Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,97

her lips and made her whole face ache with powerfully ignited magic.

Eventually the pain was enough to bring her back to her senses. With a snarl, she shoved at the unconscious lord’s shoulder and rolled him away. He slid off the bed and collapsed in an ungainly heap on the floor.

Nelle sat up, dizzy, and gripped the edge of the bed, her fingers digging into the lush blanket. Closing her eyes, she wiped a hand down her face, then pushed hair back from her forehead.

Had she really forgotten the Sweet Dreams? Would she really have submitted to this fae’s seductions? Just like that?

He must have enchanted her somehow—the wine, the perfume, his voice. But when she searched down inside, she could find no signs of enchantment. Nothing but her own pulsing lust, wildly and unexpectedly awakened. Her whole body ached with longing she hardly understood, and she shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself, wishing, foolishly wishing she’d not applied the Sweet Dreams at all.

After a few long, careful breaths, her shuddering passed. Drawing a steadying breath, she let it out in a low growl. She couldn’t stay here and wait for this dangerous being to wake. How long would the Sweet Dreams work on him? The dose she’d applied would knock out a mortal man for a full day at least. But while the poison had acted faster on a fae, it might wear off sooner.

Nelle grimaced and shot up from the bed, hastily arranging her split skirts around her bare legs. She stepped over the fae lord and crossed quickly to the little table where her satchel, quill, and spellbook lay. Part of her wanted to stop and write a spell. Another flame-sword, perhaps. Something to hold onto in case any of those skull-dogs lurked just outside the room.

But . . . she glanced back at the heap of limbs that was Kyriakos. Though he lay perfectly still, he might be playing some sort of cat-and-mouse game with her. Any moment now, he might spring up, and her chance of escape would be lost.

She stuffed the quill and book inside the satchel. On afterthought, she looked around the room, spotted the nilarium poker lying where she’d dropped it, and fetched that as well. It was better than nothing.

With her legs trembling with terror and her spine stiffly determined, she marched to the wall that had earlier let the four sister-wives out through a doorway and felt along the lurid mural, searching frantically for any crack or hidden latch. It was perfectly smooth to the touch.

A knot of panic tightened in her gut. Nelle glanced back at the fallen Kyriakos again. Now that the moment was past, all lust had drained away, leaving behind only dread. She would not be taken in by a fae! She would not be lured and twisted and seduced beyond her reason! She was her own bullspitting person, and she would get out of this place if it killed her.

Raising the poker, she hacked at the wall, once, twice—but before the third blow fell, it opened suddenly, swinging outward. Nelle swallowed a yelp and jumped back, brandishing the poker in a defensive stance.

The pink woman with the brilliant hair appeared in the doorway, her face glowing in the firelight. She didn’t look at Nelle. Instead, she peered past her into the room, her eyes lighting on the crumpled form of her lordly husband. For an instant, her face maintained its expressionless mask.

Then a smile slowly spread across her face and crinkled her eyes.

She turned to Nelle and touched a finger to her own smiling lips. “Rishva,” she said.

Nelle lifted a hand to her mouth. “Is . . . is that what you call it?” she asked, her voice tight. “The Sweet Dreams?”

The woman nodded, and her smile widened. “It is . . . of my people,” she said slowly. The words sounded odd, as if her tongue might be unsuited to speaking mortal languages. For a moment Nelle didn’t understand. Then it dawned on her: This was how the sister-wife had immediately recognized the potent substance hidden in her locket. It was a concoction created in her kind’s corner of Eledria.

Was this a clue to Mother’s origins? The dryad had said this pink woman was a vila. Did that mean Mother was part vila herself?

But this was no time to puzzle out mysteries. At the pink woman’s beckoning, Nelle stepped through the door. Almost at once she realized her mistake. For a terrifying, gut-plunging