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Something flickered in Ladrien’s dark eyes, like offering an apology to a mortal was the worst kind of insult. He flung out a hand, and Maytree smashed backwards against a tree, thorns at her throat.
“You dare apologise tothisthing? You who would not acknowledge your own?”
“You… not… one… of us…” she croaked.
Juliana strained against her bindings. One hand was pinned against her thigh, inches away from her reserve dagger. She twisted her fingers towards it, clasping the hilt even as the thorns bit into her skin.
It barely registered.Ignore the painhad been one of Markham’s first lessons.
Markham. Father.Where was he?
“You’re right,” Ladrien hissed, “I am not one of you. I am stronger, greater. History will forget you, Maytree. You will be no more than a footnote if I let your name survive at all. The Last Queen of Faerie.”
Juliana cut through the first of the thorns. They gave way easily beneath her blade; summoned things were never as strong as the real element.
“You… won’t win…” Maytree choked.
“Will I not? We shall see.”
The thorns crumbled around Juliana. She broke free, springing forward, her dagger raised—
Ladrien wheeled, catching her by the throat and slamming her against the Queen, wrapping them both up in seconds.
“You like this one, don’t you Maytree?”
The Queen did not answer.
“I wonder if you will enjoy watching her insides spill.”
“No!“ cried another voice.
Hawthorn. What was he doing here?
“Release her,” he said, fists blazing with fire.
Ladrien smiled. “Well, well, well. The Cursed Prince himself. How kind of you to grace us with your presence.”
Hawthorn hurled a fireball. It soared past Ladrien’s horns. “I will not miss again. Release the mortal. She is not part of this.”
“Allmortals are part of this,“ Ladrien hissed. “That’s part of the problem. But I will bargain for her release, if you submit to me.”
Hawthorn’s throat bobbed. “You promise me that no harm will come to her? That you’ll let her go?”
Ladrien sighed. “No harm shall come to her from my hand, or my instruction, until sunset today, and I shall release her the second your blood spills.”
Hawthorn froze, no doubt stung by those last words.
“That’s all you’ll get from me, Prince, and your blood will spill regardless.”
Juliana stared at him, hoping for some last minute reprieve, for her father to appear and run Ladrien through—
Or Hawthorn would think of something. Brutal, clever Hawthorn. He wouldn’t willingly give himself up, and certainly not for her.
Ladrien smiled, reading Hawthorn’s silence. He summoned a thorn bush to appear at his feet, the spikes sharp as daggers, shiny as patent leather.
Hawthorn raised his hand.
“No—” Juliana struggled against her bindings, but they only tightened around her, cutting off her air.
