The Marked Prince

By M.A. Grant

In this fantasy romance, a royal on a rescue mission falls in love with mysterious stranger and is torn between his duty and his heart.

The Summer Court is nothing like Sebastian remembers. The oppressed lower classes are drained of their magick, and around every corner political intrigues threaten an already unstable regime. Sebastian’s only hope of surviving the Court and bringing home Prince Lyne’s traitorous brother lies with Duine, a magickless Unseelie servant desperate to win his freedom. A servant for whom Sebastian, an estranged Seelie royal himself, is developing a dangerous and deepening affection.

But behind the mask Duine wears are secrets as dangerous as what’s smoldering between them. And the more Duine helps Sebastian navigate Court life, the more it becomes clear the servant is not who he appears to be. How he came to be the whipping boy of one of the most powerful and corrupt faeries in the Summer Court is a truth Sebastian is determined to uncover, even if it puts him at odds with the very people who can lead him to the missing Unseelie prince.

When a powerful enemy steps from the shadows, it could spell the end not just for the Unseelie, but for both faerie Courts. Sebastian must choose: complete the mission and earn his place among the Unseelie who took him in, or risk his very life to ensure freedom for the man he loves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9781488054136

M.A. Grant

M.A. Grant fell in love with the romance genre while working at an independent bookstore. She spent a decade in the rugged beauty of Alaska's Kenai Peninsula before moving to the mountains of Eastern Washington. When she’s not calling out to passing ravens or making a cup of tea, she’s writing dark and moving stories.

Book preview

Prologue

Sláine

When the nymph comes around the second time with fresh glasses of water, I wave her off with more force than necessary. It’s nothing against her; the hospitality of our hosts here on Delos has been impeccable. No, my irritation is the direct result of the faerie across the table from me.

Aoife, the High Princess of the Summer Court, embodies everything I have learned to hate about the Accords. Her golden hair is pulled up, loose curls spilling free to frame her delicate features and despite the day’s warmth, she wears an elaborately embroidered dress. She’s beautiful to look at, but a nightmare to negotiate with. We’ve spent days across the table and are no closer to agreeing on the terms of continued peace. Listening to her dance around the issues yet again, I question whether war has been the Summer Court’s goal all along.

I don’t understand why there is any doubt of Unseelie corruption, Aoife repeats.

She’s louder this time in an attempt to regain the attention of the bevy of Valkyries who serve as Pantheon observers at these talks. None of them give her any signal to continue. They’ve heard such conspiracy theories before at previous talks and have never seen proof of their validity.

When the Valkyries don’t engage, Aoife turns her attention back to the more sympathetic delegations from the Greek and Roman pantheons. Though they’re few in number, they are this year’s hosts for the Accords, and as such are a powerful minority capable of swaying other Pantheon ambassadors to the Seelie plight. I’m impressed at how easily and subtly Aoife manipulates them.

They listen in rapt attention as she speaks. My father has spoken to you often of our sídhe’s diminishing power, she says, and they nod. She continues, We have been forced to ration our magick use since the last Accords. We obey the Rite Hibernum and transfer our power to our cousins, yet when they return that same magick during the Rite Aestatem, we find it diminished. The Accords clearly state that the amount of power transferred between Courts is to remain equal—

And it is, I interject as politely as I can.

Aoife ignores me, as she has the past times I’ve interjected in the midst of her diatribes. The Unseelie have lied to us about the volume of returned magick time and time again. They actively work against our efforts to stabilize the faerie Courts and we will stand for it no longer—

Queen Mab has centuries’ worth of diplomatic negotiations, documentation of the successful use of the Rites, and good reports by Pantheon observers which prove her dedication to maintaining a stable balance between the Winter and Summer Courts, I say. Despite my frustration at having to defend her rule again, it does nothing to dim my pride in our Court’s stability. Mother and I may have our issues, but I would choose to learn how to rule from no one else. I have provided all of that evidence upon my arrival to these talks. I am happy to bring more, if it would ease the minds of the noble delegates gathered here.

