Page 39 of Ruin of Revenants

Archer released me only to take my hand and lead me to the throne. I’m afraid you’re going to have to sit in my lap.

What? I thought back frantically. Can’t you make them bring another throne?

This isn’t just a way to convince them we’re in love, Feathers. This is a way to rile my father—and also to convince the court of our love and force him to accept our betrothal.

When he put it that way… Fine, to defy your father.

Archer plopped down, pulling me into his lap.

Heart in my throat, I sat up straight, trying to mask the shock roaring through me as the heat of his body flooded me. I could feel sparks pricking at my fingertips, a burst of flames ready to erupt and consume us both as my annoyance, anger, and anxiety peaked.

“Relax,” Archer muttered, pulling me until my back was against his chest. His own heart pounded erratically, matching time with mine, as if his reminder was as much for him as it was for me.

Archer chuckled, pressing his nose into my neck as if he were nuzzling me, inhaling my scent.

Are you punishing yourself? I thought.

It’s a punishment for you as well, especially after those blasted berries. Any discomfort of mine is worth it if it makes you squirm.

And indeed, I was squirming. I forced myself to hold still, to lean into him and turn my face toward him with false adoration. I can’t wait to put more salt into your food, I thought as I stared into his piercing green eyes.

Archer’s gaze narrowed the slightest bit before the corner of his mouth twisted upward into a smirk. I can’t wait to kiss you again. It’s tolerable when it makes you squeamish. In fact… He leaned forward, and when I didn’t move, forcing myself to go along with the act, he pressed his lips to my neck, brushing soft kisses up toward my jawline.

Once again giving into the twisted delight of knowing he was disgusted, hating this farce as much as me, I let my eyes flutter closed and turned to press kisses against his jaw in return. His skin was rough with stubble and he smelled of parchment and ink, like he’d fallen asleep reading and dropped a book against his face.

Abruptly, Archer pulled back. I released a breath, flooded with the elation of my victory now that he’d relented first. But something was off—something more than just his disgust of me.

Though his charming smile remained affixed to his face, darkness lurked in his eyes, and his gaze was fastened ahead.

My own emotions were tumultuous, but I thought I sensed anxiety and anger emanating from him, overtaking his annoyance.

I turned to see the winding line that had formed, all of the fae who wanted to pay their respects to me, each dipping into bows or curtsies at Archer’s makeshift throne before rejoining the party.

But that wasn’t what had caught the prince’s attention. There was a commotion within the party: two guards were leading a struggling form past the tables and dancers and through the crowd, toward King Wystan’s throne. When they stopped at the empty space before the king, the line at Archer’s throne moved away, widening the gap between them and the prisoner. The air thickened as the emotions of the party shifted from celebration and indulgence to anger and fear.

“Your Majesty!” one of the guards said as both she and her companion shoved the handcuffed prisoner to his knees before the throne. “We’ve brought before you someone harming our people and threatening Emberglade’s very existence. For your sentencing, behold: a phoenix shifter who’s been hiding within Rainsong itself.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Isoria

My body went cold, as if ice water had doused all my fire that had been threatening to burst out of me only moments ago. Even Archer stiffened, though I knew his discomfort was for an entirely different reason. His hands shifted to my waist in the mockery of an embrace, but the truth was, he was holding me in place so I didn’t do anything rash.

“Test him,” King Wystan said, sounding bored, as if this were a normal, dull occurrence.

“Father, I could make him share the truth—” Archer began, but the king lifted a hand to silence him.

“Let there be no doubt in my court and among my people who this is. They will see the truth with their own eyes.”

Nausea danced along my tongue as a guard approached the prisoner with a flaming torch. Across the ocean, fae were gifted with fire magic. Here in Emberglade, only phoenix shifters could wield and endure it. No fire could harm us. We only burned when our flames rose to save and remake us.

But that meant that, unfortunately, it was all too easy to test and out a phoenix shifter.

Without preamble, the guard paused before the prisoner, still held in place by the other guards, and shoved the torch against the exposed flesh of his arm. Archer’s fingers curled inward, bunching the fabric of my gown. My breath hitched in my throat, and though I wanted to look away, to pretend it wasn’t happening, I could not.

The flames danced over the surface of the male’s skin, but there was no scent of burning flesh. No screams of pain. No sign of injury.

My eyes burned. The crowd jeered and hissed and gasped, some angry, some horrified, some gleeful knowing that the prisoner had been condemned.