How to Keep a Fae (Coveted Fae #1)

Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Adaline

“ A daline!”

I sigh heavily. I am not in the mood to face my mother or whatever damper her presence will put on my mood. August is back, and I’m flitting around my nesting chamber, refreshing everything with an enthusiasm that borders on frenzy. I stripped it down this morning, sending everything to the laundry, and now I’m putting my nest together again with clean materials from my personal store. Most of the layered blankets are in place, as are the throws and cushions, but there is still a selection of more cushions scattered all over the floor.

The nest is already full, but the pretty green and gold cushion in my hand, along with the violet one with pink flowers, simply must be squeezed in somewhere… maybe the yellow one adored with embroidered snowflakes… the pink and blue one with gold tassels is likewise calling to me.

“Adaline! ”

I toss all four cushions on the nest and dash to open the curtain at my doorway.

Her stern gaze sweeps over the room, taking the explosion of colorful cushions and the heap of throws upon the nest. I’m not sure how I shall fit in there, never mind my warriors, but sometimes it’s fun when they get all growly and scatter the cushions in their enthusiasm to tend me.

Her eyes return to me. She has blue eyes. Mine are gray. Why do I only consider the implications of that now, that my eyes might well remind her of my father, that every time she looks at me, she also sees him .

Unspoken words linger heavy between us.

Someone clears their throat.

It’s only now that I notice two kings’ guards standing behind her. They are huge, and it is a sign of my tumultuous state of mind that I missed them this long.

Why are they here? My heart slams around in my ribs… she cannot mean for me to…

“The king wishes to see you,” she says before I can rouse my panic, but no sooner does one fear recede than another rushes to take its place.

“Hurry, Adaline,” she says briskly. “Get your shoes. One does not keep the king waiting.”

Shoes. King. Shoes!

I dash to collect my slippers, fumbling them on and quickly smoothing out my dress and swiping my brush through my hair.

The king? Goodness.

Denna does not come with me. I do not like her well, but going alone is worse. My mind bounces about without finding any home for my rushing thoughts. I barely see the route we take, confused when we arrive at ornate double doors where two more guards stand to attention .

They knock. The door opens, and a bowing servant escorts me inside.

I am escorted through a reception room into a day room, where the king and another imperial sit at a table.

His quarters are luxurious. A broad window to the right of me offers views of a blue, cloudless sky and the forests surrounding Sanctum. Rich crimson, blue, and silver tapestries adorn the walls, depicting battle scenes and ceremonies. Candelabras and gas lanterns are presently unlit, as the room is bathed in afternoon sunlight.

A third man waits in the shadows, one I only notice now, an otherworldly power emanating from his brilliant blue eyes.

A Chosen. Above the king. An immortal fae.

I sink into a deep curtsy and lock my eyes on the richly woven carpet on the floor.

Goodness, I have been gawking around the room. I should have curtsied the moment I saw the king.

A chair slides over the carpet, light footsteps approach, and a broad hand enters my periphery, outstretched to me.

“No need for formality, child,” the king says. “Take my hand. Come, have a seat.”

I take his hand. He has commanded me to, but I’m shaking and don’t know where to put my eyes.

He walks me to the table, pulls out a seat for me, and tucks me back before taking the one beside me.

The carver chair is padded and plush beneath me. I must resist the urge to run my fingertips over the soft padding on the arms.

“You like my chair,” the king says.

I peep at him under my lashes. His hair is dark and wavy, and his beard is neatly trimmed. My eyes don’t dare reach his before I lower them to admire the silver stitching adorning his royal blue jacket in an elaborate scrolling pattern .

His strong presence fills my senses. He is both imperial and alpha. He has not yet joined the chosen ranks, but whispers say that one day he will.

I gulp, realizing he is waiting for my answer.

“I do, um…” What does one call a king? Why am I not better prepared?

My eyes meet him of their own volition. What I see in them is a storm.

He smiles. The storm breaks, revealing a blue as bright as the sky beyond the window.

He takes my hand, and a blanket of calm settles over me. “I shall arrange to have one made for you and sent to your nesting chamber. What is your favorite color?”

Color? Gods, the king is asking me what my favorite color is, but I don’t have a clue.

“I like all colors. Bright and vibrant, soft and subtle. I have the hardest time picking fresh cushions for my nest when they are all so very pretty.”

I blink a few times, lost as to how I can be this forthright. It is almost a compulsion to open my mouth and offer up all the little thoughts inside.

He laughs. It is warm and rich and lights up his handsome face. “Well, we shall see what our upholster can do.”

“Why am I here?” My eyes dart to the dark-haired fae sitting on the other side of the table, who is strangely familiar.

“You have garnered the interest of an imperial,” the king says, redirecting my attention to him. “They have… discerning taste.”

