I told him to get bent.
He had me arrested.
You see, there’s magic in a fae’s touch. All it takes is a human like me giving permission and a fae can steal part of our soul with a brush of their hand. It makes them strong. It makes them powerful. They would do anything for the rush—but they need permission. Without it, a stolen touch causes pain for the fae.
They’ll cajole you. Glamour you. Trick you. Compel you if they can. They’ll do anything to convince you to give them all you have. And when you do—if you do—you’re left as nothing but a slave to the whims of a fantastical creature who will crush you as easily as kiss you.
No, thanks.
The Unseelie guard reaches for me. I don’t know if he’s testing me or if, like Lord Veron, he’s willing to risk a burn in order to grab me, but I’m not about to take it.
I jerk away from him, the chains on my cuffs rattling as I avoid his outstretched hand. “Don’t touch me.”
“Leave her, Dusk. It’s fine. I’ll take her to the cell,” offers the Seelie guard, already reaching to grab the elbow of my trusty leather jacket. It’s not skin.
I’m not about to risk it regardless.
“Get away from me.” My heart is pounding. I hate confrontations, have never been good at fighting back unless provoked, but there’s no way in hell I want any of them to touch me. It’s w
hy I’m here in the first place. I could’ve avoided the whole being imprisoned thing if I just gave permission to Veron. “I don’t want you to touch me, either.”
Saxon drops his hand.
“Are there any diamaint gloves in the guards’ room?” he asks, turning to Dusk. “With a human prisoner, we’ll need one.”
Dusk’s silver eyes darken to a deep grey as he glances over at me. Great. I’ve ticked him off and I haven’t even made it to my cell yet.
Good going, Hel.
He purses his lips. “It’s possible. It isn’t often Siúcra accepts a human, and I’ve never met one who wasn’t a slave to the touch. Why don’t you go look? Check in with the captain if necessary.”
“Should I meet you here?”
“I won’t need the diamaint just yet. If she knows what’s good for her, she’ll give me her touch eventually. ‘Til then, the iron and the blade will do.”
He pulls his sword from its sheath, angling it toward me so that I can’t miss the sharp edge. “Are you sure, Elle? You’d like it so much better if I led you there by hand.”
No. He would like it better if he did.
“I’m sure.”
“You’ll change your mind,” he murmurs. “I’ll enjoy ensuring that you do. Now move.”
He doesn’t really need the sword at my back. The iron handcuffs are overkill, too. I’m already resigned to this. It was either stay with Veron or go to prison.
I made my choice already. And I’m beginning to understand that there’s not going to be any last-minute reprieve for me.
Alright then.
Let’s go.
So I guess men are men wherever you go. Faerie or my world, magic or mortal… they’re all the same.
Wonderful.
Catcalls follow me as Dusk forces me to continue my march through the prison. As we go, I hear a few of the prisoners try to convince the guard to leave me with them, and I try not to pay attention to the things they tell me they want to do to me.
Dusk eventually orders them all to be quiet. They listen, too, which surprises me since we pass a whole row of cells filled with trolls. They’re three times as big as Dusk, but they seem to quail when the Unseelie guard turns his silver stare on them. When one of the prisoners—I don’t know what this guy is except he’s furry and hunched over a bit—tries to test him, Dusk’s pale skin takes on an eerie glow that has the next few wings’ worth of prisoners shutting up at his approach.