Page 21 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen (Curse of the Fae #4)

Ready for it?

DEVI

“ W elcome to Wintermere, cousins,” Elio announces, his voice carrying down the hallway just as Seth and I prepare to make our entrance.

The prince extends his arm, and I take it, eager to ruin Freya’s day.

Inside the ballroom, the checkered windows stretch nearly to the ceiling, their panes clear for once, offering an unobstructed view of the gardens beyond.

Crystal chandeliers hang from a vaulted ceiling painted with the Fall of the Mist-King mural—the same one we have in Spring.

Once a reminder of past mistakes that nearly destroyed the Fae, it now lurks above our head ominously, with a new Mist King ready to claim a power that laid dormant for generations.

A long bar, carved from ice, stretches along one side of the room, the bottles behind it glowing in shades of orange, blue, and green.

The delegation from the Red Forest is already here, huddled in the back and cloaked in layers of fine silk and brocade. A bunch of Winter High Fae make up the numbers, some of them already dancing.

Percy flies to meet us, looking enchanting in his fresh midnight-blue suit. His hair is slicked over his head, and Seth whistles beside me. “Looking hot, Perce.”

Percy ignores the compliment. “The new Red queen is here.”

I examine the Red Fae at the center of the katana-wielding bodyguards.

She’s a stranger, but the infamous Red circlet sits on her head, the accessory propped like a bloody halo atop her smooth auburn hair.

Living ironwood roots from the Lorntre tree are weaved in its frame, intertwined with bands of dark metal.

Crimson sap glimmers along the twigs, matching the deep red stones set at the front.

Males do not grow on Red soil, so all pure-blooded Red Fae are females.

How they manage to have more children is a mystery, and even Mabel never revealed that detail of her heritage.

The Lorntre, the sacred tree of the Red Forest, has been sealed off ever since the new religion declared war on the witches of Lorntre’s Hollow.

Long before I was born, Mabel had no choice but to flee into exile with her kin to escape slaughter.

This could be an opportunity to discover more about the Red priestesses and help Mabel avoid their scrutiny, but they say the secrets of the Red Forest can only be written down in blood.

Percy points to the other side of the ballroom. “The Summer King and Queen have also arrived, but there’s no sign of the usurper.”

“You mean my mother,” Seth corrects him.

Percy turns up his nose at my improbable fiancée. “No sign of Seth’s mother, the usurper .

Seth lets out a dramatic sigh. “I thought we were becoming friends…”

“I just call it like I see it.”

“Be good. Both of you,” I warn them.

A couple of familiar faces near the buffet plasters a dubious smile on my lips. I’ll be damned.

Seth steers me over to Elizabeth Snow, interrupting the new Summer Queen just as she samples the buffet. “Betty Snow. How is married life treating you?” he asks warmly.

She holds a hand to her mouth and swallows, her dark brows lifting. “Seth. Devi. Hi.”

I roll my eyes at the amity between them. “Hey, moth.”

Beth and I have a very adversarial relationship on account of her being too straight-laced, but I’m happy for her.

The fiery bite of Summer power radiating from the Winter Fae tells me she’s finally married her sweetheart.

Her heart is glowing, bursting with happiness, and it’s a relief to see those two finally tied the knot.

“Congratulations,” I say.

“Thank you.” Her alabaster cheeks flush, and her gaze darts to her feet. “I’m surprised to see you here, Seth. I thought you were sailing to Storm’s End. For that errand , you know?” she adds, speaking in code.

“Bad weather derailed my voyage, and I lost my cargo ,” Seth answers in the same cryptic manner. “Mist completely overtook the ocean, and the boat hit a big rock. There was nothing else I could do but untie my load and make it to the coast safely.”

Beth’s frown deepens. “We’ve heard reports of that mist, too. A bunch of fishermen had to be rescued off the coast of Augustus on account of the bad visibility. Do you know what might have caused it?”

“It’s obvious, no?” I quip.

Both of them turn to me, and I let them dangle for a minute, stealing a couple of grapes off the bushel and biting down on them before I add, “The power of the Mist King had been imprisoned in the chalice for centuries, and the chalice is gone.”

“Are you saying there’s a new Mist King?” Seth breathes.

“Or queen,” Beth adds quickly, clearly already in the know.

“Precisely.”

Aidan Summers, the new Summer King, rejoins his wife’s side. With short brown hair, amber eyes, and sun-kissed skin, he’s the very picture of a Summer Fae, his fiery aura burning hotter now that he wears the crown.

“Seth. I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says.

Beth melts into his side, her luscious black waves spilling over her shoulder as she twists her neck to look at him. “Seth lost his cargo.”

From the worry on her face, I gather that Seth’s cargo poses some danger to her—and what else could they be talking about but Seth’s revolutionist brother?

Aidan’s brow knits together. “What, you lost him an hour after we parted?”

“Three. And only because of the magical armageddon that went on in your castle,” Seth says with a hint of reproach.

“This Luther guy scares you, moth?” I taunt Beth.

“As he should.” She rubs down her arms and takes refuge in her husband’s embrace. The look they share does nothing to appease my suspicions that Seth’s baby brother is a force to be reckoned with.

Seth entwines our fingers, pulling me away from the royal couple. “Can I have this dance?” He sounds rushed, and his gaze flies over my head for a moment. “My mother has arrived,” he whispers.

“Did she see us? Does she look angry?”

“Not yet.” A lazy smile curls his mouth, and it’s contagious.

Blimey. Seth is about as excited for this as I am. He wants to rebel, and hell if I don’t love breaking the rules and being the center of attention. He leads me inside the fray of other couples, where we swing to the rhythm of a slow-building but energetic tune.

