Page 46

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The fae king was breathtaking.

He’d always been ethereally beautiful, but tonight under the soft light of a chandelier and the glow from the fireplace, Ossian was stunning.

Gone were his casual white linen shirt and buckskin trousers. Black boots, oiled to a shine to match the gleam of his copper curls, rose to just below the knee. Hunter-green lambswool fashioned his tunic, edged in black velvet. The cut of the fabric was so precise it revealed every curve and swell of powerful muscle concealed beneath, something I ignored despite the stolen bond’s suggestion to do otherwise. A cape of green edged and lined with black fell from his shoulders, a gold chain lashing it in place.

At his throat, the gold wire necklace with its many gemstones and blue cloch contrasted against his bronze skin.

And dangling from a silver chain a little lower, the filigree key.

Ossian didn’t slouch on his throne this time; his posture was regal but relaxed, hands melding softly against the armrests. His attentive gaze was mildly amused at the sight of the honey badger flinging rose petals this way and that; his jewel-green eyes widened when they spied me astride the back of the white mare.

Shari’s clever fingers had braided my hair more intricately than a challah loaf, weaving in bits of white baneberry to resemble pearls. She’d fashioned my dress to accentuate my curves, both top and bottom, the bodice snug against my ribs. The neckline revealed a ridiculous amount of cleavage, but if that helped keep the Stag Man distracted, I was all for it.

His gaze certainly dipped, his mouth parting, but he didn’t move from this throne to greet me as Daphne approached the dais. To his right and left were more than half of what remained of the Brotherhood—eight magic hunters. Alec and Shane were in their usual places on either side of his throne. The Brotherhood was dressed in their customary black, their expressions stoic or downright hostile. Not one of them was unscathed from the recent skirmishes with the Coalition enforcers. And while they had gained wounds, they had lost some of their Faerish scripts.

Except for the faelight Brother bearing the gyfu-gar rune. He looked healthy and hale with a handful of new Faerish scripts covering his skin.

While that didn’t bode well for me, it meant one very important thing to someone else.

Lewellyn’s still alive.

Had he been drained, the other Brothers wouldn’t look so haggard and beaten.

I didn’t feel an ounce of pity for any of them. That was reserved for the mountain of a grizzly bear slumped in the corner.

The poor beast was pathetically out of place amidst the decorations and splendor of the great hall. There were cheery evergreen garlands everywhere and cream-colored candles everywhere else. A faun I didn’t recognize with a wreath of holly nestled around his horns and blue faelight shining in his eyes was the source of the merry panpipe music. A feast glistened and steamed on the nearby table and promised gluttony, the lavender-colored wedding cake with its three tiers, sweet decadence.

The downtrodden bear had lifted his head from his paws at my entrance, his brown eyes sad and confused. He chuffed and rumbled, trying to get my attention and puzzled why the kind lady was headed for his enemy. The grizzly attempted to rise once, a great heave of his powerful legs, then cried out as Ossian jerked down on the rapier. I had no way of knowing if the callus held, but the bear had been trained to expect excruciating pain from Faebane. He collapsed with a groan, his bewildered gaze drilling into the soul of me and turning my heart to ash.

“Up here, love.”

The fae king flooded the mate bond with all sorts of warm and sultry emotions, but I was prepared this time. While my heart didn’t flutter traitorously in my chest, my attention still dragged to his beautiful, villainous face. He smirked and stood.

Daphne stopped in front of the dais, and I dismounted, Sawyer tucked under one arm.

“Get rid of the cat.”

There was no point in arguing, so I set my familiar down, and Sawyer loped off to join our friends at the trestle table. Shari was already there, having darted in after Daphne and me, working on a basic chain stitch and doing her best not to hyperventilate. Beside her, Emmett leaned in to offer a comforting word or two, and on his other side, Cody looked like he was ready to forgo all ceremony just to get at the closest bottle of wine. And not in a celebratory way.

“Shall we, love?” Ossian asked, striding down the steps of the dais .

Each click of his boots was a nail hammered into my heart—he was a high fae again, except for his antlers, powerful and strong and a force to be reckoned with. His wrath against Redbud would be swift and severe.

He offered me his hand—a patronizing gesture—and I took it, lest I displease him and Faebane sink another inch into the bear.

“Don’t touch the table,” Flora whispered to me as I sat down. I folded my hands in my lap as I waited for the wedding witnesses to join us.

The Brotherhood left their flanking positions to follow us to the table, each nervously taking a seat. Shane sat with his usual stoicism, his gaze on me instead of the feast. Mrs. Bilberry and the hobs had prepared a magnificent spread full of roasted meats and savory pies; bread loaves as big as pumpkins; pears stewed in wine and spices; mushrooms stuffed with sausage; potatoes of every culinary preparation—mashed, roasted, baked, fried, and dauphinoise; salad chock full of nuts and toasted seeds, cheese, figs, and every field green imaginable.

The Brotherhood had never been treated to a spread this decadent, nor had they ever been permitted to dine with the fae king himself. That would’ve been overstepping on their part—they were not his equal. Nor was I, according to their opinion, so there was no shortage of jealous or festering looks shot my way. And, under lowered lashes, towards the Stag Man himself. They had fought and bled for him and received scraps in return while I, his enemy, was treated like a queen (Caer-powder dosing aside). The loss of their Solomon knots had been a brutal blow, but this was an insulting slap to the face.

Alec lifted a glass of blood-red wine with a smirk. “To the happy couple.”

“Any witchy wedding words you need to utter before we eat?” Ossian asked .

“Blessings be,” was all I said.

That wasn’t the whole of the traditional wedding vows a green witch made to their spouse, but it sounded short and sweet and good enough.

At the head of the table, Ossian lifted his own cup. “Blessings be.”

The wedding feast began.