Page 108 of Prince of the Sun

I twist around, not caring about the presence of our friends—and my little brother—and throw my arms over his neck. I drag his face down to mine and kiss him urgently, furiously, channeling the thrill of our escape into my desire to feel his lips all over my body.

“Gross,” Cara says from behind.

Without breaking the kiss, I give her the finger.

It’s Michael’s voice that pulls me away. “Quinn? Where are we going now?”

Reluctantly, I pull back from Daerios, leaving one handclutching the drenched front of his cloak. “Now, Mikey.” My lips spread into a smile. “We go home.”

We tear through the forest at a dead sprint. We’re hoping that the monsters lurking beneath the river will deter the guards from crossing over to the other side, but a few are bound to make it over. Plus, we’re on a clock—any moment now, King Ariar will arrive with an army of deadly elves in tow. My light will do nothing against them, nor will our army of two Sun Elves, no matter how skilled they might be. We have to move fast, or we’ll miss our only chance to make it back to Earth.

Naturally, Michael is the slowest runner. He has long legs, but I doubt the Shadow Elves allowed him to get much use out of them over the last seven years. He’s weak—physically and mentally. I don’t have time to talk with him about the trauma of his capture right now, but once we’re home, the second place he’s going—after the hospital—is a therapist. A good one.

It takes several hours to crash through the forest. On several occasions, urrath or skria jump into our path, but Daerios and Berendir don’t even need to draw their swords. I slice open a line on my palm, shine it on the beasts, and they scatter faster than startled pigeons.

Less than a mile to the end of the forest, Michael’s legs give out. He can’t go on. My heart jumps frantically around in my chest, knowing we have no time left to spare. Just as I’m about to suggest we take a minute to rest, Daerios bends over, scoops Michael into his arms, and starts to run again.

Cara and I trade a look. Then we follow.

Even with Michael’s long limbs bouncing chaotically about in Daerios’s arms, the prince’s pace doesn’t falter. He leads us through the last mile. At the end of the tree line, we burst through the black leaves and branches, out into the clearing.

And that’s when we see the army.

Not the Shadow King’s—Varith Ariar’s. He stands at the foot of the mountain, Saechon on one side, Adan Meldë on the other. A cluster of soldiers stand around them, but the army doesn’t end there; it extends far up the path we followed down the mountain, a poisonous serpent ready to slither down and descend upon us.

“Perfect!” The king claps, grinning like a TV show host. “We’re all here. You’ve saved us the trouble of dragging the Lightbearer through the portalandstorming Árrion to rescue her brother to fulfill our end of the bargain.” He takes a few steps forward and claps his son on the shoulder. “Well done, my boy.”

Daerios flinches. In another lifetime, that compliment might have made him euphoric. He’s finally getting what he wants: the respect of a father who never took him seriously, who wrote him off as a fool, a failure, happy to pass his time on Earth with booze and women and very little else. And maybe thatwasDaerios, for a time. A son who sought the title of family fuck-up because he thought it would shield him from his father’s inevitable disappointment. But beneath it all, he was just Daerios. Just a little boy longing for his father’s approval.

Now, 163 years later, he has it. He has a hand on his shoulder, those eyes gazing at him with pride.

And he looks like he wants to throw up.

“Why the long face, son?” The king’s hand drops, coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. “Am I to believe that youdidn’tcarry out this mission on my behalf? Am I to believe that you stole the girl from our tent camp, ferried her into Elaërion, rescued her brother, and were on your way back to hide her on Earth?” He clucks. “I certainly hope not. You of all people should know the consequences for betraying the crown.”

My eyes dart to Daerios, whose face remains a frigid blank. Consequences? What consequences? I had assumed that his status as prince would grant him immunity, or at least keep his punishment to a minimum. But based on the king’s tone…

“She doesn’t know, does she?” King Ariar’s voice pulls my eyes back to him.

“Know what?” I ask.

“She doesn’t.” The King shakes his head. “You have no idea what my son risked in rescuing you. No clue about the punishment set in place for any elf who dares interfere with our mission to salvage Elaërion.”

“What punishment?” I ask, but the king only smiles. I round on the prince, heart hammering, hands clenched into fists at my side. “What punishment, Daerios?”

He won’t even meet my gaze.

“It’s death, Quinn,” King Ariar says, no remorse in his voice. “The punishment for betraying the crown is death.”

The world blurs. Turns a blinding shade of white. My eyes shutter, and I see nothing, hear nothing, smell nothing, am filled to the brim withnothing, nothing, nothing.All I feel is the steady thump of my heart. I expect it to continue pounding against my ribcage, but it does the opposite; it slows. Quiets. Taps softly within me, a caress, a whisper, as if preparing itself to be broken.

When my eyes blink open at last, King Ariar is still talking.“—didn’t know how much he cared for you, eh? Consider that.” He twists around and raises his voice to address his army. “Daerios Ariar, in love! Who would have thought?”

On cue, the army bursts into laughter, Saechon right along with them. Saechon, laughing at his brother’s impending death. I want to strangle him.

Impending death.

I look to Daerios, who has finally raised his eyes to meet my gaze. There are no tears, no regret.I’m sorry,his eyes seem to say,but I would do it again. I would do it a thousand times over.