by H. E. Edgmon
So, I know what he’s seeing, yeah. But I wonder what he makes of it.
“Wyatt,” I repeat, defiance jutting out my chin, practically daring him to say some shit I don’t want to hear.
Instead, he asks, “Pronouns?”
The question takes me so off guard I almost think I must’ve heard him wrong.
It’s been a year since I came out to my little surrogate family. They handled it better than I ever would have expected, but maybe that’s because they knew it was coming. I’d spent almost the whole year before that watching way too many YouTube videos from trans guys vlogging their transitions, convincing myself I was just a really supportive ally. By the time I finally admitted to Briar I was trans, she just squeezed my hand and told me she was proud of me, in a tone completely lacking any surprise.
There are trans people in the fae world, technically. I’d heard of the concept before living around humans. But they aren’t nearly as visible. And me being trans never would’ve been allowed in that world. Because as far as the fae are concerned, I’ve only ever had one purpose. From the moment Emyr met me, when we were just two naive children running aimlessly around Asalin’s palace, my only value became what I could do for the Throne. Namely, produce heirs. That’s the whole point of the bond—finding the person a fae is most genetically compatible with, to beget the most perfect children.
At least, that’s the story they preach.
Growing up being viewed as nothing but a baby-making factory, I was told to be grateful for that much. Because they could’ve simply done away with me. To hide the shame of the prince being bound to a witch.
My being a man probably isn’t what the fae had in mind as a show of gratitude.
“He, him,” I answer, anyway, leveling Emyr with a skeptical look.
At his sides, his fists clench and unclench. The clawed tips of his wings flex, dipping down over his shoulders. After a moment, he asks, “And these people, who are they?”
“They’re my family.” I don’t hesitate to supply the answer. It’s the truth.
Though a pang of guilt does resonate deep in my gut. Because all I’ve ever wanted was to keep them safe. Especially Briar. And now what have I done? I’ve brought an inhuman danger right to their doorstep.
Or maybe there’s another reason for the guilt. They aren’t the first family I’ve ever had. And I know what happened to the first one, because of me.
I bite at the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. When the flash of iron hits my tongue, I spit a stream of red onto the ground at my feet.
“What do they know of our kind?”
“Nothing.” A lie, at least in part. Briar knows everything.
I think he knows I’m lying. Sensing emotions, reading minds, that kind of power lies with the Feelers, and Emyr isn’t one of them. But he stares at me for a long moment before huffing, nostrils flaring with agitation. He curls his fingers around his hips and shrugs his broad shoulders. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. You’re leaving here, tonight.”
“Like hell I am,” I snap back. “The Guard will have me killed. You know that.”
“You will face the consequences of what you’ve done,” Emyr agrees, and that doesn’t instill any hope in me. “But I will not allow them to sentence you to death. I cannot imagine you ever intended to hurt anyone.”
“What if I told you I did?” The question escapes me before I can stop it. I swallow back a lump in my throat, burning eyes meeting Emyr’s. “What if I told you I meant everything I did that night?”
Again, the briefest look crosses his face before it’s gone, his expression schooled into a mask of control. This time, beneath the surface, I see his horror.
“It doesn’t matter,” he finally says. “I need you. We will keep your magic under control, if need be.”
A chill creeps up the back of my neck. What would that look like? Being kept under control by the fae?
“I know you got a shitty deal here, being stuck with me and all, but you’re barking up the wrong tree. It’d be better for both of us if you pretended you never found me.”
How did he find me, anyway?
“Unfortunately,” Emyr drawls, “our biology has decreed you’re the only tree I have to bark up.”
Biology. I can feel a heat start to sizzle inside my veins, pumping through my bloodstream, threatening to spread to the palms of my hands. I squash it down, the way I always do.
Anyway, that’s not entirely true. Bonded fae are compelled to be with their mates, or so I’m told, but they aren’t forced. He could have anyone of his choosing, biological matchmaking be damned. All this time, I’d hoped that was exactly what he’d do.
Hoping for anything has never done me any good.
“The Throne needs us. Both of us. It can’t wait any longer.”
“Unfortunately,” I retort, words sharp as my tongue flicks against my teeth, “my biology has decreed that the Throne can kiss my ass.”
Emyr glares at me. His wings twitch again, and this time the sharp tips of his horns tighten as I watch with morbid fascination. “You have somehow become even worse with people than I remember you being, do you know that?”
I raise my brows in a You don’t say kinda way, but don’t bother with a retort.
The backyard falls silent again, except for Bella’s snoring and the far-off sounds of the other dogs romping through the dirt. Emyr’s fangs worry his lower lip. His hands twist in front of him, long claws scraping the backs of his palms. After a moment, he reaches up to tug at one of the earrings dangling by his throat. I consider asking him if my good looks have rendered him speechless, but instead I just keep watching him.
Finally, he asks, “Do you remember my cousin Derek?”
Derek. Unbidden, my stomach lurches. The back of my neck heats. Of course I remember Derek Pierce.