“What imperial? Him?” I blurt out, wishing I could swallow my tongue. “You look like August.”

The imperial sitting opposite lifts one brow. “Hmm.”

Goodness, he even sounds the same as August.

“And you know August well?” the king prompts. His eyes are a deep, dark brown now. Did I imagine them to be blue before?

“No,” I hedge. He is doing something to loosen my tongue. Magic, I’m sure of it. “I have fed him on occasion.”

“And have you fed from him?”

My brows pull together. “What? No! Yuk!” Then heat floods my cheeks as I consider there are many ways of feeding, for magic is transferred in ways more than blood.

The king pats my hand. “That’s alright. It can happen sometimes, even without the necessary fangs.” His dark eyes glint with warmth and amusement. “We would like to test you. Aurelius only has your best interests at heart. You are a gifted healer, and by all accounts, you are one of the more powerful. You have been feeding two warriors with ease. It is not often that fae can do so with the apparent ease you do. Would you allow us to test you?”

The words come too close together for me to unpick all of them.

“Yes,” I say. It’s not like I can refuse the king, can I? I was tested as a child. They will send me to an imperial skilled in testing. She will prick a little blood from my finger and taste it. But still, I can’t see what might have changed.

“Good,” the king says, smiling. “Sometimes mistakes are made. Testing is imperfect. The imperials who perform the tests don’t always have the palette for nuances.”

A frisson of fear pokes into the calm.

The chosen lounging in the shadows of the room had slipped my mind. I start as he rises from a chair and rounds the table to approach me. His movements have a sinuous quality. My eyes skitter away from him like they are chasing a shadow.

His hand enters my view, pale and ageless; he takes mine from the king .

I look up. His face is impossibly beautiful, and his eyes are crystal blue.

His lips part over my wrist, and he bites.

I brace, anticipating pain. Nothing comes, and then he releases my hand into the king's and licks a drop of blood from his lips.

“Not an imperial.”

The imperial, who looks like August, grunts.

The chosen’s lips curve in an almost smile. He walks back to his corner of the room with the same feline grace. “Disappointed, Aurelius? Fear not. While she is not an imperial, she is more than a feeder.” He takes his seat, the shadows wrapping around him, snatching him from view. “Foresight. A rare but important gift. It will improve with training.”

“Will you sanction this?” Aurelius asks, the first words he has spoken, and they carry a distinct note of challenge directed at a chosen, no less.

My mind is floating, trying to make sense. Distantly, I know I should be terrified, that everything happening in this room, every word spoken, is important to me, yet the terror cannot manifest.

“I will not,” the chosen replies coldly and with finality. “It is not our place to interfere with fate.”

The king rises, and my hand, still in his, escorts me out of the room.

He nods at the guard waiting there and releases me. The guard must have anticipated that my legs would cut out because he scoops me into his arms.

The king’s face swims into view as I blink the fog away. “I’m sorry I had to do that,” he says. “Meeting the chosen can be an intimidating experience. Rest, feeder, who is more than a feeder.” He smiles. “I will not forget about the chair.”

Jayga

He’s back. I’m glad he’s back. Relieved, truth be told.

But something is off—wrong. He has changed while he has been away, and I have a weird feeling that I can’t seem to shake.

I should be happy. Adaline will be herself again, the bright, playful fae we love. We can go back to the smoking hot threesomes.

So why do I feel turned upside down?

Why am I waiting for the next revelation?

Why do I feel like I’m about to be displaced?

“You’re unusually quiet today,” August says, breaking the tense silence.

We’re on patrol, our horses moving at a walk as we give them a rest. That’s the way this goes. He went on a quest with an imperial, one who happens to be his father, but it’s business as usual today.

“You’re not exactly chatty, either.”

He arches a brow. “I’m never chatty. I’ve just spent months with my father. He can go entire weeks without saying a single word.”

He’s joking, right?

“You’re messing with me?”

His lips finally twitch. Bastard.

“What’s he like then? How come you never mentioned him?”

“So that’s what this is about?”

I don’t answer, which I suppose is an answer.

“He has been largely absent from my life. This is the longest time I have spent with him, and I was only half joking about his nonverbal ways. I even found myself missing you a couple of times.”

Nonverbal? Who even talks like this? Why did I delude myself into thinking I could share a woman with him? We’re like polar opposites in every way. “But you got to know him on this trip?”

“Yes,” he says. “I got to know a small part of him on this trip. He’s old. Even for an imperial.”

“How old exactly?”

Fine, I’m curious now.

“He was at Sendar.”

“Well, fuck. That’s, like, really old. Guess you’re not going to condense all of that into a few months of nonverbal travel.” Gods, now I’m talking like an ass.

He shrugs. He’s not looking at me. I rub absently at the center of my chest. I don’t think he’s listening to me. Which isn’t unusual, but I do usually coax the odd chuckle out of him, and I’m good.

