Page 17 of Slaying the Shifter Prince
His tone prickled across my shoulders. Apparently, the fae’s preoccupation with manners didn’t stretch to their pets.
Dozens of pairs of eyes turned to me. Celestine held still, but her lips thinned the slightest fraction. The others leant in. A couple exchanged glances as though silently placing bets on whether I’d obey or defy their prince.
Who said I only had two options?
I smiled sweetly and went to the decanter of deep purple liquid I could only assume was some sort of fae wine. Taking my time, I approached the prince, swinging my hips, making each step a slow saunter.
Oh yes, I was absolutely playing up to my audience. And they drank me up, unblinking.
I took his glass and poured, lifting the decanter high above its rim to give a little theatre. With an unreadable curve to his lips, the prince watched from hooded eyes.
I held them as I deposited the decanter on the table with a little flourish.
Now for mypièce de résistance.
My third option.
Still smiling, still maintaining eye contact with the arrogant, murdering prick, I bent my head over the glass and spat.
Someone gasped. A few chuckled. A couple hissed.
The prince didn’t move, not even when I held out his drink.
Silence reigned over the room, pregnant with the undivided attention of his followers.
The anticipation buzzed in me, bright and alive. What would he do? How was he going to react? Surely he wouldn’t drink my spit, not in front of all these cronies. That would be shameful.
Or had I gambled wrong? Was this different for fae in a way I didn’t understand? Would it not dent his pride as much as it would a human’s?
Slowly, so slowly I didn’t spot it at first, his mouth spread in a smile terrible and beautiful.
He took the glass, and before I could turn, he caught me by the waist. “Come here, little bird.”
Like I had a choice. The threat of a laugh bubbled in my chest, but my throat was too tight to let it out.
His claws pricked through the light silk of my dress as he reeled me in until I stood pressed against the arm of his chair. The wood bit into my hipbones, but I refused to pull away.
He came close and it must’ve been the sheer size of him that set my heart pounding—a reminder of the danger he posed. And yet wasn’t danger sometimes thrilling?
My sister and I had played a game as children, when the nights were dark and we were alone. One would wait for the other, tucked around a corner or behind a door, and jump out at the perfect, terrifying moment. There was no winning, no rules, just the surprise and the inevitable shriek. My heart would beat like thunder as I crept through the darkness, knowing she was waiting.
This was something like that, a spike of fear. But where I’d always been safe with Zinnia, now with this fae prince who’d murdered her, I was not.
Still, my body didn’t seem to understand that, because the same thrill ran through me. And I must’ve been starved of feeling for so long that it had made me sick, because I threw myself upon it, like an offering on an altar.
The prince’s hand trailed up my spine until he cupped the back of my head. “Drink.” He pressed the glass to my lips and tipped it back.
I had no chance to pull away or even snatch a breath before it was spilling over my tongue. Sweet and sharp, heavy and thick with blackberries and something spiced like winter buns. I gulped it down and went to take a breath when the pressure of the glass on my lip eased.
But he didn’t take it away.
His grip tightened on the back of my head, and he tilted the glass, sloshing more wine into my mouth.
It filled my throat, and I choked it down as best I could, but a trickle went the wrong way and I ended up coughing as much as swallowing.
Still, he didn’t stop.
“Go on. Give her more.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see it was the horned, grey creature speaking. He bent over the table as though keen to get as close as possible to the spectacle.
