Sasha Peyton Smith’s The Rose Bargain left us on such a cliffhanger, that we’ve been counting down the days until we can finally find out what happens next in the final book of this duology. And if you haven’t gotten the chance to check it out for yourself just yet, you’re definitely going to want to pick up the first book so you can get ready for what Sasha has coming up next. Luckily, for us, our big return to this world is almost here and now we’re getting another glimpse at what is left next.

Cosmopolitan has an exclusive first look at The Thorn Queen by Sasha Peyton Smith, which is set to be released on April 14, 2026. Ivy is now Queen of England, but it all comes at a cost with Emmett trapped in the Otherworld and the Bram still as the faerie king. But as the faerie and human world mix more than ever, Ivy not only has to find a way to reunite with her true love, she must also find a way to bring Bram’s reign to an end. Here’s some more info from our friends at HarperCollins:

Wed to one brother.

In love with the other.

Bridgerton, The Selection, and The Cruel Prince collide in this Victorian-inspired romantasy; the sequel to the instant New York Times bestseller The Rose Bargain.

Having won the hand of the faerie King Bram, Ivy is now Queen of England.

But with his ascension to the throne, Bram unleashed the fae into the human world. After hundreds of years of being kept from their favorite playthings, the Others are looking to make up for lost time—and they do, with wicked revelry that sweeps through the country.

To survive, Ivy acts the sweet, devoted wife. Behind the smile, she plots to banish her husband, save her sister Lydia, and reunite with the love of her life, Emmett.

Yet Emmet and Lydia are trapped in the Otherworld, where fae games are deadlier than ever—and a queen must play most viciously of all. Or see herself dethroned.

Forbidden romance, deceptive bargains, and lethal court intrigue intertwine in this mesmerizing, fae romantasy sequel that will captivate fans of Once Upon a Broken Heart and Belladonna.

You can check out an exclusive excerpt below! Just make sure to pre-order The Thorn Queenand maybe even check out the dates below to meet Sasha Peyton Smith on tour!

CHAPTER ONE

England, October 1848

“Tell me again, the story of the faerie king.”

It’s a pearl-gray evening, so cold even the heat of the roaring fire doesn’t quite reach the bed. Rivulets of rain race down the warped glass windows, pooling into mist that floats in drifts along the cobblestoned streets below.

Bram looks up at me from my lap, his eyes the same gray as the sky, glinting in the weak light. His head is nestled in a pile of quilts, resting on my legs. “Tell me, Ivy.”

I slip my fingers gently through his hair and sigh. “You need to rest.”

His eyes flutter closed as he shakes his head. “Talk me to sleep.” He kicks his feet under my duvet and I know there will be no getting him out of my bed now.

“There once was a faerie king who was beloved by his people,” I begin.

Bram hums in the back of his throat, satisfied. I delicately trace the pointed tip of his ear and he curls up further, like a cat in a spot of sun.

“He was beautiful and benevolent and everyone who came across him was enchanted by his presence.”

“Fun, too,” Bram corrects me, eyes still closed.

I pull a bit of confetti from where it’s stuck in the strands of his soft waves. “The absolute most fun.”

This is the first time I’ve seen him in days. He’s been absent, reveling with his court and their playthings.

“And handsome,” Bram adds.

“Heart-stoppingly handsome.” I lie to him all the time, but this particular statement is the truth.

I look down at his face—the delicate blue veins of his eyelids, his sharp jawline, full pink lips, thick eyebrows a shade darker than his sun-bleached golden-brown hair, his perfect nose. I trail my pinkie along the bridge of it.

My fingers itch to curl up into a fist and smash it. I can picture the way blood would drip into the hollow of his Cupid’s bow, run down his chin and into the collar of his open green doublet. But it’s not time for that—not yet.

It’s been nearly four months since my ill-fated wedding, the one that ended with Emmett and Lydia missing and Queen Mor in chains. The country is in shambles after all her bargains were broken.

For the first few months of our marriage, Bram ignored me almost completely. I was left alone, locked up inside Kensington Palace with nothing but my ladies-in-waiting and Emmett’s old dog, Pig, for company. I would have wondered if Bram remembered I existed at all, if not for the way I would wake to him sleeping in my bed. It started as a rare occurrence, rare enough that I thought perhaps, in his drunkenness after the revels, he got lost and mistook my bed for his. But then it started happening more frequently, as did the way he whispered my name in his sleep. I would wake at dawn most days to a broken chorus of Ivy, Ivy, Ivy.

He never acknowledged my existence otherwise.

Then, a few weeks ago, at the end of September, he declared we were moving to Bath for the autumn and instructed my maids to pack my things. Days later, our carriage rolled up at our new residence, a second carriage following to carry my abundance of trunks (all powder blue, embossed in gold with my new royal seal, naturally).

