Page 40 of Ruin of Revenants

King Wystan sneered, waving toward Archer. “Dispense justice, son.”

Spots danced across my vision as Archer’s grasp on my waist tightened more as he leaned past me to study the prisoner. I glanced over my shoulder to find that his eyes were dark, their color reminding me of deep shadows against the jungle canopy, and the line of his jaw was tense. Don’t move. Don’t react. His thoughts were as curt as I imagined his voice would have been if he could have spoken aloud.

Archer had me trapped in his lap, unable to flee or fight against what was about to happen. Already, I could tell he was pushing his influence into the male, changing the phoenix shifter’s expression to one of dreamlike contentment. I knew that feeling. The male would be confused but overwhelmed with peace and a desire to please the prince, to do anything he said.

Archer’s voice, contrary to his expression, turned charming. The hairs on the back of my neck rose. “Take this dagger,” he said, tossing it to the grass before the kneeling prisoner.

“Yes, Your Highness.” The guards released him, allowing him to move freely and eagerly. On chained hands and knees, the prisoner scrabbled forward and lifted the blade.

“Plunge it into your heart,” Archer continued, his words like a caress. I shivered and shifted forward almost without realizing it, desperate to stop the violence from playing out before my eyes. Archer entangled his arms around me, pulling me against him.

The prisoner bowed his head, turning the blade back on himself.

Blood sprayed.

My vision darkened.

My strangled cry was drowned in the crowd’s cheers and shouts of glee. A chant began as they burst into song and dance, circling around the body bleeding into the grass.

I glanced down to find blood staining the hem of my dress, and a wave of nausea coursed through me.

“It seems my bride imbibed too much earlier while celebrating our upcoming marriage,” Archer announced for his father’s benefit. The rest of the party was too overcome with their celebrations and the uproarious music that was playing to notice as he stood, lifting me into his arms, cradling me as if I were a helpless infant.

I didn’t notice what the king or princess did or said, instead tucking my face against Archer’s jacket. The warmth of his body disgusted me, and I wanted to rage and scream at him, to pound against his chest and demand he set me down. But I also didn’t want to look at the corpse or the celebrations, and I didn’t want anyone to see my horror and condemn me.

The world spun as Archer stormed away from the feast and back toward the castle.

Pretend you’re carefree and drunk if you’re about to pass out. Archer’s voice was gruff in my mind.

I didn’t have the strength to respond.

For the longest time, I simply breathed, listening to my own heartbeat pound in my ears. Inhaling the scent of Archer’s soap, which reminded me of cedar and leather, along with that lingering parchment and ink from all his time in the library or at his writing desk. I buried my fingers in his jacket, focusing on the texture.

Slowly, the sounds of the party, growing blessedly distant, reached my ears as my pulse slowed and my breathing evened out.

As the horror wore off, anger set in, and with it, strength returned to my limbs.

With a frustrated growl, I pushed against Archer’s chest, hard. It startled him enough that he lost his grip, and he had to scramble to catch me from falling. Don’t be a fool. His tone was like a growl.

I kicked and struggled, forcing myself from his grasp until I collapsed, rolling, in the grass. Two sets of boots down the path warned me that we had witnesses.

Instead of standing and confronting Archer, I forced myself to giggle like a drunk. “Silly me!” Staggering to my feet, I swayed, letting the prince catch me as I stumbled.

Clearing his throat, Archer dipped his chin in acknowledgement of the nearby guards. “I’m afraid my bride had too much merriment.” To my relief, he didn’t try to carry me again, instead slipping an arm around my waist to support me as I walked down the path toward the castle.

It was still too much. I wanted to scream at him, to weep, to drown in my horror. But I pasted on my fake smile and pretended to be a besotted lover instead. I let Archer’s scent and warmth wash over me as he helped me to the castle, up the steps, and through the halls. There were servants and guests meandering everywhere, the party having unfortunately spilled into the castle as other inebriated fae passed out or otherwise made fools of themselves. Their excess had never disgusted me as much as it did now, knowing they wined and dined and danced and sang while murdering my kind.

Skin hot, I let Archer toy with my hair as we passed a couple who paused to wish us congratulations.

“When will the wedding celebration take place?” the female asked eagerly, her wide blue eyes falsely innocent. She knew what the royal family did, knew phoenix shifters were being exterminated and the lowly fae on the outskirts of the kingdom were being threatened with horrifying revenants. But all she wanted was a reason to wear a lovely gown, dance until her feet were sore, and drink until her thoughts melted into oblivion.

I wanted to scream.

“After my birthday,” Archer said, offering them a chuckle and shooting me a look like he couldn’t wait.

If I vomit on your boots, it won’t spoil our farce since I’m supposed to be drunk.

Archer’s smile tightened, but he didn’t respond, instead returning to leading me up the staircase as if he too was desperate to leave the party.