The overwhelming fear is his. Not Seren’s.
Despite the fear, Tansy glares up. His lips twist, then spit blood.
“Fuck you,” Tansy rasps, defiant.
His voice breaks Seren’s shock. “Tansy!” he shouts, rushing forward—only to reel back as Gevain appears in his path.
Satisfaction curls like incense smoke. “So, you do care about him,” Gevain says pleasantly.
Seren’s stomach drops. That satisfaction is a bad sign, too strong for Gevain’s practiced control to contain. Seren’s given Gevain too much leverage before the negotiation even starts.
Because of course there’ll be a negotiation. They’re fae. And Gevain hasn’t harmed Seren yet, besides bringing him here, which means he wants something else.
Sure enough. “I considered inviting Lord Nevander to this conversation,” Gevain continues. “But little Tansy was a more enjoyable guest.”
Tansy laughs weakly. “You’d never invite Nevander to a party. He’s hotter than you.”
His defiant attitude is clearly a defense mechanism. Probably unhelpful, given the number of bruises, but it’s kept him from collapsing so far.
Seren wishes Nevander was here. Nevander could fix everything: heal Tansy, eviscerate Gevain, hold Seren until the panic shakes from his bones. Seren’s only going to make things worse.
But he can’t give up. Squaring his shoulders, Seren reels in his empathy. His shields tighten until he’s locked out Gevain’s satisfaction and Tansy’s all-consuming fear. What remains isn’t fear like Seren expects, but determination. Outrage.
HowdareGevain defy him.
“I won’t discuss anything until I’ve checked on Tansy,” Seren says coldly. “If he’s dying, your leverage dies too.”
“Don’t worry, Your Highness, his injuries aren’t fatal,” Gevain assures, as if he hadn’t inflicted those injuries. When Seren doesn’t budge, Gevain reaches out a palm. “You may go to him if you give me your carryhold.”
The decision should be easy, yet refusal claws Seren’s heart. There’s nothing useful in his carryhold, not that Gevain would know that. Seren doesn’t trust his skill with a dagger, and he keeps forgetting to replace the healing elixir he used in Spiritwood. But Nevander placed this ring on Seren’s finger, and he’s reluctant to part with it.
“Fine,” Seren spits, yanking his glove off, then the ring. He flings both to the ground and rushes down the steps.
Gevain’s low chuckle rolls along with the ring. It follows like an unwelcome touch as Seren drops to Tansy’s side.
Tansy tries to straighten, wincing. A bruise blooms over his right cheekbone. “I said you were too smart to listen to an ugly snake. Guess I was wrong.”
His bravado is a poor disguise for fear. Seren isn’t cruel enough to rip that mask aside.
“Look who’s talking,” Seren retorts instead. “What did he do to you?”
Tansy takes a shaky breath. “Just beat me up a little. I guess treason is stressful, and he needed to let off steam.”
There’s so much blood, mostly on Tansy’s arms, caked dry and fresh and that sticky in-between. Mortal blood, reeking of iron. Nauseous, Seren searches for knife marks.
But the blood comes from Tansy’s wrists, the skin torn beneath the silver cuffs. He must have been here for hours to wrench his wrists so raw. Hours of hurt, trying to escape, while Seren strolled through the gardens.
Seren was careless. He could blame it on his argument with Nevander—gods, he can’t think about Nevander now. The truth is, Seren was so relieved when Gevain’s attention wandered elsewhere. He hadn’t wondered what a high fae lord might see in a vulnerable changeling human.
Not a lover. An opportunity.
The bruises mottling Tansy’s ribs look bad. Gevain says the injuries aren’t fatal, but internal wounds are unpredictable.
“He needs treatment,” Seren says, trying to sound stern, not scared. “He’s only human.”
“Wow, rude,” Tansy gasps.
Unconcerned, Gevain ascends the dais. “Then we should converse with haste.”