Page 37 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen (Curse of the Fae #4)

The two brothers and guards leave with Seth, and I narrow my eyes at the warden. It’s bold of him to ask to be left alone with me, especially since he doesn’t know I can’t use my magic. But maybe women are never taken as threats around here.

A three-foot-tall white sprite with leathery wings, pink eyes, and floppy ears inches into the room once we’re alone.

“Wine for me and my guest in the study, Brel.”

“At once, Your Highness,” the sprite answers in a thick accent.

Alaric’s mouth purses at the overly formal address. “I told you to call me warden,” he barks unhappily at his servant, but the female sprite is already gone.

He walks toward the hallway behind the throne, motioning for me to follow, and whistles a high note. The three wolves rise to their feet. They stretch and yawn, pink tongues and gleaming teeth on display, before silently bringing up the rear.

No one thought to search me, so my end-all blade remains tucked safely inside my tunic.

Inside the study at the end of the hall, a cart near the hearth holds a jar of wine and two cups, waiting for us. Alaric pours both drinks with slow, deliberate grace.

The study feels like the back room of a rugged tavern.

Wood-paneled walls frame a worn dartboard marked by countless throws.

Heavy leather chairs circle a low, battered table.

Shelves overflow with dark liquor and scattered trinkets.

A faint haze of Storm magic lingers in the air, as if we’re standing inside the belly of a cloud, mixing with the scent of aged wood and spilled ale.

Altogether, the room carries a volatile, masculine edge.

Alaric hands over one cup. “Here.”

Now that the others are gone, the bitterness and rage have lifted from his demeanor. His shoulders hunch as he sinks into one of the big leather chairs, and if anything, he looks a bit worn down.

I sniff the wine, making sure nothing’s been slipped into it.

It’s classic Brimvale wine. The neighboring province is famous for its magic that clears the skies just long enough each day to ripen those tiny, fragile grapes grown in glass greenhouses.

It’s expensive and bitter, like the Storm lords who flaunt it, proving they can command both the nature and wealth of their inhospitable lands.

Alaric clinks our cups. “So, why is the great Devi Eros lowering herself to the likes of a dual-wielding bastard? Is my cousin really that good in bed?” He grumbles the last part without passion before taking a sip.

I shrug. “Politics.”

“That’s interesting.”

“And you’re here because you’re hoping to get into Zepharion without using the sceawere?”

Smart guy.

“Yes.”

“Is that all?” He stares at me with a slight squint, like he’s certain there’s more to it.

A glimmer of thirst, or perhaps lust, behind his gray eyes sparks a swell of unease in my gut, but it’s there one second and gone the next.

I swirl the wine in my cup. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“What about Seth? Is he here for the same reason as you?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

He licks his lips, pausing for a couple of breaths. “I’m asking you.”

“And I’m choosing not to speak for him.”

He shrugs, gulping down the rest of his wine and pouring himself a second glass. “If you refuse to cooperate, you’ll end up in a cell, too. Are you two married?”

I take a quick sip of wine. “No, not yet.”

He squints, the corner of his eyes upturned, as though he’s both surprised and thrilled to hear that. “But you love him?”

Percy’s wings flutter against my heart. I press my palm over his shape through the tunic, commanding him to stay put. In hostage situations, Faelings are liabilities, but as long as he remains hidden, he could break us out of here, should the need arise.

“Our engagement is purely political,” I finally answer.

“Shame,” he leans back in his chair. “Would’ve made seducing you more interesting if he loved you.” He studies me carefully. “Why do you want to sneak inside the capital?”

I take the seat next to him, unwilling to set us up as two opposing sides or show any kind of fear.

“The crowns want Seth to serve as an envoy and negotiator between the seven crowns and the Tidecallers. They believe Luther Storm, the new Storm King, allowed the Tidecallers to set up base in Zepharion.”

I test the words, unsure how to phrase them to appease his suspicions without revealing I was sent to assassinate his new king.

Alaric’s gaze flies to the many old-fashioned portraits hung on the walls. “Luther is not the new Storm King.”

“No?”

“No. And I’ve heard on good authority that he’s pretty upset about it.”

I watch Alaric’s mouth as he speaks, the wry grin tugging at his lips making me nervous. “Do you mean to join them or kill them?”

“I’ve been in exile for decades…” I trail off, wondering how much to share.

“Yes, the great Queen of Hearts, traitor to the crowns, banished to the new world and living there as a mortal. I’ve read about it.”

“Then you can imagine I’d do anything the crowns asked if it meant earning back my freedom.”

“Even if it means marrying Freya’s son…” he trails off, misconstruing my words, probably thinking Freya is eager for me to wed Seth, to keep the power in the family.

I give him a quick nod. “Yes.”

He combs his long black hair back and gulps down the entire glass, his Adam’s apple bobbing with every lustful swallow, like the wine is meant to soothe some raw ache in his soul. “As long as you’re here, I’d love to pick your brain about something…”

His true feelings are veiled, but I can see he’s hurting. If I had my magic, I could search the depths of his sorrow and find out exactly what he’s grieving—find out what kind of man he is, and what kind of love he craves—but without it, I can only see what pierces the clouds.

“There’s this girl …” he says.

“Let me stop you right there. This girl—she loves someone else, doesn’t she?”

He leans forward, emphasizing the hunch and hides his face in his arms. “Yes.”

“Then I can’t help you.”

“And what if I kept you here until you became more...helpful?” he suggests with a raised brow and a schoolboy look, like he didn’t just threaten to keep me prisoner.

I'm still wary of this man, but so far, this little tête-à-tête feels like a consultation.

He's not the first to come to me, desperate for a solution to cure a one-sided obsession.

Male Fae—especially powerful leaders—suck at accepting rejection.

They keep chasing the object of their fantasies until they get what they want.

Or until they get gutted, metaphorically or not.

“I couldn’t carve a forbidden arrow to make this girl fall in love with you even if I wanted to,” I tell him honestly.

“Why not?”

“Many reasons, but mostly because it would destroy her. Love is a tricky disease, Warden Rayne. You can’t infect someone who’s already sick.”

“What about me? Could you cure this love I suffer?” he negotiates.

“Not without destroying you, too. I’ve tried to carve my arrows just right to free the most unhappy Fae from the ailment of unrequited love, but alas, the ones who responded to the treatment became immune to love altogether.”

“So my choices are to continue to love someone who doesn’t love me back or forget how to love altogether?”

I nod. “If I tried to cure you, you might never love again.”

He exhales loudly, then sets his cup on the table.

“There’s a ball tomorrow night. You’ll be my companion for the evening.

Maybe if Tatiana sees the most beautiful woman in the worlds by my side, she’ll think twice about rejecting me again.

” Alaric gives a low whistle, and one of his wolves runs out of the study.

“I’ll have Brel escort you to your room so you can rest and recuperate.

I’d love it if you could join us for dinner later tonight. ”

It’s not an invitation, but a command, and I nod. “What about Seth?”

The corners of his mouth quirk. “Let him stew in his own filth for a while.”