Six hundred pages.
That was how long you'd suffered through The Crown of Silver Thorns.
Six hundred pages of ridiculous misunderstandings, dramatic declarations, and Prince Alaric being treated like the greatest romantic hero ever put to paper when you couldn't understand what anyone saw in him.
The only reason you'd kept reading was Tavian Locke.
The villain.
Arrogant. Sarcastic. Dangerous. Morally questionable.
Infinitely more interesting than the hero.
You'd complained about it repeatedly from the safety of your bed, book propped open against your knees.
“Seriously? Him again?”
Another page.
Another heroic speech from Alaric.
You groaned and flipped ahead until a familiar name finally appeared.
Tavian Locke.
“Finally.”
His scene lasted seven pages.
Seven.
Then it was back to Alaric.
You dropped your head against the pillow.
“Why is the villain hotter than the hero?”
Silence answered.
You kept reading.
By the time the clock crept well past midnight, your eyes were barely staying open. The battered book rested against your chest, your thumb tucked between the pages.
Your last coherent thought came somewhere between exhaustion and irritation.
Forget Alaric. I'd pick Tavian.
Sleep took you.
And something changed.
The familiar weight of your blankets disappeared.
The mattress beneath you became softer.
The air turned colder.
The quiet hum of your world vanished beneath the distant crackle of a fire.
You didn't wake immediately.
Which was unfortunate.
Because somewhere very far from your bedroom—
Tavian Locke's magical wards began screaming.
---
Tavian
Tavian's eyes snapped open.
Every protective spell woven through Blackthorn Keep had tightened at once.
Someone was inside his bedchamber.
Bold.
Shadow magic gathered instinctively around his left hand as he pushed himself upright, black markings darkening beneath his skin.
An assassin wouldn't have made it through the outer wards.
Nobody should have reached his bedroom.
Yet there you were.
Asleep.
In his fucking bed.
Tavian stared.
Well.
That's new.
Strange clothing. No visible weapon. No insignia. Nothing that explained how you'd bypassed enough protective magic to reduce an intruder to ash.
Beside you lay some thin black object he'd never seen before.
And beneath your hand—
A book.
Before Tavian could move, something whispered through his mind.
Why is the villain hotter than the hero?
He froze.
That wasn't his thought.
Then came another fragment.
Forget Alaric. I'd pick Tavian.
Silence.
Tavian looked at you.
What the fuck?
Your eyes began to open.
Confusion crossed your face.
Then you saw him.
Recognition replaced it immediately.
“Tavian Locke.”
Shadow magic snapped around his fingers.
Absolutely fucking not.
He'd never seen you before.
Yet you'd spoken his name like you'd known exactly who you'd find when you opened your eyes.
His attention dropped to the book beneath your hand.
Gold lettering stretched across its battered cover.
THE CROWN OF SILVER THORNS.
Tavian pulled it into his hand with a flick of magic.
“Hey—”
“One moment.”
He opened it.
Elaris.
Alaric.
Blackthorn Keep.
His own name.
Tavian's expression changed.
He skimmed several paragraphs, stopped at the description of a private conversation he'd had three nights ago, then looked sharply at you.
That was enough.
He snapped the book shut.
Whatever this thing was, he wasn't going to stand here reading about himself while the person who'd brought it was sitting three feet away.
Especially when you were considerably more interesting.
Tavian climbed from the bed.
The book remained in one hand. Shadows curled lazily around the other.
“So.”
His voice was deceptively calm.
“You know my name.”
He took a step closer.
“You've somehow bypassed every ward protecting this room.”
Another.
“And you've brought a book containing information no stranger should possess.”
His pale gray gaze traveled over you.
There were several sensible questions he could ask.
Who are you?
Where did you come from?
How did you get here?
Tavian intended to ask all of them.
Eventually.
Because unfortunately for you, something else had caught his attention first.
I'd pick Tavian.
The corner of his mouth slowly curved.
Ah.
Yes.
That.
He leaned slightly closer.
“But before we discuss any of the deeply concerning aspects of your arrival…”
His voice dropped.
“…I'd like to clarify something.”
His eyes gleamed with wicked amusement.
“Tell me, mysterious stranger.”
This ought to be entertaining.
“What exactly did you mean when you said you'd pick me?”
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