The Pantheon delegates, all wearing weary expressions, shake their heads at my offer. After hearing it five times before, I’m surprised this many of them react at all.

Evidence can be manufactured, Aoife argues. Queen Mab broke illegally from the Summer Court millennia ago in the selfish pursuit of power. King Oberon should have never recognized her false sovereignty—

Beating my head against this table would be less painful than pretending to play the good diplomat. She established a kingdom with the full blessing of the Pantheons. She has enforced laws and systems which ensure no Unseelie try to siphon off any of the shared magick exchanged between Courts.

And do you have proof that such hoarding of magick hasn’t occurred?

She circles back to that frequently. It is always our responsibility to disprove her erroneous claims. Mother can lecture me later for my impatience, but I won’t sit here and take such insults any longer.

Do you? I challenge her. The other delegates rouse themselves, intrigued by the new development. All day, I’ve allowed Aoife to control the conversation. I haven’t engaged in any of her efforts to argue. Doing so now is unexpected enough I might finally move this conversation forward after two days of political stalemate. "Can the Summer Court provide unequivocal proof that none of their subjects has hoarded power?"

Why should we? Whose power was it originally? Aoife asks. Without our Court, this power would not exist—

So you have no such proof.

I didn’t say that. She leans back in her seat, waving a hand in an attempt to dismiss my statement. Her confidence hasn’t shown any signs of faltering all day. I want to disrupt that polite demeanor. I want solutions, and she has no intention of offering any to me. Not when she is already continuing with, I simply said that we, as the original keepers of the power, shouldn’t have to—

Enough. There is no time left for these tired arguments. Either the Seelie want peace or they want war. All I want is a final answer. If the High Princess cannot provide such confirmation, or find a way to account for the continued magickal drought affecting both our Courts, Queen Mab will press for a full review of both Courts’ actions since the last Accords.

Aoife’s blank expression is pure glamour. The rest of the room has gone deathly silent. Since the agreements between Courts were first established, since the rules governing our magickal balance were ratified by the Pantheons and both faerie rulers, we have never come to such drastic action. The audit I propose is the precursory step to open war. If an independent investigation finds evidence of corruption by one Court, the other has full and legal rights to declare war and reclaim all the stolen power with the backing of the Pantheons as a whole.

I know our Court has nothing to hide. Queen Mab keeps secrets from everyone, even me. But none of them would endanger our people by leading us into war. The queen is respected because of how devoted she is to the Accords. I still remember a Pantheon observer arriving to question what would happen to a frost sprite who had broken one of the agreements. Mother called the entire sídhe to the throne room, where she executed the fae with her own hands. Her rule is legendary because she controls her Court with icy composure and complete dominion.

I doubt Aoife can say the same of her father.

I offer my opponent a pleasant smile and rise from my seat. We can begin the process in the morning.

Is this request the official position of the Unseelie Court? one of the Valkyries asks, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

There is no going back from this. What I do here, now, will echo through our history. Hopefully I can prove myself as worthy a leader as Mother did when she faced down Oberon the first time.

It is, I confirm and walk out of the room.

---

The weight of my title has grown heavier in the hours since the end of today’s talks. Trying to explain myself to Mother only adds to that burden, especially when she refuses to consider that I made the right decision. She’s been lecturing me for a while now. Diplomacy is the only arena in which I’m sure of my skills, but after an hour, Mother’s doubt has chipped away at my certainty in the value of today’s work.

Walking away may have sent a message, she says, but there are consequences for such actions. Did you consider the effects of your statement before making such a dramatic exit? Did you consider how your threat brings us a step closer to the brink of war?

Yes, I want to shout. Of course I considered the possible outcomes. You trained me to do that in every aspect of my life! But I swallow the words down instead. She doesn’t want to hear my protestations. She wants my obedience to her cause and she wants this threat of war to disappear without further escalation.

