Page 28 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

It pushed at her iron cuff. The pain of the answering welt was something she understood. Something she could hold on to. The heat surged inside her, exploding from her ribcage, up her arms, down her legs. It seared and sizzled and searched out every corner of her, burning, burning. Lachlan did not release her even though he must have felt the heat of her through his fingertips and across his chest, where she was still pinned.

The candles burned high, too high.

No one noticed.

One of the embroidered banners caught fire. The smoke curled and floated like a thousand moths fluttering.

A hundred roses smoldered.

Fairy wine boiled in a glass pitcher and then exploded.

The fires were unpredictable, quick to dwindle, quick to spark. There was no rhyme or reason, no way for her to choose where they burned or for how long. But the chaos of it, fed by the Fae magic circling through the bower, added to the distraction.

The entertainment.

Because it was already clear that this was about putting on a good show for the bored gentry. A nearly immortal life span bred ennui and rapacious appetites. They envied humans and their mayfly lives, quick to extinguish. They strained against treaties.

Pippa was finding it difficult to muster up much sympathy.

Instead, she threw all of her magic at the little fires everywhere in the grass, urging them to lick at carved thrones and beaded hems and long hair braided with wildflowers.

The Hare Queen took advantage of the moment, sending strong vines to curl around her exhausted, twitching Tithe, lifting her off her bloodied feet. The other dancers scattered. The end of someone’s braid blackened, acrid smoke stinging the perfumed air.

Kerne looked annoyed, then waved his hand. “Tomorrow, then. And remember, win and your wish is granted. Fail and you remain here to entertain us. Forever.” A smile that was not a smile. “Should you survive, of course.”

“Happy birthday to me,” Pippa muttered, sweat dripping down the side of her face and fingertips blistered.

Lachlan kept looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

It was surprisingly disconcerting.

And she had just stood on a Faery hill and been proclaimed what amounted to a blood sacrifice. And then she had tried to set everyone on fire. For the second time that night.

That was a record, even for her.

“It’s your birthday?” he asked.

When she nodded, his expression only darkened.

Someone moaned.

Pippa blinked. It must have been the wind.

Another moan.

Definitely not the wind.

She was already battling the flush of a fever kindled by using her magic—blushing might make her melt altogether. And surely Tithes did not blush? Nor ladies of nine and twenty? Even if they were surrounded by Fae folk in various and creative positions.

Very naked positions.

Extremely flexible naked positions.

Sounds of pleasure shivered under the stars, and there was just enough moonlight to distinguish bare buttocks from bare breasts from exploring hands and exploring mouths. The side of the hill writhed with bodies, seeking and giving pleasure.

Pippa froze.

Was she meant to join them? She did not have that kind of flexibility. Or allure.