Empire of Storms (Throne of Glass #5) by Sarah J. Maas

Exactly where he’d sworn not to be.

Rowan, on the other side of Aelin, said to Dorian, “Is there a reason, Majesty, that you believe the witch should be free?”

Aelin shot him a look of pure flame. Good—let the prince deal with her wrath. Even days after the claiming that had left everyone pretending they didn’t notice the two puncture wounds on Rowan’s neck or the delicate, vicious scratches over his shoulders, the Fae Prince still looked like a male who had barely survived a storm and had enjoyed every wild second of it.

Not to mention the twin wounds on Aelin’s neck this morning. He’d almost begged her to find a scarf.

“Why don’t we lock one of you in a room”—Dorian pointed with his chin at the Fae warriors across the deck, at Lysandra to his right—“and see how well you fare after so much time.”

Aelin said, “Every inch of her has been designed to ensnare men. To make them think she’s harmless.”

“Trust me, Manon Blackbeak is anything but harmless.”

Aelin charged on, “She and her kind are killers. They are raised without conscience. Regardless of what her grandmother did to her, she will always be that way. I will not endanger the lives of the people on this ship so you can sleep better at night.” Her eyes shone with the unspoken jab.

They all shifted, and Aedion was about to ask Lysandra to spar, conversation closed, when Dorian said a bit too quietly, “I am king, you know.”

Turquoise-and-gold eyes snapped to Dorian. Aedion could almost see the words Aelin fought to think through, her temper begging her to shut down the challenge. With a few choice sentences, she could fillet his spirit like a fish, further shredding the scraps of the man who remained after the Valg prince had violated him. And in doing so, lose a strong ally she’d need not just in this war, but if they survived it. And—those eyes softened a bit. A friend. She’d lose that, too.

Aelin rubbed at the scars on her wrists, stark in the golden light of the setting sun. Ones that made Aedion sick to look at. She said to Dorian after a moment, “Controlled movements. If she leaves the room, she stays under guard—one of the Fae at any given time, plus one of us. Shackles on her wrists, not feet. No chains for the room, but a guard outside the door.”

Aedion caught the thumb Rowan brushed over one of those scars on her wrist.

Dorian just said, “Fine.”

Aedion debated telling the king that a compromise from Aelin should be outright celebrated.

Aelin’s voice dropped to that lethal purr. “After you finished flirting with her that day in Oakwald, she and her coven tried to kill me.”

“You provoked her,” Dorian countered. “And I sit here today because of what she risked when she came to Rifthold twice.”

Aelin wiped the sweat from her brow. “She has her own reasons, and I highly doubt it was because she, in her one hundred years of killing, decided your pretty face would turn her good.”

“Yours turned Rowan from three centuries of a blood oath.”

It was Aedion’s father who said calmly as he left his perch near Abraxos on the prow to approach them, “I’d suggest, Majesty, that you pick another argument.”

Indeed, Aedion’s every instinct came to attention at the frozen anger now limning the prince’s every muscle.

Dorian noticed it, too, and said, perhaps a bit guiltily, “I meant no offense, Rowan.”

Gavriel angled his head, golden hair sliding over his broad shoulder, and said with a ghost of a smile, “Don’t worry, Majesty. Fenrys has given Whitethorn enough shit for it to last him another three centuries.”

Aedion blinked at the humor, the hint of a smile.

But Aelin saved him the effort of deciding whether or not to answer that smile by saying to Dorian, “Well? Let’s see if the Wing Leader would like to take a turn about the deck before dinner.”

Dorian was right to look wary, Aedion decided. But Aelin was already heading for the opposite side of the deck, Fenrys peeling off from his post by the foremast, that edged, bitter gaze sliding over them all while they passed.

But Fenrys would follow, no doubt. Like hell would they unleash the witch without all of them there. Even the cadre seemed to understand that.

So Aedion trailed after his queen into the dimness of the ship, night setting in above them, and prayed Aelin and Manon weren’t about to rip the boat to shreds.





Climbing into bed with a witch. Aelin ground her teeth as she headed for Manon’s room.

Dorian had once been notorious when it came to women, but this … Aelin snorted, wishing Chaol were present, if only to see the look on his face.

Even if it eased something tight in her chest to know Chaol and Faliq were in the South. Perhaps raising an army to cross the Narrow Sea and march northward. If they were all lucky.

If. Aelin hated that word. But … her friendship with Dorian was precarious enough. She’d yielded to his request partially out of some scrap of kindness, but mostly because she knew there was more Manon had to tell them about Morath. About Erawan. Lots more.

And she doubted the witch would be forthcoming—especially when Aelin had lost her temper just a little bit this morning. And maybe it made her a conniving, hideous person for using Dorian’s interest as a veil to butter up the witch, but … it was war.

Aelin flexed her hand as she neared the witch’s room, the lights swaying in the rougher waves they’d encountered since midday.