“He said something to me about Adaline. I’m still—it’s a lot to take in. We need to talk about it. Properly. Somewhere not on a damn patrol.”

“Okay.” Fuck, my heart is pounding out of my chest. “Is he sanctioning us…”

“No.”

That was blunt—cutting. “You can’t drop shit like that and then stop!”

“RIDE!”

At the patrol leader’s call, we pick up the pace to a brisk canter, bringing the conversation to a stop.

Adaline

When I return to House Silva, I find my mother waiting for me.

On the surface she is still the cool, collected mistress of my house, but behind her eyes, is the woman who gave birth to me, who once loved and lost, and who has borne that burden of tragedy ever since.

I was her first and only child and the warrior she lost my father.

She takes me to her room, a single study, with a nest hidden behind a curtain and out of view.

I sit on the chair opposite her desk at her indication.

“Will you sanction this?” Aurelius asked.

“I will not,” the chosen replied.

Those words as going to haunt me. I’m not in the right frame of mind for whatever this is with my mother. Maybe I never will be.

“What did the king want?”

“Am I supposed to tell you?”

Her lips tighten.

I take that to mean that no, I’m probably not meant to disclose what happened. Yet I am feeling reckless and whatever the king did to me lingers and it has a freeing effect on my tongue. Not that I remember much, and what I do is oddly hazy.

“I have foresight. I’m still a feeder, at least so the chosen who tested me said.”

She sucks in a sharp breath, whether at the mention of a chosen or the foresight, I can’t tell.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were mated to my father… Why did you insist I be in your house when you despise the sight of me? Why did you pretend he was nothing, that em otional connections are a bother a sensible fae should do without?”

Her next breath is ragged. “You think I don’t love you? That I didn’t love him?”

Gods, I’m so tired, and wounded deep inside, layers upon layers. I’m nothing special, just another fool feeder who fell in love with two warriors she can never have, one whose mother does not want her, and whose father is dead. “What other conclusion could I make?”

“I wanted to protect you.” Her eyes glisten. “To stop you from making my mistakes To ensure you never felt this kind of pain.”

Tears are trickling down my cheeks. I don’t remember when they began.

Pain. Current pain. Not past pain. She lost a mate and there is no easing of that burden nor taking it away. “He was your mate, but he was also my father, and I never got to know him.”

She is crying too, I realize.

“I wanted to die,” she says quietly. “Most omegas who lose a mate do. They try to bond them with another alpha and sometimes that can work. But I was carrying you, and I could bear no other’s touch. I lived for you, for the piece of him that was left, for the reminder of something pure and true.”

“You should have told me.”

“I can’t even speak his name. How could I tell you about how wonderful he was when I couldn’t even say his name.” Her face crumples and her hands go to the center of her chest. “He’s gone, but I still feel an echo of him here. And in you. It hurts to look at you. My own daughter. The one and only person whom I love unconditionally.”

I don’t remember moving but we come together for the first time I can recall. Her sweet omega scent swallowing me, her low purr like a forgotten memory.

“There was an imperial there,” I say between sobs. “He asked the chosen if he would sanction us. The chosen said he would not.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I want to cling to the hope that this is for the best, but I’m a grieving fae, and also your mother, and I don’t trust my judgment anymore.”

August

I shouldn’t have said anything. But he’s been looking at me like a scolded puppy ever since we met this morning for the patrol. I wanted the old Jayga back, the one who talks incessantly and fills the gaps so I don’t have to think.

Thinking is bad. Thinking about this, about primal needs, of dark lust, of how we force an omega into heat, can get a warrior killed if he’s on patrol and needs his wits about him.

But my father’s words. Those final ones he offered me before we parted ways.

“How do you force a heat?” I asked.

“Trust that your human alpha will already know. It is instinctive to their kind.”

I’ve fucked up Jayga’s concentration with my badly thought-through comments. I need to give him something back. We ride two by two. Nudging my nose close to his, I wait to get his attention.

“What do you know about forcing omega heats?”

His brows pinch. He glances around like someone might be close enough to hear before answering. “Nothing. Well, not much. I mean, it’s pretty obvious you need to do something extreme. Stress can suppress heat. It can also bring it on. Lots of different kinds of stress, though, isn’t there.” His lips twist in a smirk. One I know well. “You ever notice how she gets when you edge her? Probably not your thing. You’re more of a pound it until it gives.” He grins openly now. “But yeah, edging, rough fucking, one or the other, maybe both, feels like just the right kind of stress. The kind that could get an omega into heat.”

Ahead, I notice a lone rider cutting across farmland straight toward us.

A young lad, dressed in simple farmers’ clothes, his horse without a saddle and lathered with sweat.

“Orcs!” he cries, wheeling his horse around. “Orcs at Efen Loe.”