Unless they want Rose to lose it.
What could they possibly gain from her slaughtering what must be hundreds of noble fae?
My mantra seems to hold until a tanned hand reaches out of the crowd.
I go to flinch—or perhaps to strike back; I’ll never know. Before I can, the hand drops to the floor, sliced clean off.
“Whoops!” Lore whistles innocently. “My knife slipped.” The redcap looks around the silent but watching crowd, cocking his head before sighing. “And I’m afraid it might slip again if anyone else tries to touch what belongs to the Goddess Incarnate.”
The owner of the hand, a high fae male with deep blue eyes who once delighted in carving my tattoos from my body as he rode my cock, finally realises what’s happened. Lore’s blade must have been sharp for the pain to take this long to register—or perhaps it’s simply shock.
He opens his mouth wide and releases the most girlish scream I’ve ever heard. The crowd moves away from him, distancing themselves.
Good. No one came to help me when I screamed, either.
“Lore?” Rose’s voice cuts through the savage satisfaction surging through my veins.
“Just topping up my hat, pet!” he calls, dragging his bright red bucket hat through the mess on the sun-bleached flagstones.
“Control your under fae, Nicnevin,” Máel advises. “They are obviously not yet acclimatised to the rules of civilised society.”
Rose shrugs, but those beautiful purple eyes are living flames. “Neither was the fae who decided to touch my Guard without consent. Danu would’ve done worse than remove his hand.”
She was watching? Wait. She’s a necromancer. What am I thinking? She doesn’t have to watch.
The three past Nicnevins must be keeping her up to date on everything as it happens. Just like they’ve been keeping her updated on Caed and Florian.
Shit.
“Wine, Nicnevin?” Ciara tries to defuse the situation by selecting an amphora from a nearby table and tipping the pale pink fizzing drink into the glass.
The Summer Court is famous for its vineyards. My mother’s family owns a few, not that I’ve visited beyond that one terrible incident when I was a teenager. As Rose takes an obliging sip, I watch her shoulders relax and her lips crease into a soft smile.
“It tastes like…” She cocks her head in thought, then shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “It’s delicious.”
Someone presses a glass into my hand before I can recoil in distaste, and I have to resist the urge to drop it.
“To the Nicnevin,” Máel calls out, though technically Ciara should’ve been the one to make the toast. “May she enjoy her time amongst the finest citizens the Summer Court has to offer.”
Her elitism isn’t even subtle, but I don’t really care. There are high fae who believe that their very nature makes them special rather than a simple reference to the fact that, thousands of years ago, most of them had wings.
Of course, many of them still do, but it’s impossible to tell because of the number who glamour them to conceal their perceived weakness. Apparently, their numbers have fallen since Danu poured life into the realm. Fae like Eero would have everyone believe that it was mingling with the under fae that was responsible.
Personally, I think it’s inbreeding.
The fae around me are all drinking, so I force the glass to my lips and pretend to sip, keeping my lips sealed to prevent the liquid from touching my tongue.
Perhaps it’s bad luck not to drink to my mate, but…
No. Not thinking about it.
Someone raises a wreath of nightshade high and drapes it gently over Rose’s head, followed by the rest of us—well, they try to. Drystan glares at the fae holding his until they back away slowly, Lore takes his, then immediately transfers it to Wraith’s neck, and Jaro growls until they back off.
A look and a head tilt towards the redcap stops the one headed for me in its tracks.
I turn to regard the others, but they’re already gone, following Rose deeper into the crowd. The high fae are still giving me looks but give me a wide berth as I follow Jaro’s head—easily visible, thanks to his height—through the crowd.
Wait.
