Page 118 of The Hidden Fae Prince
Seren takes a deep breath, remembering everything Nevander and Primrose taught him about centering himself. He pats an unbruised part of Tansy’s shoulder and stands. His own shoulder twinges with the echo of fangs.
Gevain settles on a chaise longue. He completes the portrait of the courtyard, the white flowers and bright mirrors like an elaborate crown. Everything seems designed to highlight Gevain’s bronzed cheekbones, the red fall of his hair. What Seren thought were lanterns above are actually fish, their scales shining as they swim through the sky.
Seren hates Gevain all the more for twisting such beauty into cruelty. Except the haven is part of Gevain. This is his nature.
“I’m listening,” Seren bites out.
Gevain drapes one arm over the chair back, deliberately comfortable. “I held great admiration for Queen Haelwen. She ruled with such strength of conviction, nary a crack in her armor.”
Old grief surges into new suspicion. Seren never knew that Haelwen. He only met her in the cold serenity of death. She was sick, Nevander said. But she died by magic.
“Yet she had one weakness,” Gevain muses. “She was always so alone.”
“Did you kill her?” Seren demands, anger cooling into a blade.
But Gevain scoffs. “Obviously not. I wanted to marry her. But you’ll do in her stead.”
The absurdity shocks a laugh from Seren. “You think I’d marry you after this?”
Gevain shrugs. “Asking nicely didn’t work.”
This must be a joke. Seren isn’t worth so much effort to court. Except Gevain isn’t smiling, and he doesn’t wantSeren. He wants the Prince of Summer, born Calithel. Morana called Seren a puppet, and Gevain wants to hold the strings.
“You’re deranged,” Seren says.
“And you care about that little human.” A filigreed knife appears in Gevain’s hand. “Arranging this meeting has required a great deal of effort, and I want more than just a marriage now. I want a lifebond. The three of us will wait here until you consent.”
A lifebond. That would protect Gevain from Nevander’s revenge, because Nevander couldn’t kill him without harming Seren too. At least if Seren remembers the logistics correctly. He feels unmoored, cut off from Summer’s embrace, lost beneath shining fish and changeless sunset.
“You can’t hold this haven forever,” Seren says, hoping he’s right. Havens are powerful magic. Power has limits.
“I can’t,” Gevain admits, twirling the knife. “But I can cut off Tansy’s fingers, one by one.”
Seren’s stomach churns, caught between Gevain’s threat and the small whimper behind him.
Tansy’s breath is shallow, unable to hide his fear. “It’s fine. I’ll get new fingers.”
Seren wants to comfort him, but he isn’t human like Tansy. The lies stick in his throat. He can’t even comfort himself in his own head. He just keeps wishing for Nevander, becauseNevander knows how to protect people. Nevander doesn’t freeze in a crisis.
Gevain’s voice softens. “Everything I’ve ever told you is true. An alliance would help us both. You’ve seen my power. Imagine how we could protect our thrones together.”
His words flow in a seductive song.
“Born to Summer, but a stranger still,” Gevain continues. “Morana won’t be the last challenger, as long as you show weakness. How many times must your dear Nevander risk his life as your champion?”
Seren flinches.
He hated watching Nevander dive below Morana’s blade. Crashing into the ritual barrier, scattering feathers. He hated the sight of Nevander facing Lord Midnight and his augrays beneath fog and tree. Dark steel piercing Nevander through.
The first time they met, Nevander stood between Seren and an augray. Seren was too scared to worry about anyone besides himself that day. He hadn’t known that image would define his life—a golden warrior between him and danger.
But that’s for Seren and Nevander to argue over. Nobody else gets to intrude. Seren stands alone now, defending not only Tansy but Nevander, too. Even if he isn’t here.
“He’ll fight for me as many times as he must,” Seren says, fists clenched. “That’s why you went to all this trouble. Because you could never defeat him.”
Gevain’s frown sharpens to a smile. “I don’t want to take your throne, simply share it. You can keep Lord Nevander in your bed, too.”
He rises in a waterfall of white silk and descends the dais. His bearing is regal, his words intimate.