She doesn’t understand that Aoife’s acting as the Seelie representative makes peace nearly impossible; nor does she understand that Aoife only responds to equally strong showings of political force. No matter how I wish Mother would stop to listen to me, to hear me and understand my perspective, the reality is that no amount of explaining will convince her I made the right decision. It’s better to shoulder her criticism and move on, rather than draw out a futile argument to soothe my own ego.

I’m sorry, Mother, I say. I will do better tomorrow.

She heaves a sigh and brushes a hand over her eyes. Perhaps I should have sent Roark instead, she murmurs, and cuts our scrying short.

I stand there in my rooms, frozen with doubt and fury in equal measure. She suggests Roark replace me. As if she hasn’t been encouraging that to happen for centuries already.

But I can’t hold him responsible for Mother’s choices. This is between her and me.

I abandon my chambers and join the delegates for drinks before dinner. The ambrosia I sip is sickly-sweet and the breeze through the open doors of this palatial estate is thick with the tang of salt off the waves. This island is an embodiment of paradise, but even here, far from our earthen tunnels and the rugged heart of our sídhe’s lands, there’s nothing I can do to escape my fate. I am the High Prince of the Unseelie Court and, in my mother’s eyes, a failure who will never measure up to my younger brother’s reputation. Perhaps it would be better for her and for our Court if I didn’t come home after the Accords. Perhaps then Roark could fill my place and give our subjects the strong leader they deserve.

Your Highness?

I sigh and face Robin Goodfellow. The Sluagh faerie serves as a messenger between Courts and attends the Accords at the behest of the Pantheons, doing his level best to ease tensions between emissaries by serving as a message runner. No matter how useful he may be, his presence is a constant irritant and reminder of my worst secrets.

What do you want? I ask.

He fidgets with a folded scrap of paper. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was nervous to be alone with me at this party. Good. If not for the delegates watching me from the corners of their eyes, I may finally confront him for his secrecy. For ruining my life.

The High Princess of the Summer Court asked me to deliver this to you, he murmurs.

I snatch the paper from his hands and give him my back. He takes the hint and the irritating taint of his weak magick fades when he leaves me alone once more. The note is short and to the point. Aoife wishes to speak with me tonight.

It’s too good to be true. Mother’s kept me closely apprised of what’s happening outside the Accords. There have been no major skirmishes, no new violence on outlying settlements, nothing that would cause King Oberon’s proxy to willingly meet with us. The only possible reason she might want to talk is if my hunch this afternoon struck a nerve: there’s corruption within the Seelie royalty and she doesn’t want the Pantheons investigating.

I reread Aoife’s impeccable writing. It would be no trouble to slip away from this event. It would be easy enough to find my way to her chambers where we could finally talk openly, without the Pantheons’ observers watching us like hawks. I should check with Mother first and let her know about this change. She would want to stay apprised of such shifts in Seelie attitude.

But Aoife’s note says to meet her before nightfall. Outside, the sunset is slowly giving way to darker shades of blue and purple. Above the horizon, the first pinpricks of starlight wink in and out. Of course Goodfellow would be more focused on enjoying the party than delivering this message quickly.

Mother will have to wait until I finish with Aoife to get this news. She’ll understand, especially if Aoife and I can come to an agreement before I press forward with my threat tomorrow morning. I don’t care if our agreement occurs behind closed doors. Peace is peace. The knowledge that a ceasefire has been secured, that I am responsible for it after Mother’s abrupt dismissal earlier... The eagerness to prove myself capable speeds my pulse and urges me to action. I cannot pass up this opportunity. I crush the note in my hand and abandon the party.

---

A velvet darkness throbs inside my skull. I groan, trying to will away my hangover. The wine Aoife served was stronger than I thought if I’m feeling its effects after sleeping. At least it will burn off quickly.

I reach up to rub at my tacky eyes. I need to crawl out of this bed and try to make myself look presentable for the meeting—

The musical clank of chains is unexpected. The weight around my wrist is wrong.