The Royal Crescent is the centerpiece of Bath’s architecture. A half-moon arrangement of thirty terrace houses built of sandy- colored Bath Stone, featuring grand columns and intricately carved facades, all perched above a sweeping green lawn. The first order of business was a magical renovation project that took down walls and added secret, and not-so-secret, passages between the buildings, transforming the Crescent, functionally, into Bram’s winter palace. It’s a rabbit warren of secret passages, ballrooms, and Others lounging in ornate sitting rooms.

We’ve been set up at One Royal Crescent, the end unit with the best view of the city. Perhaps it’s the smaller quarters, or Bram growing more complacent, but his visits are becoming more frequent. He comes to me, glassy-eyed at dawn, or in the midafternoon, or in the evening when the sun sinks low—whenever his revels end, really— and lays his head in my lap for comfort.

His breathing has slowed now, and I know he’s nearly asleep. It’s moments like this that he’s least guarded. “How are they?” I ask him in a soft whisper. His eyebrows twitch into an expression of displeasure and I’m afraid I’ve pushed too far.

But then his face relaxes and he sighs. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I’m sure Emmett and Lydia are in the Otherworld; where else could they be? There’s been no trace of them in England, despite my best efforts to search.

But Bram refuses to acknowledge them.

He had Emmett’s portraits removed from Kensington Palace soon after our wedding, and I’m not allowed to even mention Lydia.

It’s like the boy I love and my sister never existed at all.

In my head I’m screaming, but I keep running my hands gently through Bram’s hair until his breathing settles into a shallow rhythm and I know he is asleep.

I rise from bed once he’s fully unconscious, and pray he sleeps through tonight’s revel.

Outside of my bedroom, the house is a flurry of activity. Maids stoke hearths in every room, keeping fires alive against the October chill. Footmen race from room to room, ensuring everything is in tip-top shape for the evening. A bitter taste of fear lingers in the air. I do my best to protect our staff from his wrath, but no one wants to be on the wrong side of King Bram.

I cross the third floor to the other end of my private quarters and have my maids dress me in my evening gown. Among them, Lottie’s face is a perpetual comfort. Emmett’s longtime friend, she is one of the few people I can speak to openly. She is waiting, a hot curling tong in her hand. “You’re late.”

“I’m the queen; isn’t everyone else early?” The joke doesn’t quite land, but Lottie still lets out a hollow laugh.

“How is the king?” she asks as she dresses my hair.

“Asleep,” I answer tersely. She knows me well enough not to push further.

She laces me into a celery-green moire silk gown and places a tiara on my head. I’m dressed more elegantly than I ever was back when I lived in Belgrave Square, but I can’t help but feel I’m wearing a costume. I look at myself grimly in the mirror and exhale.

The tunnel into the revel is draped in a rainbow of streamers that keep getting caught in my tiara.

Emmy reaches from behind me and plucks another from my head. “You’re going to show up looking like a chandelier.”

“They wouldn’t know the difference. They’d probably think it was human fashion and all show up to next week’s revel wearing hats of crepe paper.”

My four ladies-in-waiting—Marion Thorne, Faith Fairchild, Olive Lisonbee, and Emmy Ito—were formerly my competition for Bram’s hand in marriage, but they have since become my closest confidantes.

As a group, we step into the swirling revel. The ballroom belongs to Rhion, Bram’s closest friend and adviser. He was gifted the house next door to ours: fitting, given his position at court.

I’m always on edge at court revels, but tonight my nerves are reaching a fever pitch. Aurelia Vallen will be in attendance and I have a plan to execute.

I clasp my hands behind my back to hide the way they’re sweating and glance anxiously at Faith.

“Just breathe,” she whispers.

Something wet seeps into my silk slipper and I look down, praying it’s punch, but find the floor is smeared with blood. It’s early in the night for it, but I glance to the center of the room and see a group of glassy-eyed humans spinning around and around, their feet raw from dancing. I hate the way Olive stills at my side and grabs my hand for comfort. She’s scared and it’s my fault. It’s my mistakes that allowed Bram to snatch power like this.

There’s a shadowy interior balcony, adorned with dying cherry tree branches and beeswax candles, upon which a band plays a reel on a mix of human and faerie instruments. The thrum of a deep bass drum reaches right down to my marrow.

There is no veil of propriety at these revels. No dance cards, no chaperones, no mamas trying to play the marriage market. There’s no need to sneak away to the darkest corners of gardens to kiss, not when it’s perfectly acceptable to push someone right up against the wall in front of everyone.

“Don’t drink anything,” I warn the other girls.

