Untamed - A. G. Howard Page 0,87

in preschool crafts. Only these are alive and strong as steel.

I can’t see them, but I hear them: dragging along the floor. I animate them to follow the sound of Morpheus’s footsteps and his flashes of blue magic as he scrambles around the gritty cave in hopes of escape.

“Dammit, Alyssa!”

“Bind him tight,” I command my chains.

Morpheus’s snarls and groans confirm their success.

While he’s preoccupied, I concentrate on the clocks’ hands once more: bending them back and forth, back and forth, until finally they snap off in a metallic rain to the floor. I coax them up, high enough their skinny shadows line the sheet, lit up by the lantern. In my mind, they’re a swarm of metallic bees. I focus on them, using their pointy ends like knives, to slice through the cloth and pry open the door.

By the time I flutter out of the cage, Morpheus is pinned to the wall in paper binds, struggling to break free—the proverbial moth in a web. My web.

As beautiful as he is when he’s alight with power, poise, and potency, there’s something undeniably alluring about him captured and at my mercy.

The queen in me purrs.

Leisurely, I fly to the chair where he laid his jacket and search his pocket for the amplifying pastry. After several bites, I return to my natural size and alight on the floor to face him.

At my command, the chains tighten around his chest and arms. Yes, this scene is familiar. Except last time, I coaxed Red’s vines from within me to hold him prisoner.

“You said you liked to play rough,” I taunt.

“I can give as good as I get.” He stares at me, unflinching. “Should I so choose,” he adds, and ignites his magic enough to slice through the chains on one wrist—sure proof that he could cut them all loose if he wanted. Yet he doesn’t. His eye patches glitter in prismatic disarray, hiding whatever it is he’s feeling.

“Well, I’m in no mood to play anyway,” I answer, angry I can’t read him. Or maybe I’m flustered that he doesn’t break free and fight back . . . that there’s no teasing twitch at his lips or yellow flash through his jeweled markings. “Tell me why I shouldn’t drag you to court. Holding the queen hostage is treason.”

He growls. Long strands of unruly enchanted blue hair slap across his chin and tease out a grimace. “You’re under a vow to spend twelve hours with me. Back out now, and lose all those pretty powers you so love to flaunt.”

I force a smile. “Oh, I’m not abandoning my vow. I’ll sit with you in the dungeon for our remaining eight hours while you wait to be sentenced.”

He grunts. “For your information, I wasn’t hungry . . . nor was I small.”

I tilt my head. “What are you babbling about?”

Sighing, he looks down at the chains clamped around his chest. “If I hadn’t wanted you to triumph, I would ne’er have put the pastry in my pocket and brought it in. It certainly wasn’t for me.”

His logic rings true. I command the chains to release him. They gather in a limp, snaky pile at his feet.

He stays pressed against the wall as if held in place by the imprints left upon his skin. His wings splay out behind him—majestic and proud—his only cushion against the stone.

I step up to him. “You’ve always claimed to have faith in me,” I press, sympathy and frustration twisting my insides to a perplexed pretzel. “So why do I have to keep walking over coals for you?”

He frowns, managing to look both apologetic and haughty at the same time. “I had to trap you. To remind you of your better half. You want so much to be Alice . . . the Alice that could’ve been. I fear you’ll become her in every way. Helpless. Human. Unless you keep your guard up. You must never be a victim like she was. I saw you almost die yesterday. Your heart splitting in twain.” His chin trembles. “I can ne’er face that again. So I will let you go for your own sake, to fulfill your mundane human expectations. At least, since you’re visiting me in dreams each night, I’m fairly certain you won’t forget us like you did as a child.”

His accusation scores through me. “I didn’t mean to. I was so little . . .”

“I’m not blaming you, Alyssa. It was unavoidable. You would not have been the same person, capable of compassion