I ignore the sting of eyelashes ripping free when I force my eyes open. I don’t remember leaving the lights in my chamber unlit. It’s cooler too.

Something stirs in the back of my mind. A growing shadow that drags its claws along my memories.

Last night, I went to Aoife’s room. We chatted. We drank wine. We intended to bring peace to our kingdoms.

I lift my hand again, shocked once more when the movement is challenged by the delicately wrought silver manacle and chain securing me to the wall.

I’m chained. I’m trapped.

We spoke of peace and the room swirled around me, like I’d thrown my arms out and spun until I collapsed. Before the darkness fell, I remember Aoife looming over me, something golden in her hands and a dark shadow behind her.

I lean my face into my trembling fingers and feel a raised pattern. It’s only a little cooler than my skin. Strangely textured. Covering my face from forehead to chin, with the barest room free for my eyes and mouth.

What is this? I whisper.

No answer comes from the shadows of this room. Fuck this. I reach for the full extent of my glamour. Mother will notice how much I use and contact me. The Pantheons will learn something’s gone wrong and will come help me. I’ll have proof the Seelie never entered the Accords in good faith. Aoife’s sealed her Court’s death warrant—

There’s nothing there.

There’s nothing inside me but emptiness. No magick. No glamour. No familiar brush of power or hint of potential.

The doubt is gone. There’s no room for anything but fear.

My screams echo around me, but no one comes. I don’t know how long it takes before my voice gives out, shredded beyond repair. I only know that when Aoife finally enters my cell, I can barely whisper, I’ll kill you.

She ignores my threat and I finally notice the man who follows her into the room. Moving backwards does nothing but ram my spine into the wall. I stare past Aoife to the other faerie and find myself staring at my face. The faerie—The Bastard who helped her steal me—smiles. My skin crawls with revulsion when I see the way my scar twists with the movement.

You don’t seem much of a threat, Aoife says, gliding closer. Even if you could get free to attack me, no one would come to rescue you from this place. Your family thinks you’re a traitor. They’ve already heard how I welcomed you into my bed. How the promise of remaining there was enough to sway you to our Court. They disowned you. You’ll be lucky if they don’t send their assassin to kill you.

You’re lying.

Her laughter falls in this dark, empty room like the sweet patter of fresh rain. It swells and grows with her glamour, the cloying weight of magick that pushes out with her will alone, drowning me under the weight of a spell I didn’t think was real. But the rigid constraints of the Thrall are there, demanding my obedience to her.

We should prepare him, The Bastard says.

He’s even stolen my undamaged voice.

Prepare me? I tug impotently against the chains.

The sickening dread grows stronger when Aoife nods and steps closer still. Her glamour slams through me, a white-hot lancet of magick backed by commands thrown out in the gentlest voice I’ve ever heard haunting my nightmares. You are bound to me. You are no longer Sláine, High Prince of Earth and Ruin. You will be introduced to the Summer Court as a nameless Unseelie prisoner and, if you are fortunate, you will receive a new name befitting your station. The Thrall constricts again, forcing the air from my lungs, burning through my blood, aching in my bones. You cannot lay claim to your given name or title while this Thrall binds you. You cannot communicate to anyone the nature of this spell, or of its casters. Do you understand?

My mind bucks against the commands, but every effort to writhe free of the Thrall’s bindings only makes them slip tighter. I groan. I fight. I fail. I whisper my defeat. Yes.

Your voice sickens me. She scratches her nails lightly over my throat, glaring as if she wants to rip the offending flesh away. You will never again speak in my presence unless I directly command it of you.

My body obeys without hesitation. No amount of fighting stops my silent nod.

Good. She glances over her shoulder at the faerie disguised as me and smiles. Don’t be late.

---

The first time I see the Seelie throne room, I’m bruised and bleeding, hands and feet hobbled with rope, as I’m led in by The Bastard. The crowd of finely dressed faeries around us murmur and laugh as I stumble my way forward. Ahead of us, Oberon and his queen sit in gleaming thrones on a raised dais, separated from the rabble of their subjects. Aoife sits at her father’s right hand, a beautiful, monstrous creature.

