Page 39 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen (Curse of the Fae #4)
A Simple Favor
DEVI
T he citadel’s dining hall is a cathedral of shadows.
Vaulted arches stretch toward a high, concrete ceiling. Chandeliers dangle from heavy metal chains, the flames cradled inside geodesic crystal cages. Long windows line the far wall, showing off dark skies slashed by lightning.
A long obsidian table dominates the center of the room, veins of lyranthium zigzagging across its surface.
Two lines of high-backed chairs dressed in gray velvet flank both sides.
The table could host thirty, yet only two places are set, while the rest of the enormous table remains empty and silent.
Alaric stares at me with one hand tucked beneath his chin from his lonely seat at the end.
“Come in,” he says, patting the seat next to him. “I saved you a seat.”
The storm picks up as if he summoned fresh lightning just to silhouette my entrance. My heels click across the polished stones, each step echoing in my spine.
The chiffon dress hugs my waist, then floats down both sides of my body like spilled ink, the shorter hem in front offering a scandalous view of my bare thighs.
My cold, peaked breasts, the absence of a weapon, and Alaric’s scrutiny all contribute to my restlessness as I stop across from the Warden of Lightning Point.
“Your brothers?” I ask, chin high. “They don’t eat with you?”
A slow smile unfurls across his face, more ominous than thunder rolling in. He stands but doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he rounds the table to pull out my chair.
“I don’t like to share,” he says at last. “Not food. Not wine.” His eyes rake down the dress. “And certainly not the most beautiful woman in the worlds.”
I sit to his right, close enough for him to touch, and my pulse spikes.
There is no orchestra here. No gathered court.
Just the clatter of silverware, the eerie sway of the firelight pendulums above our heads, and a man who would rather feast alone with a stranger than the people he’s known all his life.
Which means either Alaric Rayne doesn’t have any friends, or he doesn’t want any witnesses.
Brel carries in the wine and entrees as soon as my ass touches the chair.
The ingredients are not fancy, but a lot of thought has gone into the presentation.
Stacked potatoes with buttery cream wrapped with ribbons of cooked leeks, seaduck meat, and root vegetables to the side.
These shadowy parts of the continent are ill-equipped to grow food.
The Storm Court relies mostly on imports from Spring and Summer, as their greenhouse efforts in the Brimvale province are nowhere near enough to sustain their population.
My mouth waters at the pleasant aromas rising from the offered meal as I pick up my utensils, my ankles crossed and spine straight.
Alaric devours me with the intensity of a bird of prey, his gaze fixed on the asymmetrical cut of my dress, all the more scandalous now that I’m seated. The velvet cushion rubs against my inner thighs, and I simply have to break the charged silence before I do something rash.
“The citadel is a lot grander than I expected. Must be a pain to maintain a building of this size in a land that consistently tries to chip away at it,” I say.
“That’s the beauty of it, no? Things that withstand adversity become even more precious.” Alaric finally stops staring long enough to cut his meat.
I mask a sigh of relief as I do the same.
“The late Storm King didn’t like it mentioned, but way back when,” he says, his gaze drawn to the flicker of candlelight against the shiny black table, “during the Mist Wars, the royal family lived here—at the heart of the storm.”
“And now it belongs to the powerful warden of a forsaken city,” I say in a cajoling tone.
He glances at me with something like amusement—or warning. “You truly don’t know, do you? When you and Seth first appeared, I thought for sure you were sent here to kill me.”
I arch a brow. “I wasn’t sent here to kill you.”
“Then how do you explain this?” He slides the sheath of my end-all blade from his belt and slams it on the table. “Brel found it in your room.”
Bloody hells.
“Now, one would wonder why you’d leave such a weapon sheathed under your pillow if you were indeed sent to kill me, but it’s rude to carry such things inside one’s home.”
“It wasn’t meant for you,” I blurt out, eager to disperse his suspicions.
“I’m inclined to believe you.”
“So I can have it back?” I joke, the duck and potatoes long forgotten.
His eyes flare up. “Not just yet.”
Instead of answering, he stands and shrugs his dinner jacket off, discarding it over the blade. My face crumples when he starts unbuttoning his shirt, and my breath catches.
I force a bit of warmth into my voice as I say, “A woman likes to be wined and dined first, my lord.”
Alaric discards his dress shirt and peels his undershirt over his head in one smooth motion.
The air shifts. By Eros!
