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wicked.
This was the sort of court he’d be joining—
this whirlwind of ... Lorcan didn’t know what
the word was for it. He doubted any of his five
centuries had prepared him for it, though.
Aelin extended a hand. “You know how
this goes, then. Or are you too old to
remember?”
Lorcan glared and knelt, offering up the
dagger at his side.
A fool. He was a fool.
And yet his hands shook slightly as he gave
the queen the knife.
Aelin weighed the blade, a golden ring
capped with an obscenely large emerald
adorning her finger. A wedding band. Likely
from the barrow-wight trove she’d pilfered.
He glanced to where Whitethorn stood to the
side. Sure enough, a golden ring lay on the
warrior’s own finger, a ruby built into the