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“Now, Achlys!” she screams.

The raven dives, talons aimed at Arkyn’s eyes. He bats them aside, but one rakes his cheek. My sword catcher howls in pain, loosening his grip on the witch. She seizes the chance, sprinting around the back of the cottage.

“Handle the bird,” I demand, taking off after her.

As soon as I round the corner, I see her fling herself into a flower patch, fingers carding through the blossoms until she finds the particular bloom she’s after. One with dark purple petals and a bright yellow center.

Nightshade, by the look of it.

Extremely deadly when ingested.

Curious, I watch as she tears the flower from its stem and plucks two petals.

She turns, triumph flashing in her eyes, and finds me staring at her.

“Don’t come any closer,” she warns, voice and hand trembling as she holds the petals to her lips. Her gaze flicks to Ark, who now bears a deep gash across his cheek—a stark reminder of the danger that threatens the Fae Isles. “Either of you. You have no idea what I can do with just one petal.”

“Oh, but I do, little witch.” I smirk. “I know all about you and your affinity with nature, Gwynnevere.”

“Enough. Only my sister witches called me Gwynnevere, and they did so because they knew I hated it.” Her nostrils flare. “Their little white shadow blessed by Death.”

The winged demon swoops toward Gwyn and, in a burst of light, shifts into a four-legged beast shaped very much like a hound, but somehow other. Its growl is low and deep as it exposes its canines. I’ve heard of witches having familiars before, but never one that could shift. No, this familiar is as curious as the creature it’s guarding.

“Which of my sister witches sent you here?” she hisses. “Or was it the coven matron?” When neither of us speaks, she shakes her head. “I’m not going back. I won’t be used by them ever again, and if I have to use this nightshade to end you both, then so be it.”

I hesitate for a fraction of a second, mind racing. How could she wield such power without even touching either of us?

The dog’s fur stands at attention along its spine.

“Now, let’s not be rash,” Ark says, casting a nervous look at the beast and shifting his body weight onto his toes.

It’s a near imperceptible movement I’ve seen him do time and time again when he’s readying to neutralize a potential threat. However, I am surprised she notices it too, dodging his lunge flawlessly and twirling toward me. In a move that is both swift and alarmingly arousing, she snatches my dagger from my hip and holds it against my throat, leaving her back exposed to Arkyn.

“Riven!” he shouts, drawing his own swords, but I hold up my hand to stop him from doing something incredibly stupid.

Like slaughtering the witch we need to help restore the Fae Isles.

Gwyn freezes, her eyes widening as her mouth parts with a slight gasp. “Riven Thaelon?”

I wink at her. “The one and only.”

Chapter 5

GWYN

The male—King Riven, fae supreme—smirks down at me.

His gaze lingers on the ribbon around my throat before drifting back up to meet mine.

“And this is Arkyn, my sword catcher,” Riven says, finishing the introductions. I glance between them and then at the knife I’m still holding against the fae king’s pale skin. His smirk widens as he adds, “He’s sort of terrible at his job.”

“I am not,” Arkyn hisses, pointing to his cheek. “Look. Another scar earned for your ungrateful ass.”

I’m frozen to the spot as Riven covers my hand with his own and gently removes the blade from his throat. He says nothing as he resheaths his dagger, likely waiting for me to apologize or grovel for his mercy for threatening a supreme.

If that’s the case, he’s going to be waiting several lifetimes.

Shaking myself out of my stupor, I scowl at them. “What are you doing here?”