Page 32 of The Court the Fae Forgot
It was my turn to scream the command, as shocking as the sound of it was, even to myself.
Unlike my mother’s cries, my demand made the fae stop—however difficult that was. His shoulders heaved as he froze mid-strike, the muscles of his back twitching to continue on. His hand gripped the belt so tightly that the metal prongs dug into the skin of his palm, rivulets of blood dripping down in the sudden silence that had fallen. Even after he’d straightened up, it was several long seconds before he was able to force himself to turn slowly, methodically, with all the self-control he could muster, so that his eyes finally met mine. He didn’t turn all the way to face me. He kept his body squared toward my father, his hand at the ready to strike again should the man now cowed and sobbing on the floor dare to move.
He looked down at me in profile, the sharp line of his jaw and strong nose illuminated by the flickering candlelight behind. His tanned skin was flecked with dark speckles of blood, either his own, or my father’s, or both, I wasn’t sure.
“Stop,” I echoed again, this time closer to a whisper.
The fae, still unwilling to take his eyes off of mine, pointed the belt at the bloodied shape at his feet. “Had I not arrived in time, this man was going to kill you. Are you so certain you want to spare him?”
Together, we looked at the pitiful excuse for a man now reduced to a quivering ball on the floor.
I should have felt compassion. Sympathy. Empathy, really, for all the times I’d been forced to endure that same lash. But the longer I looked at my father, all I felt was my own shame for not feeling anything.
Still, however, despite all that, I didn’t want him dead. Not like this. Not in front of Ada and my mother, an image sure to haunt their nightmares every time they closed their eyes.
And then I felt worse still, that that was the only thing stopping me from telling the fae, with the still heaving chest and hand gripping the belt so tight his knuckles had gone white,notto kill my father.
We might have stood there forever, stuck in a stalemate while my own guilt only piled higher and higher, if Finch and their third fae companion didn’t step up to his side. The newest fae, his hair that same golden-brown color tied up in a braided bun, held out his hand—into which the bloodied belt was reluctantly pressed.
It was discarded with a hiss in the embers glowing red in the fire.
My mother took this as a sign. With one hand wrapped around my sister’s shoulders, her eyes still on the three fae now standing between us, she crept around the edge of the room until she managed to find and tug at my father’s outstretched hand. His one good hand. Together, they half-crawled back to cower against the opposite wall.
“What are you doing here?”
My question surprised even myself. The adrenaline that had taken over my body since Ada’s echoing screams down by the river had finally begun to wear off, leaving in its place such a strange concoction of emotions that I didn’t know what to think of them—let alone what to do.
I should have felt gratitude for the fae saving me. I should have felt fear for what they were. I should have felt anger for what my father had nearly done, what he would have done had the fae not stepped in, just as he said.
Instead, as that adrenaline faded, in its place was simple, pure, exhaustion.
Weeks at the mill had left me fatigued, to say nothing of my body, now bruised and bleeding nearly as badly as the man sneering at me from where he’d huddled beside my mother in the corner.
I was drained. Purely, mentally, emotionally, drained.
I didn’t have any idea why the fae were here. I had no energy left in me to try to guess.
So, I asked them, expecting little more than a riddle in response. That was why, when the first fae, the one now speckled with blood after beating my father within an inch of his life for laying a hand on me, surprised me fully when he turned, kneeled, and reached to clutch my hand within both of his.
Both the other fae followed suit, kneeling at his side.
He took my hand and kissed it, pressing his blood flecked lips to my own stained skin. I flinched at the pain of his hand touching my new wounds, but I didn’t pull away.
I didn’t think I could if I tried.
These were fae. And they were kneeling … for me?
“My name is Shiel of the Western Court,” the first said, his hand reaching for a sword strapped at his side.
The other two fae bowed their heads as well, offering the same with a simple touch of their hands to swords at their sides as well. Across the room, I thought I saw my father still at the sight. Perhaps he was realizing how lucky he was that they hadn’t thought to reach for those same swords a little too soon.
It was impossible to pay any further attention to my family, however, not with the three fae glowing gold before me.
“Zev, also of the Western Court,” the newest of the fae, the only one I’d yet to meet before tonight, introduced himself. He alone didn’t look up to meet my gaze, but I thought I caught the slightest hint of a shy blush coloring his cheeks. It contrasted against the black ink tattooed across his skin like a patchwork of images, each one bleeding into the next.
I didn’t even know fae could blush before tonight.
“And you already know who I am,” Finch said, flashing me a wicked grin from beneath his unruly mop of golden hair.