Prince Sláine, Oberon calls.

I try to open my mouth to acknowledge my title, to beg him for help, but the Thrall takes me to my knees. I gasp for breath as pain squeezes the air from my lungs and hear The Bastard’s droning response about his defection, his hope for acceptance in this Court, his humble offering of a magickless Unseelie as a blood tithe, a symbolic sacrifice for the injuries the Winter Court has inflicted on its betters.

Oberon is impressed. Oberon gifts me to his eldest daughter, who promises to prove her power over me.

She rises from her seat and descends the dais to join us in front of the milling crowd. She lifts her chin and commands, Kneel.

No.

No matter what she says, no matter what she claims to have stolen, I am Sláine, firstborn son of Queen Mab and High Prince of the Unseelie Court. I kneel to no one. I will die first, torn apart by the Thrall’s power.

The edges of my vision darken when the Thrall tries to force my body to obey. The Bastard radiates quiet fury at my side, but doesn’t intercede. Aoife pushes her magick into the spell. I accept the pain and remain standing.

She steps closer. You are nothing, she whispers. You will be nothing for the rest of your immortality.

She doesn’t know that I’ve spent centuries accepting the truth of my inferiority. I have suffered before and I have been betrayed and it has never cost me my will. I still hold that precious gift. It may take a little time, but if I remain focused, I’ll be free of her and of this place and then she will reap her reward.

Then she reaches out and presses her fingertips to the brow of my mask and the full weight of the spell snaps around me like iron bands.

Kneel, she orders again.

My knees hit the floor and the crowd around us cheers.

Chapter One

Sebastian

I wipe the back of my hand over my forehead and ignore the sweat dribbling down my back under my shirt. The apothecary’s storeroom where I’m working is quieter than most of the Unseelie sídhe, a haven of greenery and moist earth and carefully organized rows of plants under enchanted sunlight. Keela, the harvest faerie who cares for the sprouts, is around, but she prefers to leave me alone while I’m working. Our war preparations are too important to risk. The valerian sprouts needed for the Unseelie medical supply are fragile and sickly and need help. Using my glamour to coax better growth from the plants is worth the pain caused by using Seelie power in the deepest reaches of Queen Mab’s empire.

The sídhe bucks against my efforts, as if I’m a pesky insect it’s trying to shake loose. Even now, the surge of my magick ricochets through the depths of the sídhe and flies back at me. I refocus my attention on the worst of the frail, nearly translucent sprigs and feed it as much of my power as I can.

The valerian shivers and straightens, and a new wave of dizziness rocks me. I push past it. The Unseelie might be sealed safely inside the sídhe, but the protective spell will give way eventually and we’ll probably emerge from underground to find a Seelie army waiting for us. The Unseelie’s inability to heal their injuries rapidly is one of the greatest threats to its armies.

Armies that include my friends who will be fighting in this war. They aren’t going to die or be maimed because I was too lazy or weak to grow a few more plants.

I move on to the next seedling and try again. The sídhe lashes back at me and, across the room, Keela winces.

Sorry, I call to her.

Come on, I beg the sídhe. Let me fix this one. Just one more, okay?

It must sense my good intentions. With grudging acceptance, the sídhe allows my magick to take root. The sprout uncurls a tiny pair of leaves. It’s one of the prettiest things I’ve seen all day.

Sebastian, Keela calls from across the room, did you get it?

Yeah, I say, exhausted. What else can I do?

Keela fidgets with an unplanted bulb and offers me a weak smile. Maybe you’ve done enough for today.

I’m fine, I protest. I’m happy to help if—

I’ve got it covered, she interrupts. You already did a lot of work today and I wouldn’t want to draw any more attention.

"Any more attention?"

