Page 13 of The Crimson Throne (Spy and Guardian #1)

But I can see a lot with my eyes.

And they drink in this man. He can’t be more than a year or two older than me, but even lying down, it’s clear he’s a full head taller, maybe more. Soft jaw, even in sleep, belied by a square chin. My eyes drift to his lips: full, slightly parted.

A soft sigh escapes me.

Well, feck that. I am absolutely not going to go jelly legs at the sight of a single pretty face. This man may not have a glamour on him to make his eyelashes curl just so, but I’ve known my whole life not to trust people based on appearances alone.

My fingers twitch, longing to brush a lock of his vivid hair away from his face—

No. No . What in all the hells has gotten into me?

It’s going to be a long night.

***

I toss and turn, my mind awake despite my body’s exhaustion.

“I can help.”

I startle fully awake, surprised to see Samson sitting up, watching me.

A flare of rage ignites my core. How dare an Englishman be this good-looking?

His face is chiseled, not an ounce of boyish roundness to it, but it’s still soft, his gaze caring as he shifts a little closer to me.

Beneath his tunic, I can see the hard lines of defined muscles.

Unlike the men at court like Darnley and his ilk, Samson has clearly known real work, and despite my very best efforts, I can’t help but find that appealing.

“The ground is hard,” he says, bringing me back to his initial words. “And I don’t know about you, but riding is hell on my body.” He shifts to a kneeling position and motions me closer to him.

He can’t mean—

“I don’t bite,” Samson says, grinning sheepishly but with a wicked, tantalizing smirk.

“Aye, but I do,” I snap back.

His grin turns feral. “Might not mind that.”

My cheeks burn, and I’m grateful that the dark hides them. But also…he’s right. My body aches for relief. So I sit up too, swinging my braid over my shoulder and turning so Samson can rub the knots out of my back.

His hands are warm, his touch like molten lava down my back as his deft fingers press into my tired muscles. A groan escapes my lips, and it’s met with a low, amused chuckle from Samson.

Everywhere he touches sends sparks along my skin. His fingers go up my spine, and I lean into his touch. His palms grip my shoulders, and my head arches back.

Before I’m aware of it happening, his lips are on my neck, his teeth grazing my sensitive skin.

I suck in a gasp as his arms shift, going around my front and pulling me against him so that I’m supported by his strong chest. I tip my head down as his kissing grows more urgent, his tongue finding the shell of my ear, his hot breath sending shivers down my core.

I should push him away.

I should tell him no.

But I have spent my entire life pushing people away. I never form attachments; I never allow myself to be vulnerable. Not like this, with his mouth devouring my skin, his hands tightening around my hips, drawing me into his lap—

“How pathetic.”

I scramble away from Samson, standing to face the one man I never want to see.

My father.

He stands atop the rock, staring down at me. He’s unfairly handsome. Tall, with elegant features, clear eyes, pale hair hiding slightly pointed ears. He is a prince, and he dresses as such—silk cape over his shoulders, silver filigree crown atop his smooth hair.

But despite his outward appearance, everything is marred by the disgust clearly painted across his face right now.

I don’t even cast Samson a second glance as I toss up a glamour to hide the fae prince who sired me from his view.

My father just sneers at me. “You think you’re better than them?”

It’s been years since I last spoke with my father, and all he does is come to interrupt and insult me. For a moment, I think he’s angry I’ve been cavorting with a human. But no.

“Red Caps feed on violence and bloodshed,” he snarls. “Do you feel more powerful now that you’ve murdered a man with their weapon?”

Ice pools in my stomach. I let myself get lost in one pretty boy’s eyes; how could I have forgotten what I did this morning?

What I became?

“Well?” he snarls. “Do you?”

I recall his question. Slowly, as if I’m moving through thick fog, I take a tentative step closer to him. The fire is dead. The air is frigid. My breath comes out in clouds as I say, “No. I don’t feel more powerful.”

“So you killed a man for nothing.”

His words slice into my heart.

“I am not a Red Cap!” I shout at him. “I’m just trying to do my duty—”

“I did not intend for you to bloody your hands.” His lip curls.

“I did what I had to do.” My voice is low, but I know he can hear it.

“If you had any real power, you could have—”

“What?” I practically scream at him. I resist the urge to look back at Samson; I don’t want to call my father’s attention to him, and I have faith my glamour silences this conversation from him.

“What power could I wield? I’m not full fae.

I can make glamours and shields, and I can sometimes convince nature to help me. But I can’t—”

“You can’t do any of it effectively.” My father’s voice is cold, and the louder I get, the quieter he speaks. It just serves to infuriate me even more.

“Then help me!” I scream. “I’m just one girl, and this task you’ve given me is impossible!”

My father swallows, hard, as if he’s forcing himself not to vomit. “A millennia of peace brought on by my family’s magic, and it’s all going to end with my half-human bastard. Weak.” He sighs, and I feel the weight of my ancestry upon me.

My father is a prince in the Seelie Court because his family built the wall and expelled the Red Caps. It was designed to be a protective force, and the Leths to be the guardians who maintained it were a symbol of unity between the fae and human realms.

My father sneers down at me. “Like I said. Pathetic.”

I feel power swirling in my hands. This isn’t fair.

But before I can say anything, do anything, I hear movement behind me. Samson. I whirl around in time to see him bent over my saddlebag, something thin in his hand.

“What’s this?” he asks.

I squint.

A needle.

No, that’s impossible—I sent that needle and the cauldron to the Seelie Court, where the fae leaders rule. How does he have it now?

“Don’t touch that!” I scream.

Too late.

For reasons I cannot fathom, Samson pokes the needle tip into the end of his finger, pressing the pad against the sharp point until a bright red drop of blood blossoms.

