Page 4 of Heart of the Raven Prince

Gods-damned fucking traitors.

“Open the tent,” the general says when we come to a halt. The camp may be cramped, with smaller tents pitched as close to each other as possible, but when I crane my neck, I see we’re in a small clearing. Almost as if none of the soldiers want to be closer to whoever resides here.

“Er, General, is he expecting you?” a timid male voice asks. I feel a growl reverberate through the general, and it is the only answer the soldier gets. “It is just that he requested to be left alone, to rest after the battle—”

Before the soldier can finish his sentence, I hear the distinct sound of someone being shoved aside. The next thing I know, I’m carried through the night and into a blissfully warm tent. Before I can appreciate the heat creeping into my freezing body, I’m tossed onto the ground flat on my back. I let out a grunt on impact, my bound hands digging painfully into my back.

“I suspect the meaning of this interruption is one of note, General?” A low, velvety voice fills the quiet tent, and the momentary heat that caressed my skin instantly cools. That prickling of magic returns, but this time, the intensity borders on unbearable. I concentrate on breathing as I stare up at the tent ceiling moving gently in the wind that wails outside. Whatever magic fills this room seems to be keeping the coastal chill out, and still, I shiver. Because I suspect I know exactly who that voice belongs to.

“You asked for someone to question,” the general grunts, nudging me with his foot, and I barely keep myself from snapping my teeth at him like a feral cat.

“So, you’ve brought me a scullery maid? I wasn’t aware my line of questioning would involve the cleaning habits of Castle Windspire,” the voice drawls. I want to shout at him to keep the name of my family home out of his damned mouth, but I remember my training and sink into a stiller mind—the focused mind of a hunter.

“She was the only one who dared to speak, even when silence was the wiser option.” He nudges me again with his boot, and I cling to that stoic stillness tightly.

“She appears fairly mute,” that voice like midnight drawls.

“I’m sure you’ve got plenty of tricks to make her talk,” the general says, as he nudges me again toward the source of all that daunting power.

“You may leave us.”

I squirm under the weight of power that accompanies his words. His magic is formidable, racking down my skin like claws, and I hide my wince at the feel of it. I do not want to interrupt the silence of the tent, my ears straining as I hear the general leave, the blast of icy wind the only indication that he had opened the tent flap.

I don’t even hear him approach. His movements are grave-quiet, like the trained apex-predator I know he is. One moment I’m gazing wide-eyed at the tent ceiling and the next I’m snared in a set of midnight eyes; black eyes like all the fae. The endless void of his gaze is not the only thing that catches my attention and I feel my own quiet stoicism breaking. Spread out behind him, nearly blotting out the meager light of the tent, are a pair of obsidian black feathered wings.

Prince Caden stares down at me, and I know now I am moments away from death.

I’m frozen under the Wings of Death. He studies me, marking my movements with the ruthless gaze of a warrior. Those pitch-black eyes flick to my throat when I swallow, noting the way I try to inch away from him. In a blur, he is crouching before me with one arm resting lazily across his knee—an almost casual gesture. His other hand, however, strikes forward, gripping the collar of my tunic and yanking me up toward him. I bite my lip, which was already injured from when I cracked it against the cobblestone earlier in the night. It splits open now, but I stubbornly stifle the cry of pain.

I will not cower in his presence.

I’m fixed on his onyx gaze as it dips down further and further, following the single drop of blood that runs down my chin. His nostrils flare as he stares intently at the injury. His otherworldly features make his expression impossible to read. I think he might be angry. No, furious. My quick temper has done me little favors in life. Even still, it would be a new record for me to have offended him so quickly. Am I really about to be executed for the simple act of daring to bleed in front of him? Unable to withstand the weight of his gaze, I flick my eyes to his pointed ears.

“Look at me, human.” His voice is like the pits of hell—dark, powerful, and inescapable.

I just barely resist the urge to lick my lips. It would be wise to not draw any more attention to my blood that seems to be enraging him. I look at him and instantly regret it. I can describe his expression only as lethal, and I quickly dip my gaze to the floor. That, apparently, was the wrong move. In an instant, he plucks out a dagger from the sheath across his thigh and places it firmly under my chin, tilting my head up as the tip of the dagger pricks, but does not cut into my skin. He is forceful, but careful to not nick me. I suppose he does not wish to spill any more of my offending blood.

“I did not say you could look away,” he drawls. His voice is calm, bored even, as if this conversation is far beneath him. Yet the threat hangs thick in the air between us. With a great effort, I pull my eyes up to meet his. This time I do not look away. He is like the general—terrifying in his perfection. While the general is a serrated dagger, the prince is a sharpened rapier. His features have a finer, deadlier edge to them. He reminds me of Nightbane, the poisoned flowers that grow in the dark recesses of caves along the coast of Gaelynn. Beautiful, rare, and deadly when touched.

I could believe he is every bit a corpse brought to life by how deathly pale he is. Crimson streaks glint in his dark locks, giving him the look that he is flecked with blood. A couple of strands keep falling over his pitch-black eyes, but he seems unbothered by them. His features are chiseled as though from stone. He could be a statue for how rigidly still he remains. Ultimate control is evident in every part of his body; even the feathers of his wings are unflinching.

Guiding the dagger, he begins to tilt my head from one side to the other. Pinpricks of his magic nettle my skin. The feeling is entirely unsettling, and it nearly steals the breath from my lungs. I don’t know what he’s looking for; what he expects to find in this involuntary inspection. A layer of sweat coats my brows with the effort to remain as still as I am. I barely keep myself from hissing when he presses the tip of the dagger deeper into my flesh, nicking it. When he pulls the blade from under my chin, a bead of my blood coats the tip. I mark his every movement, a studious hunter in my own right.

Holding the weapon aloft, he regards the droplet on the tip. Pinning me in place with a dominating stare, he draws the tip of the dagger to his lips. He has captured me entirely in his shadowy gaze, I am powerless to look away. His mouth opens and he sticks out his tongue.

Gods and demons, is he going to—

The Raven Prince licks my blood clean off the blade.

Oh fuck.

I can feel the blood draining from my face, my lips parted in a silent gasp. I had heard tales of the fae and the way they craved blood, but I thought they were just more rumors. I try to cover the disgust that must be clear on my features, but it is impossible. Faster than my frayed senses can track, there is another blur of movement and he is standing before me.

He’s so fucking fast that I don’t have time to register what’s happening until he moves behind me, cutting the bindings from my aching wrists. My arms fall limply at my side as blood flows back into my numb appendages, and I quickly scramble up. This time he moves slowly and I am able to mark his movements as he comes to stand before me, staring down at me with those demonic eyes.

Gods and demons, he’s tall.

I’m by no means a short woman, but this fae towers over me. I barely resist the urge to shiver. Some instinctive part of my human mind reminds me that a predator is staring at me. Like I’m his next meal. From the way he licked my blood, I’m not sure that’s hyperbole. I think back to those tales of the blood-thirsty fae, of what they do to the humans who cannot serve in their army.