Melissa Marr - Wicked Lovely

Grams was weeping now. Her tears rolled over her cheeks, but she made no move to wipe them away. "I know."

"Then you know I didn't kill her." He turned to Aislinn, his eyes pleading with her. "She chose death by her own hand rather than joining the Summer Girls."

Grams stared at the wall where the few existing pictures of Moira and Aislinn were. "If you hadn't hunted her down in the first place, she'd be alive."

Aislinn turned to Keenan; her voice came out half strangled when she said, "Go."

Instead he crossed the room, coming toward her, walking past the portraits of her mother without even a glance. He put a hand under Aislinn's chin and forced her to look up at him. "You're my queen, Aislinn. We both know that. We can talk now or later, but I cannot let you turn away from me."

"Not now." She hated how her voice shook, but she didn't back away from him.

"Tonight then. We need to speak to Donia, arrange for your guards, and" — he looked around the apartment— "decide what you'll want to move, where you want to live. There are other, lovelier places we can live."

This was the faery who'd stalked her—confident and compelling. As quickly as lightning across the sky, he'd gone from pleading to demanding.

She stepped behind Grams' chair, out of his reach. "I live with Grams."

Smiling beatifically, Keenan dropped to his knees in front of Grams. "If you want to join her in our home, I'll have your things brought over. It'd be our honor."

Grams said nothing.

"I am sorry that Moira was so afraid. I've waited so long, I'd almost given up. If I'd known that Moira would be the mother of our queen" — he shook his head—"but all I knew was that she was special, that she drew me to her."

The whole time he'd been speaking, Grams had not moved: she'd clenched her hands in her lap and glared at him.

Aislinn reached over and gripped Keenan's arm. "You need to leave. Now."

He let her pull him to his feet, but the look on his face was awful. Gone were all traces of kindness, of pleading, of anything but raw determination. "You will come to me tonight, or I will find you—find your Seth. That isn't how I want to do this, but I'm running out of choices."

Aislinn stared at him as his words registered. She'd begun the day prepared to reason with him, to accept the inevitable, and he was threatening her. He was threatening Seth. She made her voice as cold as she could, "Don't go there, Keenan."

He ducked his head. "It's not what I want, but I—"

"Leave," she interrupted him.

She grabbed his arm and led him to the door.

"We can talk later, but if you think for a minute that threats are going to help" — she broke off as her temper flared—"you really don't want to threaten me."

"I don't," he said softly, "but if I have to, I will."

She opened the door and shoved him out. She took several deep breaths, leaning on the now-closed door, and started, "Grams, I—"

"Run before he comes back. I can't protect you. Get your Seth, leave, go somewhere far away." Grams went to the bookshelf, brought down a dusty book, and opened it. It was hollowed out in the middle. Inside was a thick stack of bills. "It's running-away money. I've been saving it since Moira died. Take it."

"Grams, I—"

"No! You need to go while you can. She didn't have money when she ran; maybe if you do…" She went into Aislinn's room and pulled out a duffle bag, resolutely shoving clothes into it, ignoring everything else—including Aislinn's repeated attempts to talk to her.

Keenan heard Elena's statements as clearly as if she were beside him, but he didn't stop. What good would it do? He couldn't go back inside.

He stepped onto the almost-barren walk outside their building and waited for Niall, who was sprawled on a bench across the street, to cross to him.

"I said not to follow me."

"I didn't follow you. I followed her" — Niall inclined his head toward Aislinn's building—"the queen. I thought it prudent after the Winter Girl's visit."

"Right." Keenan sighed. "I should've sent extra guards over there."

"You were distracted. Anyhow, it's what we do—look after you. Might as well start looking after the queen." His words were nonchalant, as if their queen had already said yes.

She hadn't. And as much as Keenan hoped she wouldn't run, he wasn't certain.

As he'd waited there in the hallway—knowing his queen lay with another, knowing that she'd die if she didn't accept him, knowing that Donia would die when Aislinn did accept him—he'd faced the ugly reality of the situation. He had to do whatever necessary to win. There wasn't time to wait. He couldn't force her, but he could use faery persuasion, offer her too much wine, threaten Seth…Aislinn would accept him. There were no other choices.

"How did it go?" Niall asked as they started up the street, the guards trailing them. "You seem better than last night."

"It—" he started, but promptly stopped himself. "I don't know. Moira was her mother."

"Ouch." Niall winced.

Keenan took a steadying breath. "But there are ways to convince her—things I don't want to do."

Niall prompted, "The things Tavish spoke of?"

Even though Mall's tone was harsh, Keenan kept his face blank. "It's business. I could bring her mortal to the loft, let the girls have him, let her see him smitten and senseless."

"It's not our way. Not the Summer Court." Niall made a signal to the guards, and they shifted directions, slowly steering him down another street.

"There will be no Summer Court if Beira kills Aislinn," Keenan said. He didn't like the options, but was the fate of all the summer fey and mortals worth the upset of one girl?

"True." Niall turned between two storefronts, cutting through a narrow alley. "I know Tavish believes it necessary to be expedient—regardless of the cost—but I've been with you as long as he has."

"You have," Keenan said slowly. He knew Niall was even more sensitive to questions of volition.

Niall's expression clouded, leaving him looking near sick. His voice was raw as he said, "Don't cross those lines, Keenan. Not if there's any way to avoid it. You've never been tolerant of that—if our king does it, why should any of the fey do otherwise?"

Niall stopped, putting his hand on Keenan's arm.

In the shadows of the alley before them, several thistle fey had cornered a wood-sprite, her back to a wall. She pleaded with them. They weren't touching her, but she was trapped—by Keenan's own guard. His rowan-men had blocked the opening to the alley, letting no one in or out.

Her skin was already striped with bleeding cuts where the dark fey's thistle-covered hands had touched her. Her tunic was all but shredded, exposing her bloody stomach.

"Is this scene for my benefit?" Keenan asked as he turned slowly to face Niall.

"It is." Niall lowered his voice, but the look on his face was brazen. He straightened his already-stiff shoulders. "I cannot sway you with the paternal influence as Tavish can, or with the Winter Girl's melancholy love."

"So, what, you stage an attack?" All the rancor Keenan had ever felt toward the atrocities of the dark fey seemed to flood him as he looked at his advisor—his friend—and then at the scene orchestrated before them.

"I had the guards find them and relocate them here. This" — Niall motioned to the three in the alley—"is what the Dark Court does. It's never been our way."

At Niall's signal, the guards between the dark faeries and sprite stepped back, leaving the sprite at their mercy.