But the needle, of course, is not satiated with that.

“What—” Samson starts, his voice fearful as the needle absorbs the droplet…and continues to suck away at him. His finger turns into a shriveled stick, thinner than the twigs he brought for fire.

“Alyth?” Samson’s voice cracks. “Help…help me…”

Horror washes through me.

Because there is no way to help. Once a Red Cap weapon has been activated, as this was, there is simply nothing anyone can do.

Except watch.

“Why?” Samson chokes out as first one arm and then the next withers away. His knees give out, and his back hunches, spasming in pain. His muscles twist, and he shouts in agony.

“No, no.” I’m sobbing, begging, but no one can help me. Not now.

My father—

I spin, but he’s gone. I failed Samson, just as I failed my father, as I failed Scotland, the fae, Mary, everyone—

“Alyth?”

My eyes fly open, my heart lurching so violently that I’m left gasping for breath.

I see his eyes first—bright green and very much alive. Samson leans over me, his face full, his body well. Beyond him, the sky is starting to lighten.

It’s dawn.

My face is wet. I touch my cheek, confused.

“You were having a nightmare,” he says, his brow furrowing.

Perfect. Crying in my sleep. Exactly what I wanted the Englishman to see.

And then I remember the first part of the dream. My eyes drop to Samson’s lips, and I swallow dryly.

“I’m fine,” I say brusquely, shifting away.

But he catches my hand. “You’re so cold.” His thumb rubs over my knuckles, concern evident across his features.

“I’m fine.” I snatch my hand away, too aware of how accurately my brain conjured up the way his skin would feel against mine.

“You’re not getting up, are you?” Samson leans over, grabbing his blanket and pulling it closer to mine. It’s not exactly like we’re sharing space, but he settles in near enough that I cannot reasonably move away without being rude.

I don’t care about being rude. I start to gather up my own blanket.

“Don’t be foolish,” Samson says, and I freeze in place. “It’s too cold.”

True enough. Plus, the shift in temperature has caused a thick mist to settle over the moor. It would be dangerous to leave now before the morning sun has a chance to burn some of the haze away.

“I’m not going to sleep more,” I state, my voice petulant and stubborn. Simply wonderful. I cry in my sleep and act like a child when I awake. What a brilliant opinion of me this Englishman must have.

“We can talk,” Samson offers. “I’m rather awake myself.”

“I don’t want to talk either,” I grumble. Why do I do this to myself? All I want to do is punch something.

“Well, you might not want to talk now, but you sure were talkative in your sleep.”

My heart thuds at the memory—my father, Samson dying. And worse, before that, the groan I made when Dream Samson rubbed my shoulders, kissed my neck, squeezed my hips with clear longing and desire…

“In fact,” Samson says, chest puffed up, “pretty sure I heard you say my name.”

“You’re right, I did,” I snap, hoping he cannot see the flare of red surely staining my cheeks. “It was a horrible nightmare.”

Samson snorts, but part of him looks worried; I was clearly thrashing around, and there is some truth to my statement.

“I dreamt about my father,” I say sullenly. There’s a bit of truth I didn’t intend to put into words.

“Well, if he’s anything like my father, then ‘horrible nightmare’ is accurate.”

“I assure you, my father is worse.”

Samson looks more serious than I’ve ever seen him. “I assure you, mine is.”

This boy has no idea what a competitive streak I have. “My father left my mother before I was born.”

“Same,” he answers pertly.

“All he ever does is drink and dance in court.” The Seelie Court, mind, but Samson doesn’t have to know that.

“So does my father.”

Oh, that smug look. “If he ever thinks about me—and it’s rare that he does—it’s just to give me a task or use me like a tool.”

“Likewise.” Samson smirks as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“Fine,” I bite off. “You win.” I can’t exactly explain all the ways my father’s an arsehole, not unless I want to inform this poor human about the fae he likely has no idea exist.

Except he wasn’t that surprised when the man I killed faded to dust…

Samson crows in triumph at his victory.

“But you only win,” I say, raising a finger to stop him, “because it’s clear both our fathers are shite. Yours only has the edge at being a bigger shite because he’s English too.”

My words were a good distraction, and Samson laughs at me before stretching and starting the process of packing up our little camp.

Even if the tension’s a little less than it was before, every time I close my eyes, I remember the way the man’s body withered into a corpse.

He was still alive when his wrists snapped and his face slammed down.

I watched the light leave his eyes as he collapsed in the dirt.

And through it all, now I hear my father’s condescension as he declared me a failure, his voice not quite loud enough to silence the echo of my victim’s death rattle when I turned his lungs to ash.

A soft intake of breath makes me look up.

Samson’s hand reaches for mine blindly, his attention on the moor.

He grabs my fingers and squeezes, pulling my focus as a majestic red deer strides forward.

Mist clings to its branching antlers, making them sparkle like silver.

The deer tilts its head up, snorting, looking for danger.

It’s far enough away to have not noticed us, but when my horse whinnies, the buck stomps a hoof down, tail flicking.

I spare one glance at Samson.

His aura is bright purple and green, the faint colors wrapping around him like the northern lights. His wonder and awe at the sight saturate every other emotion. His eyes are wide, his mouth parted, and I don’t think the lad’s even breathing.

He’s right to be entranced. Part of the power of Scotland is in its wildness. Places like this, where nature rules, are closer to fae magic than in the cities and towns.

Here is a place where, if care is not taken, it’s possible to slip from this world into the fae realm.

It’s happened before.

It will happen again.

But not today.

I turn back to the deer. The buck marches forward a few steps, heavy clouds of breath lingering in the cold air as it fades into the shadows of the misty moor.

Samson holds my hand long after the regal buck disappears.