She tucks the bulb into a fresh pot of earth and fusses as she fills it. Only when the task is done and she can no longer avoid me does she finally say, There’ve been a few questions about what you do here. I just think it might do you good to go back to your room and rest. Come back in a few days and we can look over the plants again then.

Oh. Sure.

It’s a dismissal. A polite, friendly dismissal that doesn’t allow any room for argument since Keela’s the faerie who’s officially in charge. Half-Seelie fae like me aren’t allowed to take on leadership positions in the Winter Court.

Which is fine, I remind myself as I trudge down the labyrinthine halls on the way back to my room. Sure, it makes things a little lonely, since all my friends are busy with the war efforts, but maybe it’s better if the only person I have to worry about is myself. It’s harder to let everyone down if they aren’t relying on me. Besides, centuries of practice make Keela’s rejection fairly painless.

What isn’t painless is the sight of garish red words painted across the door of my temporary quarters. I grit my teeth and slam into the room to grab cleaning supplies. I don’t want Gumba, a bridge troll and my close friend from Mathers’s School of Magick, to see this. At least he isn’t due back anytime soon. He’s been busy lately working on an irrigation project to help support the rising population forced to take shelter here. Hopefully he’ll never find out about this entire mess.

Half an hour later, I have to accept defeat. No amount of scrubbing is going to remove the message. Whoever vandalized the wood either used magick or hellhound piss to ensure the paint remained visible long after my cleaning efforts. I toss the rag down on the ground and rest my hands on my hips, glaring at the not-so-subtle warning.

Get out, Seelie basterd.

Half-Seelie, I grumble under my breath.

That small detail about my lineage never seems to matter to those who want to target me. At Mathers, being caught between Courts just meant that I didn’t really fit in with any of the fae students, although I chose to align myself with the Winter Court. Now the indifference most fae direct my way isn’t enough. It’s impossible to avoid me completely, and even I’m not stupid enough to ignore the sídhe’s reaction to my presence. My temporary neighbors have noticed the disruption in magickal patterns too. The life-giving powers of Seelie glamour in the center of the Unseelie’s home... My very presence is an aberration. I’m surprised no one has lashed out before now.

Goddess, I never should have let Roark talk me into being sealed in here with the rest of the Unseelie. He was doing it because he knew Finny would be pissed if I weren’t offered the same protection as every other Unseelie student, but I shouldn’t have accepted without thinking it through. I should have left Mathers and gone back to my father’s house in the Wylds and tried to eke out a miserable living there instead.

Hey, someone calls from farther down the hall.

I glance to my left and spot the blight faerie who rooms down the hall from Gumba and me. He’s got a pair of friends flanking him and they’re all watching me with far too much interest considering my mundane task.

Hey, I call back, unease slithering its way down my spine. Maybe retreating into the room would be wisest. I start to reach for the door handle, but the blight faerie notices.

What are you doing? he asks. As he walks down the hall, he watches my grip on the handle intently until I release it and let my hand drop back to my side. He grins when he sees that and pulls his hand out of his pocket; red paint stains his fingers.

So that’s how it’s going to go. I mean, I know this has been coming, but it doesn’t make this any easier.

His buddies stay a ways back, quiet but undeniably present. The odds are not in my favor. The blight faerie draws up at my side and examines the message on my door with amusement. Huh, he grunts.

Yeah, I say with what I hope is a neutral tone. Just trying to wash it off before my roommate gets back.

Ah, why do that? he asks. Might as well leave it up.

His glamour reaches out to butt up against mine and I instinctively try to curl my magick away from him. The massive influx of fae into the Unseelie sídhe has been a blessing, since it allows me to keep my head down and vanish into the crowd. Roark may have reached out to me for Finny’s sake, but I’m not sure if he offered me the protection of the Unseelie sídhe with his mother’s knowledge. Queen Mab has been pretty adamant that the Unseelie and Seelie aren’t to mingle thanks to this war. Loosing my magick for violent purposes, where it could draw her attention, seems a death wish.

