Page 44 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

Sparks danced too close to red ribbons, the throats bloodied and scarred, even after death. The Red Ladies paused, fuming, before finally disappearing, hissing their displeasure.

Pippa slipped her bracelet back on, gritting her teeth at the pain. The fire licked at the tree, spreading. Rain fell, chasing the sparks and embers. Apparently, the Fae did not care to have their tree go up in flames and smoke. Tithes lying broken and bruised was not a concern. Clearly.

“One down,” Hellebore muttered, spitting blood. It was smeared on her teeth when she smiled.

“No problem,” Pippa returned, her voice a croak.

And then she lost consciousness.

Pippa Cavendish was in his fucking bones.

She had been since the night she saved his life. She had worn the mark of the word eaters, of the Librarians of the Hallow academies. Even without it, he knew she still would have scolded him for bleeding on the books.

Before saving his life. Not after, it had to be said.

He might not have been fully in control of his faculties, but he had noticed that much, even trapped as he was. There were not many who would have fought an unknown spell on a stranger’s behalf. Her pale braid had slipped its pins and hung in heavy waves to her elbows. It had reminded him of home. She needed mistletoe berries and moonflowers in her hair. Blackthorn flowers. She smelled of smoke and amber and clementines.

And she had saved him.

She had worn that silver bracelet touched with iron. He hated it on pure, primal instinct. It tasted like iron, salt. Blood.

And it caused her pain.

And then Mrs. Pettigrew arrived, and something about the way she dared speak to Pippa made his spine feel like it was wrapped with holly leaves.

Pippa did not defend herself. She did not even set the other Librarian’s hem on fire, which he knew full well that she was capable of doing. Easily. Lachlan liked her compliance even less than the iron cuff digging into her wrist bones, marking her soft flesh.

That had been bad enough.

But being forced to watch Pippa struggle, to see the red of her blood scatter like berries, to see her fleeing, alone, pale as a wisp… Only the fact that the Wild Hunt would mark her for his transgressions if he intervened stayed his hand.

It chafed like iron chains.

He could only stand while she ran, wearing fucking blackthorn flowers, and do nothing. Her fire had stuttered, unreliable. Flames licked high too far from her to shield her, smoked to ash at her feet. It was not nearly enough to protect her for very long.

Unacceptable.

And then the bells rang.

Lachlan vaulted through the mirror and the shimmering shield of magic as it dissipated, landing next to Pippa. He snarled at Cai’s soldier, who was too close, and picked her up, vanishing immediately.

And later, much later that night, as he stood outside her chamber door, her moth floated through the wall, faded, tattered like forgotten lace. When the edges of its wings burned like paper, Lachlan surged forward, the smell of smoke a terrifying beacon.

The door was locked.

So he kicked it in.