The dancers make way for us, whispers and pointed fingers flagging our arrival as Seth whisks me into a series of languorous spins.

“You want to make a scene,” I say.

Seth laughs, the sound warm against my cheek. “Anything less would be unworthy of you.”

The waltz is a classic piece, but we take up a little more space than the other dancers and hold each other a little too close. Each sway is an excuse to brush against one another. We’re the most attractive couple in the room, and definitely the only one tangled in unresolved sexual tension.

Everyone’s watching, now. The music cuts off abruptly, the musicians too busy staring to keep track of the melody.

Instead of letting me slip away, Seth wraps an arm around my waist. His eyes are wild and tormented, yet full of life, like waves crashing at the foot of the Zepharion Fortress. I hold my breath when he cups the side of my face with his free hand and bends to kiss me.

The motion is smooth as hell.

I can’t push him off, not with everyone watching. By Eros, I only wish I could keep my eyes open and see the disgust on Freya’s face. The thought fills me with unbridled joy. A sinister yet blinding sense of happiness hums through me, and I deepen the kiss, slipping my tongue in Seth’s mouth.

I truly, madly, deeply hate him, but we’re both Spring royals. The best kissers in the realms. The most beautiful, treacherous lovers in the worlds. The rage coalesces in my blood and spices this interlude with a bittersweet sense of butchered pride and inedible envy.

Tongue fighting.

Hands gripping.

Hearts pounding.

It isn't soft. It isn't sweet. It crashes into me like a natural disaster tearing through brick walls, leaving nothing untouched. It’s a contest: who does it better, who riles the other up a wall, and who knows exactly how to make the other moan the loudest. Breathe the hardest.

From Seth’s heavy hand on the small of my back and the steely ridge of his erection pressing into my hip, I figure I’m winning, which makes the contest even more fun.

“Are you ready to yield, pretty boy?” I taunt him.

Seth drags his nose in the dip between my jaw and ear, inhaling deep.

“You pretend to be above this, but you’re the fallen Queen of Hearts.

You remember what it’s like to rule, and not suffer the same emptiness every single Spring Fae reckons with.

You were the most desired woman in all the worlds, and men would line up for miles just to steal a glance of you.

You love this.” He slips an arm around my shoulders and leads me off the dance floor.

I’m in awe of how natural he looks, taking hold of my hand.

“I don’t need you—or any man—to kneel in front of me to feel whole,” I whisper quickly, the sweet edge of victory fading.

A smile colors his rogue, talented mouth. “Maybe it’s your turn to kneel, then.”

My throat bobs, the suggestion rolling off his lips like a promise.

I see Freya half-running toward us, one hand clutching the rumples of her black skirt and the other cramped around her folding fan. Hatred rises in me fast and hot, the kind that never fades, no matter how long it festers.

The black dress and veil look eerie on her. She’s grieving the loss of her lover, but I won’t let that soften my anger. If she’d run off with Thorald Storm when she had the chance—instead of plotting away my crown—we wouldn’t be here.

The rumors Mabel heard were right. Freya is a ghost of her former self, with red, inflamed burns stretching across her cheeks and arms. The many overlapping layers of loose skin indicate that her groomers tried to fix the marks in vain, over and over again.

With her skin marred like that, her outside finally matches her rotten soul.

She can’t pretend to be the fairest of them all anymore.

“Hello, step-grandmother,” I say.

The sound of my pep-filled voice shocks her, because she stops short, knuckles white, eyes refusing to meet mine. “The nerve! I’ll have your head this time, Devilyne.” Her voice is tight, full of worry and disbelief, like she’s hoping if she keeps it low enough, I’ll just disappear.

Percy zooms over to us and perches on my shoulder, crouching in a defensive stance. “Stay back, old woman.”

Seth adjusts his position so his body creates a slight shield between us. “Mother, please. Let’s be adults about this.”

“I will not stand for this. She’s a criminal.”

The music stops, and Elio hurries to Freya’s side, his hands raised in a calming manner. “We’re in my court, Freya, and I have the final say on who’s welcomed on my lands.”

My smile curls at the edges, all sugar and knives.

Seth raises our linked fingers for Freya and all the Spring delegation to see. “Devi and I… We’ve decided to get married.”

Outraged cries erupt from Freya’s entourage, the same cowards and sheep who stood idly by when my crown was stolen. I bet they’re all shaking in their boots at the mere thought of me returning home.

Freya’s jaw hangs open. “It’s ludicrous—” She slaps her son’s free arm with her folded fan. “She must have used one of her disgusting love arrows on you.”

“I wasn’t hit by a love arrow, Mother. I went looking for Devi, and one thing led to another…

We’re more alike than we first thought.” Seth glances amorously at me, his act perfectly balanced and sounding more genuine than I’d hoped.

“She’s the most beautiful and dauntless woman I’ve ever met. A real queen .”

My insides squeal in victory, and Percy applauds Seth for his jab. I’m so pleased I could kiss him again, but Freya lunges in my direction, then thrusts her arm forward.

Quick. Efficient. A bit desperate.

I catch a flash of light over metal and instinctively leap away from her incoming blade, but it’s not the shine of any dirk or knife. Not the tapered glint of steel or the regal lines of a wedding dagger, no.

The terrible, greenish glimmer of iron and silver alloy veined with rowan wood flips my stomach. The luster of certain death.

Seth grips his mother’s wrist, his nostrils flaring, his other hand flying to her shoulder to stop her momentum.

Dark clouds swirl inside his eyes, deep enough to drown in.

Lightning sparks along the grooves of his muscles as the edge of an end-all blade hovers inches from my side.

Only Seth’s raw strength is keeping me from the grave, and he’s shaking.

So am I.

One scratch from that blade would’ve poisoned me to death.