You know, that seems like good advice, the blight faerie continues, pointing to the painted message. It’s damn selfish to take refuge here when you clearly don’t belong. You’ve got other places to go. You should take advantage of them. It’s a poorly disguised threat, without any hint of saccharine sweetness in his voice.

Kind of hard to leave with the sealing in place, I try to point out.

The blight faerie’s expression darkens. Why are you so set on staying? He turns toward me, his body opening up with that aggressive stance that warns of immediate trouble. No one wants you here.

His buddies have come even closer, flanking us so I can’t get around him and down the hallway to freedom.

I don’t want any trouble, I say, reaching for the door handle once more.

He smiles and bats my hand away before giving my shoulder a hard push. I stumble back a few steps and he closes the distance between us too quickly for me to adjust well. I’ve been in fights before. I suck at them. It’s easier to talk my way out or throw some glamour at my opponent and run away. Those aren’t options now.

The first punch comes faster than I expect. The faerie’s shorter than me, so the blow he intended to land to my temple glances off my chin instead when I turn my head away from his fist. The sudden bloom of pain as my lip splits is enough to send my glamour surging up, despite the oppressive weight of the sídhe working against it.

He swears at the jarring clash of our glamours and steps back. I wipe at my bloody lip and try for the door again. I don’t get far. He pushes me with both hands this time, and my back hits the wall behind me.

His fist raises and I know he’s going to swing at me. Despite the threat of unavoidable pain, all I can focus on is the cruel, taunting message on my door and its stupid, fucking spelling error.

My magick coils tighter in a last, desperate effort at protection. A useless effort, since I went long past my limits hours ago. The sídhe responds to that conflicting pressure, roiling in the ground beneath me, an angry buzz that fills my head.

Wait...the electric tingle spreading over my skin isn’t from the sídhe. I’ve felt it before, at Mathers, right before—

An explosion of power arcs around me, racing through my attacker. It’s so unexpected, so ridiculously over the top, I can’t help but laugh. The blight faerie goes taut, just like his buddies farther back. Their bodies pull into painful torsions like living lightning rods. Their eyes roll back in their heads and they collapse to the ground, no longer a threat. The buzz of the ley line vanishes immediately, replaced with the chilling slide of Roark’s glamour.

Seb? Finny calls to me. He’s winded and the worry in his voice is motivation enough for me to stand up and give a short wave. I try to smile, but end up wincing when my split lip pulls wrong.

I thought you were off doing war stuff, I say.

Finny and Roark, the Winter Knight and the Prince of Air and Darkness, stand at the end of the hall. They’re both dressed in armor, the lighter, more maneuverable kind made for actual fighting instead of ceremony. Roark’s ice-blue gaze is unfathomable, but his conjured rapier is drawn and at his side. Not a dark hair is out of place and his polished armor shows no specks of blood or signs of a recent fight. Despite his impeccable appearance, the slight downturn of his mouth warns of his displeasure. At least it’s not directed at me, judging from the glare he’s casting at

Reviews for The Marked Prince

[akbouterse · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

4.25 stars! I liked this book a lot. I liked book one but this really took this series to another level.

I think generally, I just enjoyed the plot of this book more than book one. I like that we're completely in the Faerie courts for this one. I liked how the set up of this book made for an increased level of protectiveness between Seb and Slaine. I love that mutual protectiveness in a romance and it was done super well here. The plot did slow down for me a bit in the later half when the more war stuff happened because that topic is personally less interesting for me but the relationship stuff was still really well done in that part.

I really enjoyed Seb and Slaine, but especially Slaine. We have one sense of him from book one that changes when we see him in this book and I really enjoyed getting to know him in this book. I enjoyed the relationship he developed with Seb right away. Even though it developed quickly, it felt very real and I really believed in the strength in of their relationship. I also think this author does a great job with complex family dynamics. You like the characters when you read about their relationship but you can still see the dark side of them in the ways they sometimes they interact with their family. It makes for a really interesting dynamic both with the family relationships and romantic relationships.