My truly good memories of Asalin are spotty. Most of them are vague flashes of woods and smoke and Emyr’s fingers twisted in mine—childhood games of make-believe, stumbling over magic like shoes too big for my feet, and my heart lit up in a way it’s since gone dark.
It was only as I got older and less naive that things started getting bad. I began seeing the fae for what they were and doubting the life that was planned for me. Emyr and I started fighting, the childhood friendship and blooming something between us warping as I began to question my place in his future. As I started to realize he saw me the way all the fae saw me. Not for who I was, but for what he could do with me.
The bad memories are the ones sitting at the forefront of my mind when I think of Asalin. But it would take a lot more than that to make me forget about Derek. My childhood infatuation with him was inappropriate for about a dozen reasons, starting with him being a good decade older than me and ending with the fact that I was betrothed to his cousin.
Still. I’m pretty sure the first time I saw him shirtless in the lake something in me woke up.
“Vaguely,” I tell Emyr.
“He’s become the head of the Guard. He’s amassed a certain amount of power and influence for himself. And now, he’s decided to make a bid for the Throne.”
I blink. His tone is ominous, as if he believes he’s just dropped some very worrying news on me. But I don’t actually care.
“All right?”
Emyr visibly balks, eyes widening as if he was expecting a very different answer. Then he grumbles, shaking his head. “No. Not all right. Not all right at all. He wants to displace me and take the kingdom for himself. He’s called my legitimacy as heir into question.”
I raise one eyebrow. “Because you’re adopted?”
The whole thing is scandalous, and always has been in fae circles. Kadri and Leonidas, Emyr’s parents, are fated mates. Yet somehow, despite all claims that biology and perfect reproduction are what make a fated pair destined for one another, Kadri was never able to produce a
n heir for the royal line. Infertility among the fae isn’t unheard of. But, just like transness and witch mates, it’s rare.
Hearing about Derek’s bid isn’t what I expected, but it also doesn’t surprise me that Emyr’s claim is being called into question.
Emyr nods. “There’s never been, as far back as we’ve studied, a situation like mine. Thrones are always passed down through the bloodline. He believes we’re abandoning our ways. And he isn’t the only one who thinks this way. He’s got a whole gang of followers supporting him. There are protests, petitions being presented to the Court on his behalf—we’re on the verge of civil war because of him.” His tone roughens as Emyr whispers, “I barely know who I can trust anymore.”
“Huh. That sucks.”
His palm connects with his face, claws scraping from his forehead and down his cheeks, and he groans. “You are insufferable.”
“I’ve been told. I imagine being married to me would really suck.”
“Actually...” Emyr lowers his hand, shaking his head. “I disagree. Derek’s lackeys have convinced the population you are gone from Asalin forever. He warns of a future in which I rule alone. Where the royal line ends with me, regardless.”
“And?” I ask.
“And I intend to prove him wrong!” Emyr throws his hands up, exasperated. “I need you with me to present a united front to the dissenters. With you at my side, I’ll be able to quell the nerves of some who are uncertain about the Throne’s future.”
“I don’t think a wanted criminal is the ruler your people are looking for.”
Emyr considers that, eyeing me, before he shrugs. “I promised I would protect you, didn’t I? Besides, everyone loves an underdog. They’ll see someone who came from nothing and rose to sit at the side of the king. It’ll be inspirational.”
“You want me as your show dog.” And therein lies the problem. I’ve never been a whole person to the people trying to shape my future. I’ve always been a chess piece, a move to play to get where they intend to go.
Somehow, it stings a little extra coming from him. Maybe some naive part of me—a secret, hidden part I would never admit to out loud—hoped he would understand. Hoped that when Emyr realized how desperately I didn’t want to marry him, he would let me go.
I loved him once, and he loved me, too, in his own way. Apparently, neither matters anymore.
“No, I want you as my husband.” He raises his eyebrows. “Some would say we have quite the love story.”
Husband. The word yanks at my insides. I’m going to throw up.
“We do not have any kind of love story,” I counter, but Emyr doesn’t seem to hear me.
He’s begun pacing, rubbing his fingers along one of his pendants. “And once we are expecting our first child—”
“Our first what exactly?”
“Child.” Emyr pauses long enough to narrow his eyes at me before he starts pacing again. “We’ll need to secure heirs for the Throne. Once we do that, Derek’s bid for king will crumble. The only thing people love more than underdogs and love stories are royal babies.”
This is why my resentment toward this engagement started growing in the first place. I’m expected to trade my life, my freedom, my personhood, for some political game I don’t care anything about. I’m supposed to smile and wave and perch some sticky, crying child on my hip so Emyr can keep his precious Throne.
The idea makes me want to screech. Or set something on fire. Or both, maybe.
I’m seventeen years old. I just want to live for a while. Even in some alternate universe where I’m in love with Emyr, where I want to marry him, I’m not ready for a kid. He’s out of his mind.
I suddenly hope Derek Pierce gets everything he wants.
“And how do you suppose we’ll go about doing that? Securing these heirs?”
He rolls his eyes. Rolls his fucking eyes. I want to rip them out of their sockets. “Couples like us have children every day, I presume. We will figure it out.”
