Caged Kitten (All the Queen's Men #2) - Rhea Watson Page 0,145

then leaned in close enough to brush his ear with every word. “And don’t ever speak my name again.”

This man had killed my parents, my brothers. He planned to make me some sex slave, just another piece of property, a pretty doll to screw whenever the urge struck. He had already taken everything from me, but still came back for more.

And he had threatened my guys.

A part of me wanted to just drive the blade in, consequences be damned, and deal with the ward some other way.

Maybe he saw that, how close I was to the brink, seconds from going nuclear, because Lloyd sucked in a stuttering breath, then flicked his gaze pointedly toward his wand.

“I’ll need that to remove the ward.”

“Good boy,” I sneered, easing it away from his face and flipping it between my fingers, offering him the stupid ivory handle. “If you do anything beyond that, you know what happens.”

Shifting in place, I allowed his right arm out from under me, then gave him only enough leeway to prop himself up on his elbow. As soon as his hand coiled around his wand, I slashed at his throat again, and right on cue, Tully appeared at our sides, glaring the warlock down, unblinking and huge, his magical aura almost suffocating.

“What do you hope to accomplish here?” Lloyd murmured with a shake of his head, patronizing as hell. “Your lovers are still collared. You would condemn them to a life without magic or access to their inner—”

Rolling my eyes, I drove the Swiss Army knife into his neck—just the tip—and glared down at him as another rush of cold calm fury washed over me. If he thought pinning the blame on me, like he hadn’t concocted this whole batshit scheme just to make a dollar, would somehow soften my hand, Lloyd Guthrie was delusional.

With a hiss and a scowl, Xargi Penitentiary’s warden jabbed his wand straight up. “Exsolvo tutela.”

A jet of white shot out of his wand, straight as an arrow and thick as the floodlights sweeping the prison grounds. It collided with the ward’s domed top, then flared out, skittering like lightning, cracking the magical barrier just as Lloyd’s rage had splintered his office windows only a few hours earlier. As soon as the light touched the ground, it dissolved into a gentle mist, taking with it the ward and the invisibility it projected over the building, over Lloyd’s supernatural abomination.

His work camp.

His death camp.

My vision blurred briefly, relief seeping into the inferno raging inside, and my hold on the knife loosened just enough that Lloyd seemed to think he was allowed to sit—

Purple fire suddenly exploded in the ward’s place, shooting up from the ground, bright and furious. I shrieked at the onslaught, magenta flames circling Xargi, obliterating the guardhouse as it blazed through, reeking of old magic and wanton destruction.

Seconds later, horns—a whole symphony of baying horns from the other side, blasting through the ten-foot-tall ring of fire and threatening to burst an eardrum. I clapped my hands over my ears, same as Lloyd, and braced against the attack.

“What are you doing?” I shouted, replacing my hand with my shoulder so that I could shove the knife back at his neck. Only the threat didn’t seem to hold the same weight anymore; Lloyd sat up fully, eyes wide, the firestorm reflecting in his bewildered greys.

“That…” He shook his head, bloodied and panicked, me still straddling his lap and his half-hard cock, not a lewd comment to be heard. “That is not me.”

30

Fintan

At the first blast of a fae war horn, I thought I was dreaming.

Only I was awake.

Stretched out on my cot, head pillowed on my folded arms, the last however many hours spent ruminating the failings of today—I could have sworn this was just another rescue dream. But my eyes were open, and I hadn’t nodded off and holy shit had the cavalry finally arrived?

Took them bloody long enough.

“I know those horns,” I whispered to no one in particular, staring up at the depressing ceiling, at the extinguished lonely bulb that had kept me company come nightfall all these many months. The Host of Horns—heralds of doom and triumph and tragedy. Markers of ceremony and parades. The collective voices of all the court as my father rode into the night with his raiding party, off to pillage lesser kingdoms, conquest in his eyes and savagery in his heart.

I had heard those fucking trumpets all my life—and I’d never been happier for their existence than