.

I make a few more sales on my way across the market.

Always cautious, always wary, walking a tightrope between capturing their interest and making sure I don’t get ensnared in return.

Eventually I count up my fae coin and head towards the fae I’m truly here to see.

The large, curling horns of Maidar are easy to spot, and I drop my bags of fae coin onto the table in front of him.

“Where’s the rest?” he grunts with a voice like stones being ground together. I hand him the book I traded six bracelets to a local bookkeeper to get and in return he passes me a lump of rock with his black, leathery fingers.

Augium ore. I run my thumb across the surface, admiring the flecks of glittering mineral in the dark material. It looks like he found a good seam, and I’m about to ask about it when the noise of the market is pierced by a single, blood-curdling scream.

The terrible sound comes from nearby, and I turn, with everyone else, to search out the source.

Between a gathering crowd I see a woman, about forty years old, on her knees in the dirt.

I go to step closer, but a heavy hand rests on my arm, and I look up to see Maidar’s goat-like eyes unusually worried.

“Don’t,” he says. “There’s nothing you can do.”

I like Maidar. Not once in the time we’ve been dealing has he ever tried to convince me to trade something I might regret—like my youth, or my talent with metalwork.

He only ever asks for tangible things, fae coin, plants, and books.

He’s never tried to trick me yet. Which means I should probably listen to him now.

But the scream sounds again, a cry of anguish, and I pull free of his hand.

I want answers. Like a fire burning within me, I have to understand.

My father always says this impulse is the only stupid part of me.

He likes to remind me that curiosity killed the cat, and I don’t have nine lives.

But it’s more than mere curiosity that pushes me forward, now.

Someone’s in pain, and maybe it is foolishness to assume I can help, but I have to at least try. It’s what my mother would have done.

When I get closer, I feel cold. There’s something familiar about the woman…a resemblance I can’t quite place while her face is twisted with sorrow and fear.

“Please,” she moans, her words catching in her throat between sobs. “I tried to finish it in time. I really did.”

Her cheeks are streaked with tears, her eyes lifted in terror.

“So many excuses from your lying mouth, seamstress.”

Through the crowd, I glimpse a hand reaching out to brush the woman’s hair.

When it pulls away there’s a streak of silver running through her locks.

I move forward until I have a view of the woman standing over the seamstress.

No, not a woman. A fae. Her skin is white as a lily, and the braid coiled down her back shines like she’s woven sun rays into it.

“I beg you, please , just give me more time,” the human groans.

“Time? Time ?” The blonde fae’s angry voice borders on a shriek.

“I needed that cloak before the solstice. I was supposed to wear it to the ball. What use do I have for it now?” She darts her hand out again and brushes the woman’s cheek.

It is just a light touch, but the seamstress flinches away with a gasp, and I see that she has a smattering of wrinkles where the fae touched her that I’m sure weren’t there before.

With a start I recognize her. Her name is Clara and she works in the town over from my village.

Her cousin lives four streets down from me and does embroidery for her—pretty creations that I could never afford.

But the Clara I know isn’t that much older than me—twenty-five, perhaps.

My blood chills a few more degrees as I take in Clara’s brown hair now shot through with gray, her face etched with crow’s feet, and realize why she’d first screamed. The punishment has already begun.

“We can’t just stand here,” I murmur. My feet itch, begging me to run forward, to do something, but the rest of me rebels against them, holding me rooted to the spot. That scream, the perfect, rageful face of the fae woman, locks my body with fear.

“She didn’t uphold her end of the deal,” says a familiar voice, and I look over to see Jethro, our village’s butcher, with his wife, Gertie, in the crowd beside me.

It doesn’t surprise me to see them; people come from far and wide to attend the market.

“The treaty is clear,” he grunts with a terrible finality.

I gape at him. The treaty might allow someone to take matters into their own hands if a fair bargain is reneged on, but everyone knows the fae don’t make fair deals in the first place.

“Yes, but?—”

Gertie hushes me. “Don’t go looking for trouble or you’ll end up like her. And you’ve got your father to think of.”