A jackal is inked into his side. The black tattoo undulates under the flames, the eyes of the animal glowing like it's watching me. But it’s not just the lifelike creature that steals my breath—it’s the chaos surrounding it.
Pale red tendrils stretch out from the mark, webbing over his torso, his shoulders—even his arms—like bolts of lightning are trapped beneath the skin. Not scars, but raw, throbbing, flesh.
The mark dips below the leather at his hips.
I suck in air. “You’re the new Storm King.”
Alaric smiles a small, infinitesimal smile, his lids fluttering as though the words are impossibly sweet. He dumps his undershirt over the jacket and sits back down.
“But why hide it? Your girl—Tatiana, right?—she’ll change her tune fast once she knows.”
His jaw flexes. “I’m in uncharted territory.
My brothers…they obey, but only because they have no other choice.
I have to be careful with how I play my hand.
The mark didn’t come, it struck . I haven’t entirely recovered.
I’m vulnerable, and now that the chalice is no more, they might think they’re next in line and try to kill me to steal my crown. ”
“And you’re telling me ? A prisoner?”
“You’re my guest, remember?” He leans close, the scent of pinesap soap tangled with char rising from his burnt skin. “If not my brothers, then Luther and Maddox Storm will come for me. I need to get my affairs in order before they realize who wears the crown. I need to marry as soon as possible.”
I can understand his rationale for wanting to marry. It’ll solidify his power and influence.
Before the destruction of the Eternal Chalice, someone chosen by the gods to rule—like Alaric—would have been reviewed by the seven crowns.
A period of about ten days would have been set aside for official challengers to come forward before the new king was anointed and allowed to claim the magics of his lands.
With that ritual came the reveal of their full name. Names and magic go hand in hand, so for a king to rule over his peers, he had to reveal the entirety of his name. Once the challenge period ended and the seven crowns stood behind a new king, that vulnerability no longer mattered.
Now that the chalice is gone, things are different. Anyone could convince themselves they’re next in line and try to use that knowledge to tip the scales in their favor.
“That’s where you come in,” he adds, sitting back down.
I fight to keep a straight face.
This completely shifts the outlook of our escape from Deiltine.
Alaric is king, and even if he’s green, wounded, and hasn’t figured out the kinks of his new powers, he’s now the most powerful being in Storm’s End.
The end-blade he just confiscated was the only weapon that could’ve harmed him—our one shot at leveling the field, and now it’s gone.
A bone-deep fear shivers through me. He could do anything.
With me. With Seth. There’s no court to answer to, no higher power looming over his shoulder.
He’s no longer just a charming predator playing at power.
He has it. And I’m not a guest. I’m a hostage wrapped in chiffon, with no way out but through him.
“I need a favor,” he says, voice soft, almost thoughtful, as he trails a finger along the rim of his wineglass. “Tatiana will attend the ball tomorrow with her father. If she can’t love me, then I want her to agree to marry me.”
“And if I succeed?” I ask, keeping my voice cool. “Will you let me go?”
He leans in again, his breath warm and sea salted. “Yes. I notice you didn’t mention Seth. Not once. Don’t you want to know if he’s still alive?”
I tilt my chin higher. “I’m good.”
A hint of approval warms his eyes. I pray he doesn’t hear my wild heartbeats.
“Then tell me. Who were you supposed to kill?” he asks.
“Luther Storm. Seth’s mission to broker peace with the rebels was only a way to get me near his brother, but he has no idea,” I breathe, lacing my words with smugness.
Alaric whistles. “Oh, I’m almost enamored with you, Lady Eros.” He rubs the arch of his brow back and forth. “If you succeed with Tatiana, I’ll allow the both of you to go on with your mission, so you can kill my competition, and break Seth’s heart in the process.”
My smile doesn’t falter. “I’m going to need some supplies…”
“Supplies? Are we talking about love arrows or witchcraft?”
I shrug. “Do you care?”
He holds my gaze for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve revealed too much, but he finally mirrors my nonchalance. “No. Get me Tatiana, that’s all I want.”
“You have a deal. This way I can finish my mission. With Luther dead, the seven crowns will find it easier to secure peace and stability across the Continent—and you’ll be the uncontested king of Storm’s End.”
It might be a little much, but in my experience, buttering up a Fae King is never done in vain.
Alaric laughs, and the sound mirrors the rumble of thunder teasing the horizon. “Careful, Lady Eros. Keep talking like that, and I might decide to marry you instead.”
The flames flicker.
The storm outside builds.
And I honestly wonder if he’s teasing…or warning me.