I burst out laughing, then reach up to wipe a tear from her face. I brush back her hair, then hold her face in my hands. “Laurel, witchling, all this time, did you think she and I were sleeping together, even though I told you there was nothing there?” Another nod, her eyes wide. “I let Silene choose her bedroom when we arrived. Fionn too. Silene being Silene, she picked the biggest one, which is well and good because I loathe the color gold. I ended up in the green one. It—it reminds me of you.” Her eyes search my face for any sign of deceit. I hold her gaze, letting the vulnerable truth show in my eyes.

“You flirt with Aria. Aethers, I’ve seen you flirt with Carex. You flirt with practically everyone,” she says, another challenge, her voice a whip. My stomach sinks. She’s right. It’s the only way I know how to keep up appearances, to make people underestimate me. It’s how I’ve stayed alive being more powerful than my father.

Shame and guilt lacing my words, I respond. “I know. But I don’t—it means nothing to me, Laurel. It’s a fucked-up habit I learned to make my father think I’m not a threat. Or, it started that way. Now—I don’t know. But it’s always been different with you.” She again searches me, her lingering gaze flaying me open.

“Your father—” She chokes the final word, and the same force that’s driven me since the day we met takes over. I pull her back to my chest and rub her back.

“You have no idea how much I wish you didn’t have to be mated to The Golden King’s son. I wish we were just Laurel and Thorne, two ordinary fae who found each other and get to live out their happily ever after. I would trade all my magic for you to have that dream, because it’s what you deserve. I don’t know what it means, and I don’t know what my father will do with the information, but we’ll figure it out together. We’re friends, like you said. Allies. Mates.”

“You don’t want to be mated to me,” she whispers, voice shaking. And here I think is the real truth of why she ran from me. She believes she’s what my father has painted her to be. “I’m the Witch Queen. Terrifyingly powerful. A monster. And don’t say I’m not. You don’t know what I’ve done, what I’m capable of.” She shudders, trying to pull away. I let go of her middle so I can look at her face but place my hands on her hips to keep her close, tracing circles across the soft flesh.