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If only there was time to show her, time to love her, time to convince her to stay with us.
Time might not matter if we don’t get to her now.
The century I spent locked in stone frustrated, irritated, and humiliated. But this? It’s terrifying—a gut-wrenching fear that we’re about to lose our chance at Rosemarie becoming queen and our redemption.
On the opposite side of the roof, my brother must be enduring the same agony. Given the scents of passion and arousal in his room earlier, something has already happened between those two. She might not know my twin’s history, but I do. I’ve ventured to the demon-run pleasure houses for monsters and other creatures. I’ve known physical desires and release. Jace has not.
And he won’t if we can’t get to Rosemarie before whatever has terrified her so.
I force myself to put faith in Darok, the orc I hired, to protect her, except he doesn’t have a personal stake in her life like my twin and I do.
A pulse of magic skitters over my wings. I fight to get free of the stone. Another ribbon of enchantment thrums along the claws on my hands, and I flex my fingers, begging the Bridge to let me pound my fists into whatever threatens my mate. The next wave of powers releases me from my bonds, and I jump from the tower, wings outstretched.
My anger morphs into a cruel, ugly thing that will destroy anyone who dares touch Rosemarie. I spiral to the ground in a dizzying rush, hellbent on ripping apart whatever villain made her scream. I land softly, giving her attacker no warning of the havoc to come.
Except…no threat lurks outside the front door. There’s no sign of Darok either. The door’s closed, still intact. Whatever fight may have happened, it didn’t leave any proof. It rained during the day, slicking off our statue selves, but the muddy ground gives no clues. The frame and rocks around the door have no scratches, and I can’t find any spilled or spattered blood.
Jace lands behind me, nodding his assent before we attack.
Kicking open the door, we charge inside, only to find Rona peeling potatoes.
“Don’t track mud in here if you’re not wanting to soil your queen’s new dresses,” she snaps. “And you’ll be fixing that door before dawn.”
I don’t dare argue with a brownie. Their pranks are legendary, their household hijinks epic. “Is Rosemarie?—”
She waves the knife toward the great hall. “She’s with the Spidress.”
“The Spidress?” Jace asks. “She doesn’t leave the Web of Wares.”
“I know that,” I tell him. “Everyone knows that.”
He stares at me as if I can shed light on the impossible. “What did you say to her?”
I tell him the simple truth. “I left a message at the Web of Wares asking her to outfit Rosemarie, but she sent a refusal through one of her many apprentices. I’d planned to go back tonight with our queen to convince her.”
“It seems,” Rona says, “your lady has a fear of spiders.”
Shit. If Rosemarie is scared of spiders, one that stands as tall as Jace would’ve come as a shock.
My brother hurries toward the great hall with me following on the tips of his tucked wings.
Feminine laughter stops us in the doorway. Our great hall is not so large as the meeting room at the queen’s tower, but it has plenty of space to spar, a fireplace for cold nights, and enormous windows that face away from the After Worlds. The scents of oranges, linen, and perfume fill the air. Bolts of fabric, boxes of laces and ribbons, and an open chest with spools of thread in every color clutter the room.
In the far corner, Darok feasts on a turkey leg with chunks of bread, a linen napkin in the orc’s lap as if he’s dining at a fancy restaurant. Rosemarie stands on a small dais, dwarfed by the Spidress who studies her like she might become one of us and turn to stone. Apprentices rush to follow their mistress’s orders. In the flurry of rustling paper and snapping fabric, no one notices us.
I stare, blink, and stare some more. Who’d have believed the Spidress would lower herself to come here to help us save ourselves from execution? If she believes in our candidate, we truly have a shot.
Jace nudges me with his shoulder and whispers, “If we’re this worried about a simple wardrobe session, how are we supposed to get our Rosemarie through the trials?” Our. He called her our Rosemarie, his tone holding none of his earlier doubt.
“You believe me then?” I ask. “That she’s our queen, our mate?” He must, to sound so certain.
“I believe she’s got the best chance if she chooses to stay, but I won’t force her. This wasn’t her choice. You guilted her into it.”
“I did what I had to do—to save us and the Bridge.”
“Tell yourself whatever you must. I won’t lose another candidate.” He scowls at me. “No matter what it costs us. She comes first.”
I don’t know which is worse. Knowing that it falls to me to protect my brother, or knowing that I won’t hesitate to destroy anyone who dares to interfere with crowning Rosemarie—even if it’s Jace.
