Page 86 of Their Wicked Cage

“Right,” I say, brow furrowing. “But how⁠—”

“Trust me, Gwyn, it’s for the best that we end this now.”

He’s right, of course. All we’ve done is fool around a couple of times, and my mind is convinced I have some sort of claim over him and his time and his touch.

Gods, his touch.

I crave it. Even now. After days of silence, of wondering why he’s withdrawn from me.

His nostrils flare, and his gaze simmers with something unspoken.

I stand up straight, forcing iron into my knees so they don’t buckle under his intense stare, and shake all these foreign feelings from my mind. The thread I felt tugging me to him must be the bargain between us and nothing more. I am a means to an end, a way for him to find freedom and live his life in peace with a beautiful queen who isn’t me.

A resurrected witch. A monster who terrifies witchlings. A weapon to be used.

“I’ve spent the last few days getting to know the brides, and I recommend you explore things further with Miriya and Lyrielle.” I force my mouth into what I hope is a believable smile as I retrieve the vials from my pocket and hand them to him. My fingers graze his palm. “I will report back if any of the other females stand out.”

I don’t wait for him to respond.

There is nothing else he can say that will stop the lightning crackling throughout my chest or the thunder roaring in my ears.

A foolish part of me thought Riven would chase after me, that he’d down one of those potions and take me right there in the hallway, that he’d apologize for the nights we spent without fevered kisses and reckless touches, and that he’d promise we would never spend another night apart.

Who is this witch who sings when he’s near and wallows when he’s not?

Unrecognizable.

That’s what I’ve become to myself.

It’s confusing and complicated, and I loathe it.

The next day, I avoid Riven at all costs.

I keep to myself in the gardens, an observer among the brides, with Achlys gnawing on a branch at my feet.

Lyrielle twirls a hand fan with practiced elegance, laughing like she knows every eye is on her—even Riven’s. Daphne and Miriya fall into step, rehearsing one of the fae dances we learned during an etiquette lesson. Even the quiet ones, those without friends, hold themselves differently around the king—posture straighter, breaths shallower, fingers fluttering in flirty waves as they take their turns about the garden.

From my perch near a flowering arbor, I catch snippets of conversation—whispers about almost-kisses, murmurs about who they believe the king favors most. Some glance my way, sizing me up, trying to assess whether I pose a threat.

I don’t.

I continue to observe, noting who’s bold, who’s timid, who might crumble under scrutiny, who might charm without trying.

But most of all, I try to see who might truly be worthy of him.

All the while, each giggle, each gesture, each stolen glance from the others only makes the distance between Riven and me feel more acute.

The following day, I nearly collide with Riven in the hallway while I walk and read my compendium at the same time.

His grip on my shoulders sends pulses scattering throughout me, and the dismissive yet affectionate way he says, “Watch where you’re going, little witch,” sends shivers down my spine.

I take his advice to heart and steer clear of him as best I can, but it’s hard.

He’s always there.

In conversation, in awkward bouts of accidental eye contact, in my dreams.

He haunts me.