Melissa Marr: Desert Tales: A Wicked Lovely Companion Novel

“Keenan,” Rika started.

He reached for her wrist.

“No.” She pulled her hand to her stomach to avoid his touch, and then flung it forward and up to strike his face.

Keenan captured her fist in his hand and kissed her knuckles. “You’ve made a bad choice.”

This time the Winter Queen did speak. “Don’t touch her again.”

The possessive anger in Donia’s voice made Rika grateful that the Winter Queen knew that Rika no longer loved the flirtatious Summer King. He was not made for constancy; his court was one of frolicking, not faithfulness. When Rika had been forced to spend decades in his company watching him woo mortal after mortal, knowing that he spoke words of forever to them as he once had to her, she’d hated him. She’d hated herself more for having once believed that he meant those pretty promises. Since then, she’d thought that he could not mean them, had never meant them, but as Keenan’s gaze fell on Donia, Rika realized that she’d been wrong. Every beautiful dream Keenan had ever whispered was true—just not for the hundreds of girls before Donia. The Summer King truly loved the Winter Queen.

Rika would never tell him, but if he would have still smiled at her that way when she had been filled with ice— or even last year , she reluctantly admitted to herself—she would’ve said yes to most any question he asked. There were very few things in the world as beautiful as the Summer King’s smile when he was in love. Even still, Rika wished she could save Donia from the hurt of being loved by Keenan. Unfortunately, she’d been unable to do that when Donia was a mortal, and she certainly couldn’t do it now.

“I’m sorry, Donia,” she whispered. “I’m so very sorry I couldn’t protect you from this life.”

In a blink, Donia was standing behind her, gently squeezing her hand in acknowledgment of those whispered words.

“Go home, Rika,” her queen said evenly. Her gaze was still fastened on Keenan, and it was very clear that she still loved the Summer King, despite being cursed to be Winter Girl and now being the regent of his opposing court. Without looking away from Keenan, the Winter Queen added, “If you need anything, my court—and my allies who can enter the desert to aid you—will be here to call upon.”

Silently, Rika walked toward the house. The door opened at her approach, and another Hawthorn Girl stepped aside to let her pass.

From the relative shelter of the doorway, Rika glanced back to see Keenan brush his hand over Donia’s hair. At his touch, the Winter Queen’s hair became soft blond instead of ice-white. She leaned into his caress for a heartbeat, face flushed and steam rising from her skin. He was no better off: ice clung to his hair, his fingertips, and his lips. The curse had been cruelest to these two. Despite not being the Summer Queen he’d sought, Donia was someone he loved. Rika’s heart hurt for both of them when she realized that, despite everything, the two regents were in love—and no more likely to find a future than they had been when she’d been first cursed.

Donia stayed still until Rika was gone. She knew well that her court would relax now that the former Winter Girl and her mortal were safely away. The stakes in her quarrels with Keenan had always been high, and not too many decades ago, faeries had died when her temper was left unchecked. No one save another regent could survive if they were caught between Summer and Winter in true conflict—and Donia wasn’t sure how angry the Summer King was.

“The desert wasn’t yours to take,” Keenan said. His hand was next to her face, not touching, but near enough that his hand almost caressed Donia’s cheek. She’d settled for these half touches for so long, dreamed they could be more, and then he’d found his queen.

And I am an afterthought yet again.

She turned and kissed the palm of his hand; as she did so, her hair brushed against his arm, and even that brief caress left frost-flowers traced on his skin. “You’re wrong. It’s all mine to take, Keenan . . . especially if it brings you to my step.”

The sky grew gray, and a fierce shriek from a sudden storm gave voice to the hurt Donia couldn’t. The air became snow-filled. Still, glowing at the center was Keenan, illuminated in sunlight, still smiling at the faery who stood against him. All around him was a blizzard, but he looked happy.

He’d broken her heart time and again, but all Donia could think was that he was here and he was hers in this instant. Not Rika’s. Not Ash’s. Not any of the former Winter Girls or current Summer Girls. He smiled, and she shoved a torrent of ice at him. His answering flare of sunlight turned every bit of ice into steam.

She knew that her court was inside the safety of her home and would turn their faces away. Like her, they too often looked on him with affection. Centuries ago, he’d been a child who’d played in this Winter Garden, the son of another queen, a queen he’d killed. The woman who’d cursed him and her both had bid them to cherish him, and they still did.

“I miss you,” he whispered into the storm.

“Yet you curl up with your queen and leave me alone,” she reminded him.

“Don—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I know every objection, every word, every wish you’ll utter, Keenan. I’ve heard them for decades.”

“You know I never wanted this,” he swore. His sunlit skin glowed as he walked toward her, stalking her like she was something he could capture.

Embarrassingly, she wanted to be captured.

When she stayed still, letting the ice roll out across the ground but not striking him, he paused. His eyes widened slightly. “Don?”

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she whispered, and then she pulled him to her, unmindful of the burns his sunlight left on her skin and the frostbite she left on his. They’d obliterate each other one day if they kept this up, but she couldn’t step away any more than he could.

This is who we are. This is how we destroy everything. He’d turned away from her, abandoned her for his Summer Queen. Even now that he was back, he was trying his damnedest to convince his queen to accept him. Aislinn is his queen; he should be with her. Donia understood everything he’d done—why he’d rejected her, why he’d tried to romance his queen. She could even admit that she might’ve done the same things in his position. We’re wrong together. He was the embodiment of Summer, and she was Winter. Everything about them was in opposition.

This will end badly.

But when he kissed her it was hard to remember why it was so wrong, and when she pressed her body to his, she couldn’t help but wonder if the cost was worth it.

Sionnach sat atop the roof of one of the dilapidated buildings. Beneath him a broken door hung crookedly in the frame. A few years ago, Sionnach had replaced the hinges, but he wasn’t a carpenter, so it sagged oddly. On either side of the door was a window frame. One had dirty glass with a spiderweb crack running through it. The other frame was open; no glass remained where the window should be.

Across from him were the remains of other buildings, and over top that the sky was a riot of colors as the sun rose. Below him he could see the faeries who were walking through the deserted streets, clustering in groups on the porches, sitting in window frames, perched on other railings. None were brazen enough to climb up as high as he was. His position was a statement, and they knew it.

The view from the roof of this building was among the best, and the view of him was imposing. Part of being Alpha was simply a game: show the others that he was the most daunting faery here. He wasn’t, hadn’t been so since Rika had arrived in the desert, but she’d disdained anything that had a taint of the political to it. He couldn’t blame her, not really. The Summer King and the now-dead Winter Queen had both done their level best to destroy her. It wasn’t personal; she was just one of the many pawns in their conflict.