Nectar of the Wicked (Deadly Divine, #1) (87)

“Finally.” Thin lips spread into a wide and bright grin. “Been spending far too much time in this cesspit, waiting for the moment you came to your senses.” His tone turned mocking as he bowed deeply. “My princess.”

I forced a smile, all the while inwardly whining like a babe. I just needed a skies-damned minute. “I wouldn’t recommend staying out late,” I rasped, gesturing to my neck and hoping he’d assume I didn’t remember him.

A dark brow rose, humor sparking in those unforgettable golden eyes.

He was with the hunt, yet he’d been waiting for me? I couldn’t make sense of it—lacked the ability and time to make sense of anything right now.

My mind was cotton. My beaten body remained upright from adrenaline and survival instinct alone.

All I knew was that I needed to get away from power-hungry males, and that he was but another one. Whatever he wanted was guaranteed to be no good for me. So I shrugged and straightened to walk back to the apartment building.

But my unbalanced feet faltered as he lifted a gloved hand. He opened that hand to reveal a small pile of dirt-colored dust. He smirked.

Then he blew.

I turned away and blocked my face. But it was too late. The faerie dust, acidic and laced, was inhaled into my lungs.

The alley dripped away in an instant, and I fell into his arms as day turned into starless night.





I woke on a bed in a circular stone room, confused and wondering if the dreamless sleep had now become vivid.

Then it all came rushing back in patches of pain and fear and blood and horse hooves.

I rolled over and expected to feel it still—the aches and stings of my wounds—but found there was only one.

And it radiated from my chest with the memory of dark-blue eyes and a feral smirk.

Wherever I was, Florian wasn’t here; here was nowhere I’d been before.

He would be furious indeed, I thought as the pain of betrayal flared. Furious that his captive had escaped before he was done with me.

Hairs rose upon my skin, and I finally sensed I wasn’t alone.

Tears cleared at the sight of a male seated in a woven cane chair against the wall.

It creaked when he leaned forward and clasped his hands between his spread knees. He wore his features similar to the male I’d escaped—with cool indifference. His were not as easily seen, hidden beneath a dark beard that reached his broad chest.

I didn’t need to ask who he was.

I knew before he said, “You look like Corina.” His voice was rough, sand over concrete, and his scent a similar mixture of pine and eucalyptus to the male who’d blown dust into my face. “Your mother.”

I’d always wondered if that were true, and I’d always dreamed of one day hearing someone say those words to me. Though I’d never imagined them being said in a tone as empty and matter of fact as his, and certainly not from the male I assumed was my father.

The Fae were not known to be warm and welcoming creatures, but they were fiercely protective of those they did care for, especially their family.

A kernel of disappointment joined forces with the hurt already fracturing every heartbeat. Still, I rasped, “You’re Molkan.”

The male nodded once, slowly. The chair creaked again as he leaned back, a large hand rubbing over his mouth. The sound of coarse facial hair scratching his palm echoed too loudly in the small and otherwise silent chamber.

“So you escaped him,” he said, the first sign of something within his voice—disbelief. “The meticulously ruthless Florian.”

Merely hearing his name was a knife grazing wounded flesh.

Though the answer was obvious, I said, “Yes,” and to hide my emotions, I pushed up on the bed and inspected my arms. I was still wearing my ruined gown, but my coat was gone. I tugged up the sleeves but found only blood-marked skin. “Someone healed me?”

“Of course,” Molkan said. My father said.

Mother melt me, this could not be real.

My gaze flitted over the wooden trunk beneath the circle-shaped, glassless window. There was a chest of drawers beside the bed, though, with the exception of the chair the Baneberry king sat in, nothing else.

“Thank you,” I said belatedly.

I could feel his eyes on me. My stomach tumbled as I forced myself to tuck the bedding over my waist and look at him. A hard male, certainly, his skin sun warmed and faintly lined—his body big and burly but mostly muscular.

His clothing was similar to the golden-eyed male’s from the alley, a brown tunic and pants. Molkan’s were not britches but loose, and his giant feet were shockingly bare of shoes.

“I had hoped to reach you before he snatched you,” he said, still rubbing slowly at his mouth as though deep in thought. “Alas, by the time we confirmed it was indeed you who Avrin encountered during the Wild Hunt’s visit to Crustle, it was far too late. You were as good as gone.”

“Avrin?” I questioned.

A slight smirk lit Molkan’s charcoal eyes. Eyes so very similar to my own. “The male who brought you here.”

Gold eyes.

Remembering that night in the alleyway right before I’d left the middle lands with Florian, an onslaught of regret twined through my bones. If I’d have known the male with gold eyes had been working with my father, then so much would have been different. So much could have been avoided.