This book totally hooked me. It was the first book in a while where I really wanted to be reading them all the time. I liked book one but I really liked this one and I definitely want to read book three and see where this story ends up.

[marfisk_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Originally posted on Tales to Tide You OverI read the first book in this series months ago, but the minute I saw the author in my NetGalley list, the strength of that story and characters came pouring back, making me eager to return to their world. The author did not disappoint.The Marked Prince is a continuation of the story began in Prince of Air and Darkness where the Winter Court is in isolation and the Summer Court is preparing for war. The details of the conflict never quite added up, with both sides blaming the other, but it also didn’t feel like a continuity error. In this book, we learn why. As with the first, though, it’s much more complicated than it seems, with multiple layers and characters driven by their weaknesses as much as their strengths.We already understand, in a gut-level way, just how far Roark will go for Finn, based on the first book. Sebastian’s very presence in the Winter Court is proof of that even if most are unhappy with his half-Seelie presence. They’re sure he’s a spy for the Summer Court, but they have no idea how impossible such an idea is in Sebastian’s eyes. He stormed out of his mother’s world in his youth to go live with his Unseelie father, and she did nothing to stop him. But the only reason he’s there is Finn’s friendship when his half-Seelie blood would have denied him refuge in either court.Roark may love Finn with everything he possesses, but it doesn’t change his upbringing. He gets Sebastian to agree to help them recover Roark’s brother, who has defected to the Summer Court, because Queen Mab ordered Finn to go. Between Sebastian’s dislike for the Summer Court and his shared worries over Finn’s health, the request doesn’t take much thought. But he lets his guard down a little too far and ends up returning to his childhood home as a spy when he meant to provide only intel.Remember what I said about more complicated?Once again, this book is a mix of high fantasy politics and intrigue. It’s set deep in a Summer Court in uproar, though with more of a focus on dress code and procedure because much of the story occurs at the actual court.Sebastian isn’t quite who he’s made himself out to be. Not that he lied, but he let people make their own assumptions based on his father and growing up on the edge of the Wylds. To be honest, that’s how he sees himself as well.Then there’s Duine, who is much more than he appears. As with the first book, we have both perspectives and know just what Duine hides behind his servant’s mask. A curse strangles his tongue so he cannot confess the truth no matter how deep his connection to Sebastian grows.Sebastian’s not stupid, though. He can tell there’s more to Duine’s story as the apparently magicless Unseelie servant he rescued from the grasp of his childhood tormentor guides Sebastian through the complexities of court procedure. He just doesn’t know the full of it.Their relationship develops beautifully with a connection running deeper than words, a lucky thing when Duine must choose every one to avoid crippling pain. The romance is filled with conflict and worry, but you can see their growing mutual respect and wistful hope spring to life. Their connection is much more than physical, though they manage one open door scene before their worlds fall apart once again. Every time they are together, the tension is tangible not just to the reader, but also to those around them. Some find this a threat, for good reason, while others are delighted to see Sebastian win happiness.You might have noticed, speaking of choosing words carefully, the mad dance I’m enacting between giving a glimpse of the story without spoiling anything not already in the back of the book blurb. The most telling point is the huge gap in my notes when I was too caught up in the story to make any. I figured out a crucial element about halfway that is supposed to be the big reveal at the end, but it didn’t undermine my enjoyment one bit–and I didn’t know for sure until it was confirmed.Ultimately, Grant offers another powerful story with high court mixed with down to earth in more ways than one. Celtic myths wind into a new whole through love, danger, manipulation, fear, and trust. Things are not quite what they seem, nor is everyone taken in by the false faces. Loyalties are tested, old truths retold, and a fabulous story brought forth through well-drawn characters.This is a middle book as far as the overarching tale of the war between Seelie and Unseelie, but it forms its own full and complete arc of courts and courtship that will captivate the romantic heart. I walk away satisfied on all fronts and yet eager for the next book to come.P.S. I received this ARC from the publisher through NetGalley in return for an honest review.