“Not with the spindle in our possession. I know I talked about bartering it, but if we could figure out how to use it, we’d be invincible,” Nick says.
Max looks down at her hands, chewing on her bottom lip.
Nick squints at his twin. “You know something.”
“You have to promise we’ll decide what to do together, if we find it.”
“Speak, Maxie.”
“Those crates stacked along the wall ring a bell. Mabel took one to Devi’s last week, but I never knew what was inside.”
Nick springs to his feet and slaps the mahogany table in victory. “That’s it. Mabel gave it to Devi, and then Devi mysteriously leaves for Faerie a few days later? That’s no coincidence. Is there a chance she didn’t take it with her?”
Max gives a sharp nod. “Devi’s smart. If she planned to use the spindle as leverage, she might’ve left it at home.”
Nick beelines for the front door. “I’ll go check.”
“Stop. It can wait until tomorrow,” Max calls after him. “The Mist King might have offered me a reprieve, but he might be spying on us. It’s still safer to move during the day. We’ll both go to Devi’s in the morning. Together.”
Nick’s knuckles whiten around the door handle, the tick in his jaw telegraphing his annoyance—or perhaps signaling an impending rebuttal—but he finally buries his hands in his jeans pockets. “Alright.”
Max sets their teacups in the sink. “Well, I’m off to bed.” She pauses, then tosses her twin brother a dangerous look. “And I’d better not catch you trying to sneak out of here.”
She smooths out her threat with a wink. “Good night.”
Nick chuckles under his breath, shaking his head, as though he was about to do just that. “Night, sis.”
The sound of Max’s footsteps on the stairs makes me weak in the knees.
I need to talk her down from the ledge of this marriage business and reassure her that, whoever I was in life, all of me belongs to her in death. I saw how crushed she was to find Mabel’s two married grandsons on the tree, two princes whose names brought bile to my mouth.
Truth is, I’m not curious anymore. I don’t care about the names on the wall, the crown I might have worn, or the man I was before I became this. If learning his name means losingMax, then that man can rot. He can keep his titles, his bloodline, and his carefully chosen wife. None of it matters. None of it feels real compared to the way I feel about her.
Whatever kingdom I belonged to, whatever throne once waited for me, they’re all obstacles, now. I don’t want power or a Fae crown. I want a body that can cage Max in, that can make her forget the world beyond my hands. A mouth that can trace the shape of her name against her skin. I want to exist where she exists, to breathe the same dusty air, to stand close enough that she feels the certainty of me. To be a man again, not this restless thing bound to shadows and longing.
And if the price of that is turning my back on my old life, then let it stay buried. I would forsake every version of myself that ever ruled anything just to have Max look at me and know I am here, that I am hers, and that whatever happens next, I’ll be standing by her side.
Chapter 22
Rebound
MAX
My bedroom is barely lit, the curtains cracked open just enough to let a blade of moonlight cut across the painted forest on my walls. The shadowed outlines of pine, rowan, and fir shimmer faintly in the dark. I painted every tiny piece of bark, every pine needle. After I moved here, I built myself a replacement forest, a safe haven I would never have to leave. The bed beneath the baldaquin canopy still holds the dip where I sat earlier, marking the center of my nest.
There’s no mist in the gardens tonight, no frost crawling over the windowpanes. My conversation with the Mist King bought us a reprieve, but a short one. Three days. Three days until we either give him what he wants—which is not an option—or watch what little piece of this world I claimed as mine crumble to ash.
If Nick and I put our minds to it, maybe we could carve out a third option. Stand our ground. Defend this house. But how long could we last, trapped inside these walls, never stepping beyond the threshold, waiting for someone to save us?
I trace the outline of a painted rowan leaf and swallow hard. If I know my brother and myself, we’ve already spent toomuch of our lives cooped up in safe houses. Hiding in pantries. Holding our breath.
Enough is enough.
E is waiting for me on the floor of my bedroom after eavesdropping on my conversation with Nick. I know where he is at all times now—not by sight, but by pull. When he moves, the air responds by creating a subtle shift against my skin.
I wanted him to hear. I’d hoped Nick might spill the beans on the Spindle of the Gods and spare me from breaking my promise.
“Hi,” I greet him.
