Page 79 of The Hidden Fae Prince
“Why would it be?” Nevander asks. “We’re barely a hundred years apart in age.”
Gods’ spiteful humor. Seren will need a hundred years to get used to fae timelines.
“I accepted with pride,” Nevander says, his words deceptively light. “I was new to the royal guard, elated that my talent was recognized so quickly. Then, mere days after I pledged to protect you, Haelwen hid you with the changeling spell. And I couldn’t fulfill my vow.”
His hand trembles against Seren’s arm.
Seren doesn’t understand. He wants to. He has to. “What does that mean?”
“Have you ever broken a promise?” Nevander asks.
Seren sits up, unable to lie still yet unable to leave Nevander’s side. He’s never broken a promise—the pain of trying was too nauseating. Like hammering iron into his heart.
“But that wasn’t your fault,” Seren says, as if logic can erase the truth. “That isn’t fair.”
Nevander sits with him, a hand sliding behind his neck. “According to human notions of fairness, perhaps. The pain wasn’t always as sharp as you’re imagining. It… settled.”
Seren takes comfort in Nevander’s scent. Leather, blood, honeysuckle. He can’t imagine two decades of agony. Pain so constant it becomes part of the body. “Could Haelwen not release you?”
Nevander’s touch falters, then steadies. “She refused, and I’m glad of that.” A kiss warms Seren’s forehead. “I’m glad my vow waited, ready for the moment of our reunion. I’m glad I thought of you every day and every year.”
Each dizzying truth shakes Seren to the core. He feels unworthy of such devotion, and all he can say is everything. “Nevander.”
“I waited out of duty,” Nevander says, intent. “But you’re more than a duty to me now.” He brushes Seren’s hair back. Like he doesn’t want his hesitation to be mistaken for distance. “Do you still want to escape the throne?”
It’s not an offer.
It’s not a refusal, either.
Seren steals a kiss. Soft, sweet, necessary. He doesn’t know what to do with Nevander’s adoration. What it truly means. He’s sure of one thing, though. “Escaping would be easier, but I want this troublesome throne now. I want to find Briar and avenge Zavriel. And to do that, I need power. I need to matter.”
“I should be glad of that,” Nevander says. “Summer needs your strength and kindness. Yet shamefully, I dream of keeping you for myself.”
“You can,” Seren says, pushing Nevander back to the furs. “For the next two hours.”
Dust spins in the rainbows overhead. Two hours turn into three, then more.
DawnwhispersacrossSpiritwoodbefore Nevander whisks Seren home.
Seren isn’t sure which is strangest, or most welcome. The morning kiss lingering on his lips, or the fact that stridingthrough the palace doors does feel like a homecoming. Sentinel trees, waterfalls, and invisible wards seem to chime in greeting, as if Seren belongs.
Being a stranger might be easier. Half a dozen guards and servants are posted in the cavernous entry hall, and Seren resists fiddling with his silk shirt. Surely passersby can tell what Seren’s done. Kisses must glow like stars on Seren’s skin. Yesterday’s clothes must tell a story clearer than any bard.
But the only true signs of yesterday’s events are the holes in Nevander’s armor. He wears fresh clothes beneath, but the leather cuirass is too large to fit in his carryhold.
Ritekeeper Jasper rushes to greet them, more flustered than Seren has seen them. “Bright morning, Your Highness. I hope your travels were fruitful.”
If those words hide criticism, Seren doesn’t care to find it. “What’s wrong, Ritekeeper?”
Jasper bows, their patchwork robe shimmering. “I wouldn’t say anything is wrong. Lady Morana and Lord Gevain have been bickering. Young Tansy has been reading books.” Jasper glances at Nevander. “Lady Lysandra awaits in the Garden of Rites.”
“When did Lysandra arrive?” Nevander asks, perfectly calm.
“Last night,” Jasper says, wincing.
Lysandra is the royal artificer, Seren recalls. She’s the one who can repair the Summer Crown. And by Jasper’s unease, she isn’t someone to be trifled with.
Nevander simply says, “Waiting is good for her.”
