Page 362 of Commanding Scythe and Sky

“Enchanted pathways do not simply open.”

“They do when they’re needed,” I bit out.

Gods, Adrastos had hung that ruby around my neck in front of all of them. Barry had known. Known I now carried a relic from their queen. I’d assumed it was a common gift, assumed they knew exactly what he’d done as he taunted me in that crowd, assumed he’d simply been a complete ass, humiliating me that day. But as the energy of the stone hummed against my skull where it nestled in my braid, I realized the king did not know. He’d believed it was a collar, nothing more.

Swallowing hard, I challenged, “Or have you forgotten that your bloodline flows with matriarchal magic? Because I haven’t.”

“Mind your tone, or I will enjoy watching your blood spill far more than previously warranted.”

Glowering, I softened my voice into a saccharine sweetness. “Matriarchal power brings with it a nurturing—in a world where males are bigger and stronger, it is in fact the feminine that casts a veil of protection. The enchantment⁠—”

“Curse,” he gritted out.

“The curse your mother bestowed upon your people is no doubt imbued with her love for them. Fletcher needed a way to get Cora to safety. Rhiannon⁠—”

The punch came so hard and fast it rendered me breathless. My knees buckled. My shoulders curled. Every scrap of air was knocked clean out of me as his fist connected with my stomach, then my face. Only the guards’ ruthless hold on my arms kept me upright.

“You dare speak her name,” Moros drawled, his voice suddenly so snake-like that a chill shot down my spine as I rasped down a breath. “You are the bastard’s half-breed whore,” he declared loud enough for all to hear. An uneasy murmuring went up among the onlookers, my eyes flicking up to see several shifting on their feet. Dread landed like lead in my chest. “So, I suppose you’re used to taking your punishments on your knees.” To the guards, he ordered, “String her up.”

“The prince will not like that you scarred his pet,” Smith predicted flatly. I found him with his arms crossed over his chest, expression bored.

“As though I care what the bastard likes,” Moros retorted without looking at him. “Be advised, cousin; should you open your mouth again, he’ll find you both at the post when he returns.”

When he returns.

Of all the threats he’d leveled at me in the last sixty seconds, that was the one that hit like a blade. The one that locked my limbs as though they’d been filled with steel. A deep hopelessness settled in my soul. Because some warped part of me had been clinging to the impossible possibility that Adrastos wouldn’t allow this. Would intervene on my behalf—Fletcher’s behalf. Would appear the way only he could, right when he was needed.

The surprise must’ve played across my face, because Moros sneered, “Oh, yes, you little cunt. Your master is out completing his duties to the crown.” A dark, humorless laugh rumbled in his chest, eyes sparkling. No one echoed it. “No need to fear he’ll bear witness to your humiliation.”

“Your Highness,” Fletcher sobbed, “It’s me. It’s me you want.”

“True as that may be, the law stands,” Moros drawled with unveiled satisfaction, his eyes locked on mine. This monster would savor my agony. It was written over every inch of his face, in the excitement in his eyes, even if his tone never shifted from that calculated cruelty. “The witchling has absolved you of your rightful punishment.”

“No!” Fletcher cried, and my heart broke. He’d endured that hell to protect me. A boy. Not even sixteen. And he’d taken that agony to protect me. He knew the truth. Giving me up—giving the ruby up—was the easier option. Certainly, the logical one.

Why? I wanted desperately to ask him, but his sob turned into a cry as his hands were freed and his body collapsed into the grass. And I was screaming—feral, untamed—as he was hauled away, bodily dragged across the ring toward Will, who stood like a godsdamn gargoyle. His charge, I realized.

Where was Cora? Fear sluiced through me, and I thrashed pointlessly as my arms were ripped overhead.

The familiar groan and skitter of ice reached for my mind.

I thrashed as they put me in the bloody manacles that had just restrained Fletcher.

Thrashed as my shirt was torn from my body.

Thrashed as the first guard—the one who’d whipped that young boy bloody—sneered in my face and tore my bra off with his blade. He kicked me onto my knees, looming over me with that same sadistic satisfaction his king wore.

Should’ve killed him when I had the chance.

The crowd shifted uneasily as he stepped around me, my bare breasts exposed to the frigid wind. And there I knelt, chained to a goddamn pole, staring at the black cliffs I’d dreamed of flinging myself from more times than I could count as the king leisurely stalked back to his perch.

And then they waited.

Waited as my body began to tremble with terror.

Waited as an icy ocean breeze swept over my skin.

Waited. Letting my fear marinate, I realized. The anticipation, the humiliation of kneeling here bared to them all, was as much a punishment as the pain to come.