Page 13 of A Thief Among Fae

I swallow. “You have no idea how badly I needed that bezoar.”

“Not badly enough to buy one in Mythos.” He glares at my fist as though he might crush it for touching him. Then the violence suddenly fades.

When he lets go, I wrench my hand away. My shoulder stings with a sharp pain as the clotted dagger wound threatens to open. “I don’t have marks, but do you know what I do have? Gems worth a hundredfold more than a damn bezoar, but what does it matter if that hag wants none of it? Thanks to you, my sister will be dead within hours.” I keep my voice low, barely containing my rage.

“She’s poisoned?” he asks, unnervingly calm.

I nod.

His brows furrow. “Oh.”

“You don’t get to oh me! She’s going to die and—” My throat chokes, but I force steel into it. “I need your ring. The one with bone in it.”

He crosses his arms, the epitome of regal indifference. “And why would I give it to you?”

This is why I despise the nobility, especially royalty. They would never lift a finger to help a peasant, even in life-or-death circumstances. I’m a fool to think he’ll help me, but I have to try.

“The hag wants it. I’ll trade whatever you want for it.” My voice hitches, turning my offer into a plea. “Even myself.” None of my dreams are worth living if Evie’s gone.

Wary shoppers weave around us. In a shithole like this, survival is knowing not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. That’s a lesson both of us should’ve heeded. He shouldn’t have ruined my trade to satisfy his own moral compass, and I should know better than to chase after him. But I can’t let him leave. I need his ring so badly I’m queasy with desperation.

Vital seconds pass, and he doesn’t respond. He just stares at me.

Frustration boils inside me, clawing its way up my throat. I scoff, my resolve slipping away. This is a fool’s errand. He isn’t going to help me. I’ve wasted time accosting a Seelie prince who could ensorcell me with a snap of his fingers. I’m lucky I’m not dead, or bewitched into servitude, or whatever princes do when someone pisses them off.

All of the warnings my parents gave me to steer clear of fae, and I’ve thrown myself before one of the most powerful of them all.

Evie needs me. I’ll get a bezoar another way.

As I heft my pack and turn away, pain spikes along my shoulder. Warm blood slowly darkens my tunic. Shit. I’ll worry about that later.

“Wait,” the fae prince calls out, an imploring edge to his voice. His hand closes on my wrist when I don’t stop, and I whirl around to face him again.

“What?” I snap. “Unless you’ve changed your mind, I don’t have time for it.”

“I want to warn you against dripping unclaimed blood. You’re asking to be tied up in an unsanctioned spell or have a blood-drinker follow your trail like it’s a treasure map.” He unsheathes a sword from his hip and cuts a strip from the velvet inner lining of his cloak. “Here.” He offers it to me, and my eyes blow wide.

“I can’t accept that.” There’s always a cost to unsolicited gifts in faery tales, and it’s his ring that I need.

His jaw ticks. “I was rather fond of this cloak. It would be a shame to have ruined it for nothing.”

“Then you should’ve asked if I wanted it before you cut it up,” I retort, earning a darker glare. Gods, I’ve really pissed him off now. My feet shift, angling so I can dart between the stalls beside us to evade him.

He grabs my arm, tugs it toward him, and examines the blood trickling down my skin. I stiffen as he wipes the tattered strip up my arm, collecting every drop. Then he loops it over my shoulder, under my arm, and back over again until the wound is covered. He ties the makeshift bandage off with a bow.

My mouth opens, but no words come out. Maybe I’ve frozen up in fear, but it feels more like shock. The prince of the Hollowlands just bandaged my shoulder.

He examines his handiwork with a detached stare, as if it was an irksome chore. Then he lets go of me, removes his ring, and places it on his palm. His curls shift as he tilts his head, encouraging me to take it.

As soon as I hold out my hand, his fingers snap over the ring. “I didn’t say it’s free. That statuette would suffice for a trade. Consider it payment for the bandage as well.”

“I thought you said it’s cursed.”

He shrugs. “I asked you if I had mentioned its cursed state. I didn’t say it was cursed.”

I roll my eyes at the wordplay. I’m not surprised that he wants to trade. It’s supposedly a fae custom to never dole charity or receive it. A kiss for a ribbon, an apple for a horseshoe, or your firstborn for an enchanted axe.

I take it out of my pack but keep it tight in my fist. “If you’re lying about giving me the ring. . .”