“We are not a couple.”
He crosses his arms. “We’re engaged to be married. What would you consider us?”
I don’t have an answer for that. “What about your parents? They’re still king and queen, aren’t they? Shouldn’t this be their problem?”
The corners of his mouth tug down. Again, an unsettled expression whispers across his face. “Mother and Father need their rest. They should have stepped down already, but with Derek and his supporters making their intentions clear, they’re worried what might happen if they do.” His jaw tightens, his frown disappearing into a scowl. “This is why we have to get married now. Once we’ve established ourselves, they can retire and we can ascend to the Throne.” He shrugs. “Besides, this is what we agreed on. You’re seventeen now. By the laws of Faery, you’re an adult. It’s time for us to make good on our oath.”
“We don’t live in Faery! No one has lived in Faery since our ancestors crawled through the door to Earth in the 1500s! And we didn’t agree to anything,” I snap back. “These plans were made for us.”
Emyr gives a small shake of his head, that stoic resignation returning to his features. “Be that as it may, they were made just the same.”
Something heavy and unspoken settles over us as we stare at one another.
I don’t have anything to combat what he’s saying, not really. I need him to understand why this is as messed up as it is, but I think it might be a lost cause. He’s convinced himself he needs me to keep the kingdom from going to war. What am I supposed to say that could persuade him otherwise?
Please don’t make me marry you. I don’t want to be king of the fae. All I was ever meant to be was nothing. Why can’t you just let me be nothing?
Finally, after we’ve stared at one another long enough for the sun to move infinitesimally in the sky, Emyr sighs. “There is a flight leaving Laredo Airport tomorrow at four in the afternoon for Rochester. I expect you to meet me there no later than two.”
“Please.” The word feels acidic on my tongue. I hate begging like some kind of kicked dog. But I don’t know what else to do here. “If you want to convince me this could actually work between us, I’m gonna need a little time. I can’t just get on a plane tomorrow. Stay here. Let’s talk about this some more.”
I watch with a sort of guilty fascination as the sharp point of one fang presses into Emyr’s plush lip. Finally, he shakes his head. “Time is not something we have.”
So much for begging. “I could run again.”
“And I would find you again.” His wings flutter behind him. “Do you want to be a fugitive for the rest of your life?”
Does he expect me to believe he cares what I want?
“Fuck you,” I say, because I don’t know what else I can offer.
What happens next happens very quickly. So quickly I don’t have time to process until it’s over, so quickly I couldn’t have stopped it even if I wanted to.
Emyr reaches for me. His fingers curl around my wrist, and his thumb claw presses gently into my skin. Not tight. Not enough to hurt. But that doesn’t matter.
I don’t like to be touched. I really don’t like to be touched by the fae.
My magic, dusty from years of disuse, surges. Blackness, that same inky blackness that bobs around my body, slicks up my hands. Flames rise, unbidden, the tips of all ten of my fingers flicking to life like ten freshly struck matches. My free hand shoots out to shove at his chest, hard, and Emyr reels back, releasing me from his grip, his eyes shooting wide.
His own magic responds to the threat, gold painting across his hands and up to his elbows, his eyes glowing that same gold, horns twisting tighter on the top of his head.
But there is no threat. Not anymore. As quickly as it started, it disappears. The flames go out, leaving only smoke. My hands return to white.
In the aftermath, I can hardly thi
nk through the rush of adrenaline. Through the sound of my own too-frantic heartbeat.
Emyr’s silk shirt is singed to hell and back. He’s staring at me like he’s afraid.
He should be, I think. He should be afraid of me. I’m a little afraid of me.
I never wanted to feel the fire again.
Emyr’s body, too, returns to normal. He’s still looking at me like he isn’t sure what to do with me.
I want to take some pride in that. I want to make him afraid.
But I can’t make myself feel anything but ugly.
“I will see you tomorrow, firestarter,” is all he says before he slips away.
CHAPTER TWO
DON’T YOU WANT TO BE
SOMETHING SPECIAL?
“What if I don’t want to marry him?”
I’m fourteen years old and my resentment toward the fae has been growing for more than a year now. I don’t know it yet, but it’s only hours before the worst night of my life.
When I ask the question at the dinner table, everything goes silent. No more forks scraping against glass. No more persnickety sipping of blackberry wine, glasses held daintily between perfectly poised fingers.
My father shakes his head, looking down at his plate with exasperation. My mother stares at me, lips parted in surprise. The glare on my sister’s too-familiar face is what rattles me most. I think, and not for the first time, Tessa would kill me if she had the chance.
“I’m just asking. Maybe it’s not what I want for my future.”
“Of course not. Because being queen of the fae is just too mundane for you,” Tessa spits, batting one hank of dirty blond hair over her shoulder.
I bristle. I know if I acknowledge her, it’s going to make this fight worse than it needs to be. But I’d like to smack the hateful look right off her face.
My mother sighs. “Sweetheart, I know you must be anxious. A lot is going to change over the next few years. I can only imagine how that must feel.”
