Page 14 of Their Wicked Cage

Riven’s smirk drops, and he’s suddenly all business. “Making sure Avaline followed through on her promise to speak to you on my behalf.”

“You followed her here.” An ungodly combination of anger and annoyance bubbles beneath my skin as I make the observation.

“So what if we did?” he asks callously.

I make a noise of disgust. “You bastards compromised my location.”

As I bolt toward the cottage, liquid from the wet earth seeps into my socks. I’m prepared to grab as much as I can carry to take somewhere new, somewhere that will even be unknown to Avaline for a while.

“Wait!” The king’s large hand loops around my upper arm, and he jerks me to an abrupt stop.

An unfamiliar current burns through me at the contact.

My gaze flicks from where he’s touching me to his steely blue eyes.

Achlys bares his teeth, his growl guttural, his body vibrating with barely leashed control. I spare him a grateful smile as I bid him to halt with my free hand. To Riven, I demand, “Unhand me at once. You do not have the authority to tell me what to do.”

“As one of the Seven, I’m pretty sure I do.”

“Perhaps for the fae, but I am not yours to command.” I wrench my arm from his grip. “The only supreme I answer to is Eliphas.”

He’s silent for a long moment before murmuring, “I envisioned this going a lot differently. Forgive me.”

“Forgive you for what?” I ask, exasperated. “Compromising the knowledge of where I can be found? Breaking into my home? Assaulting me?”

Arkyn laughs, then presses his lips together when both Achlys and Riven swing their attention his way, the latter shooting his sword catcher a dirty look.

“Just let me explain why I’m here,” Riven says, swiping a hand over the welt I left on him.

I glance at Arkyn’s face and see his wound is weeping blood. For fae, minor cuts and bruises typically vanish almost instantly. Riven’s swollen temple and Arkyn’s still-open wound aren’t just unusual—they’re confirmation that something’s terribly wrong with the Fae Isles.

“Ava already briefed me on her suspicions,” I say to Riven. “What’s wrong with the magic in your kingdom?”

Riven’s face is expressionless, his eyes shuttered, as he likely debates how much he wants to tell me. Or maybe that’s the look of a male who is warring with himself over having to ask a witch for help at all. Between one breath and another, he straightens, lifting his chin. He’s the portrait of kingly grace as he reluctantly admits, “My lands have fallen ill.”

“Ill?” My mind spins with potential causes, but the most obvious whirs at the forefront—a curse. “In what way?”

“Some sort of blight is ravaging my kingdom and it’s… affecting our magic.” As I open my mouth to ask a plethora of follow up questions, he holds up a hand. “It’s something you must see with your own eyes to truly understand the urgency. So, will you help me? Help my people?”

If his lands are truly sick and not cursed, there’s no doubt I could use my magic to heal them. But doing so will put me at serious risk. If my coven ever found me, they’d⁠—

“Well?” he prompts.

“I’m thinking about it,” I snap.

“You’re thinking about it?” he repeats, jaw clenching. “What is there to think about? My people need your help. Or is your caution more important than their lives?”

“Excuse me?”

He turns to Arkyn. “Let’s go. We’re wasting our time with her.”

How dare he. Acting as if my caution, my hesitation, my very carefulness, are mere inconveniences. A storm of rage and unease courses through me. I’ve never been a violent person, but this insufferable ass of a king is bringing out the worst in me.

I snatch an apple from the basket beside my porch and fling it at him.

He dodges it easily, mouth gaping. “Assaulting one of the Seven is punishable by death.”

“Technically, she’s already assaulted you twice,” Arkyn clarifies.