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My stomach churns, like it always seems to at the thought of Junis.
“Well, so have I. I am slave to the lord of the court of bones.”
That doesn’t make sense. “Isn’t that your father?”
“Less of a father, more of a master. He collects pretty, rare things. The woman who birthed me was one of his things—and so am I. Gaining the regency of Ilvaris freed me for as long as it was mine. And when you have the power of all courts in your hands? Well. I’m hoping you won’t forget your friends, my queen.”
So, he wants something from me—desperately. His freedom from his father. He believes I can grant him that.
I like this a lot more than having no idea about his motivation.
At the same time, he and I are not friends. His own plights aren't about to make me forget last night. Junis isn't the only fae lord whose orders I had to follow.
But if he's truly getting me out of being hunted, shot out, potentially bred, and killed? Well, I guess I can call it even.
“All right," I relent. "Help me stay alive, and I’ll do what I can for you.”
That’s a perfectly fair bargain.
“Let’s get you crowned, first.” He sighs. “Then, the feat will be keeping that head on your shoulders as long as possible.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
WRONG TURN
Darina
I slide my hand inside the bag, curiosity making me check out the leaf-packed parcel first.
“Cheese?” I say in wonder.
“Yep. Goat. Made it myself.”
I snort. “No, you didn’t.”
“I absolutely did, or I couldn’t claim otherwise. Well, I didn’t milk the goat,” he admits, “But I did the rest.”
I bring the small, round, white piece to my mouth and take a tentative bite.
I’m almost as fond of cheese as I am of cream, and I’ve never eaten any better.
“This is delicious.” We might not be best pals, but if he gives me handmade cheese, I can admit it's nice.
Between the tall, burly warrior making whipped cream and this man making cheese, I’m sensing a theme with Ilvaris men. They like to get their hands dirty in the kitchen, apparently.
I wonder if Ryther bake cakes or something, but the very thought seems ludicrous. I imagine him with an apron on, and I'm surprised he doesn't appear on the spot to smite me for the offense.
“So, you’re a cheesemaker as well as some sort of a lord?”
“The best way to ensure my food comes to me free of iron and salt is to prepare it myself,” he replies casually.
“Oh.” That makes sense, and gives me a bit of an insight on his character.
Always on his guard, unsure who to trust. And from what I’ve seen of this world, who can blame him?
“Wait, salt?” I ask.
He makes a face. “It screws with our magic, and causes fatigue. I eat salted meals at night, before bed, of course—but never if I need my wits about me.”
