Mireille would lose.
But Mireille was not willingly playing the game. Her movements were decided by the fae queen. The queen’s magic had drawn her from bed, had opened the sealed door, and had brought her to stand before a prince. It would see Mireille done in just as efficiently.
Before Alder made a single step forward, as he watched and waited as if to see how she might attack, her fisted hand raised. The knife did not aim for the prince, as he might have expected. The knife stabbed toward Mireille’s own chest.
There was an instant in which time seemed to slow, the flash of realization coming to Alder’s dark eyes that it was not, in fact, an attempt on his life. Then he lunged.
In the space of a heartbeat, Mireille was flat on the floor. The blade was knocked from her hand, clattering to the plank before it had hit its mark. The prince of Rivenwilde splayed over her, his magic and his body a heavy weight pinning her down, pinning down the magic running through her. It was as if she were buried beneath the earth itself, as if she could not find her body or her will. Neither Mireille nor the prince had spoken a word.
One side of her face was pressed to the floor. His cheek brushed the other. Against her ear, he whispered her name.
A shiver ran through her, deep and rich, and not at all reassuring, as it was suffuse with fae power.
Mireille snapped back to herself with a gasp, the queen’s hold upon her broken. Her hands began to tremble, her heart to race. She had nearly met her end, at the invisible will of the fae queen, or at the very real, very tangible hands of a fae prince. It had been that close. And with it, the end for all of Norcliffe.
Overtop her, the prince exhaled roughly. Mireille managed to make a sound, not a particularly dignified one, and his grip on her slid from irons into something more like an embrace.
But his hold was not precisely what one might call gentle. “Can you lie, you ask me,” he said, low against her ear. “Can you lie?” His fingers tightened for one instant against her bare arm then disappeared from her skin entirely. “As you masquerade before me, nothing but lies and deceit tied to a wire crown.”
She barely had time for confusion to settle in before he was standing over her, staring down like she had betrayed both the man himself and his kingdom.
“This entire time, the bargain, the storytelling, all of it a ruse to get beneath my roof. And for what? To buy favor from the queen? Did you think I would not know? The seal on that door was formed by my own magic. Not a single fae might break through, except one as powerful as I, a royal. Did you think I would never guess? That by merely walking through that boundary you would not reveal your ties toher?”
Her, Mireille’s mind repeated.A royal.He thought her in league with the queen. It was no wonder had offered her no trust.
Mireille rolled smoothly onto her feet, the way she’d been taught as a girl, ready to defend herself, to fight her way out of whatever sort of tussle she was about to be in. Because if her frantic heart and panicked limbs wanted anything, it was to act, to release the fear and emotion that had been trapped within. It did not matter that it was not the prince who had caused her situation. “A ruse?” she said. “You think this was a jape? A little lark for a bored princess with nothing else to do?”
“Clearly I do not think it a jest. I think it an act of treason.”
Her hands balled into fists as her voice raised, any hint at discretion having deserted. “Treason? This has naught to do with you, or your kingdom. My only desire has been to save myself and my own people.”
He leaned forward, voice a dagger. “Her magic is all over you.”
Mireille’s mouth came open to explain, to reveal what a monster the queen truly was, but before a word could escape, Thomas burst into the room.
Hair disheveled and collar askew, one arm braced against the door frame, the other positioned in a way that may have appeared it was securing his breeches, Thomas stood, his wide eyes darting from Mireille to the prince, then the blade on the floor.
The prince shot a look at Mireille that held something of shock and, possibly, accusation. It was then, she thought, that he realized what she was wearing.
Mireille flicked a meaningful glance at Thomas but he apparently had no intention of quitting the room. “He guards my door,” she said defensively. “To prevent… nighttime wandering.”
“Well, it was certainly well done of you,” the prince snapped.
Thomas straightened.
“Don’t—” Mireille started but before she was able to speak further, to describe the magic that came over anyone while the spellbound Mireille was in the room and how Thomas had done all he could in such a situation, the prince was well into another tirade.
“Coming here to trespass and what—rummage through our libraries? Is that what you looked for? An answer to some riddle of hers? And what choice do I have in the matter? I must, against my wishes, entertain these bargains—these utterly foolish offers—endlessly. All because of single curse. Because of one fool act in one fool court.” He carried on, his fury a rumble of power through the room. “I knew not to trust it. So eager to wed a prince. And now here you stand, your ties to her as clear as that fetching smile and captivating gaze my court goes on and on about. As if I cannot see with my own eyes. As if I need reminding.” Mireille resisted the impulse to feel even remotely flattered. The prince shook his head once, swift and sharp. “All of you, Westrende and beyond, inventing your stories to scare children, warnings of how the fae are so scheming and devious, nothing but trickery. When it is you, in every single instance, every opportunity made or stolen, doing wrong byus.” His gaze snapped to hers, angry and expectant.
She crossed her arms, realized it was not the thing to do in a thin shirt, then dropped them again. “I bargained with you as fairly as any fae. I have not once told a lie.” At his incredulous look, she amended, “To you.” And then, “About this.”
He scoffed.
Her voice dipped. “Had I any other choice, trust that I would have taken it.” When he showed no sign of relenting, no interest her explanations, she could not help but add a sharp, “You speak to me of your innocence while you hold Westrende prisoners under your very roof.”
He moved toward her like the snap of a sail in storm winds. “You speak to me of captives as you gave yourself to us willingly.”
“You.”