“Don’t worry about us.” Faith rolls her eyes. “We know by now.”

The Others love a party theme and tonight’s is the Wild Hunt. The guests are dressed in a mix of classic English hunting dress, red coats and tweeds, and what must be traditional Otherworld clothing, finely wrought armor of gold and rich green tunics. Some are in costume as the animals themselves, a grotesque array of fox masks, boar tusks, and hellhounds.

I wear a quiver of arrows on my back, strung across the front of my gown with a strap of emeralds on a thick gold chain.

Marion nudges me in the side. “There she is.”

Across the chaos of the ballroom, Aurelia Vallen stands against the wall, a golden goblet clutched to her chest. She looks down at the floor, but no one, save the five of us, pays her any attention.

“We better go now, before Bram wakes up,” I say.

Olive still blanches at the thought of espionage, but puts on a brave face.

Aurelia Vallen is a little thing, unusually short for a faerie, with golden hair to her waist and overlarge sea-moss-green eyes. She’s dressed in the fashion of Bram’s court, with bell sleeves that trail to the floor, and an odd mishmash of human fashion: a partially visible hoopskirt, mismatched slippers, a red hunting jacket tied around her waist. To fit tonight’s theme, she’s got a pair of antlers on her head.

“It’s so lovely to see you, Aurelia,” I greet her with a smile. This isn’t my party, but as queen, I’m always expected to act as something of a hostess.

“Rhion’s invitation honors me, Your Majesty.” She bows her head but her voice is thin.

I take the empty goblet from her hand and pass it to Marion who replaces it with a full one.

“How is your husband, is he well?” I ask. Pax is one of Bram’s most trusted advisers. With blond hair and a sneering expression, he’s one of my least favorites.

“He is well, Your Majesty,” she replies, keeping her eyes trained on the floor.

I offer a warm smile. “Please, no need for all that formality. I hope you can think of us”—I pause and gesture to the other girls—“all of us, as friends.”

This gets a small smile out of her. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Marion steps beside me and expertly shifts the conversation to a recent visit to the modiste. The other girls chime in with easy chatter about building out their winter wardrobes for the coming colder months. This far west of London, the mornings are already icy, with winds whipping in from the nearby sea, though it won’t be properly bitter for another month or two.

Aurelia seems to relax with the girls’ talk of new gloves and fur- lined cloaks, and I relish it. This is all part of the plan. Tonight’s revel is only the latest step in a plot that we’ve been carrying out for months.

It wasn’t easy to find the weakest link in Bram’s court. His advisers are unfailingly loyal to him, and their wives seem equally loyal to their husbands. I didn’t trust I could say anything without risking it getting back to Bram.

But Aurelia was different. The first revel I attended I saw the other wives snickering at her from behind their insect-wing fans. Then one purposefully tripped over the tip of her pointed shoe and smeared cake all over Aurelia’s dress. It was meant to look like an accident, but I could tell it wasn’t.

It was then that our plotting began. First, Faith and Marion called on her, offering tips on how to clean buttercream out of silk. Emmy took her riding. I sent over a new shawl, claiming it matched nothing in my wardrobe.

Tonight is the culmination of all our work to get skittish Aurelia to lower her guard around us. We’re circling now. Ready to go in for the kill.

I lean in and adjust Aurelia’s slightly askew diamond necklace casually. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how was your journey here?”

“Oh, very pleasant, Your Majesty.” She takes a sip from her gob- let. “They’ve magicked the houses along the Royal Crescent to be connected, so I didn’t even have to go outside.”

“I didn’t mean your journey to the revel, dear.” I smile. “I meant your journey to England from the Otherworld.”

She pauses, like a rabbit caught in a snare, and I’m terrified I’ve pushed her too far too soon, but then she takes a larger sip and lights up. “The journey to England was lovely! King Bram—”

All of a sudden, two of Bram’s guards appear, pulling Aurelia off her feet.

She screams in pure terror and kicks her mismatched shoes. “Put her down at once!” I command. “That’s an order from your queen.”

But the guards don’t even look at me.

Aurelia sobs as they drag her from the ballroom. “Don’t tell the king, please. I don’t want him to be angry with me. I’ll be good. I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”

“Put her down,” I insist, but it’s like I’m invisible to them.

Aurelia’s screams turn incoherent, no longer begging, but giving way to pure terror.

The guards pay her no mind. They pull her away and the door to some other house or passageway slams shut. I rattle the handle, but it’s locked.

I yank again and again until my eyes well with tears of frustration. Emmy lays a hand on my shoulder. “Ivy, stop. You’re making a scene.”

I step away and wipe my eyes.

I now know two things. One: I have failed in the only real plan I had to learn about the Otherworld, the first step to getting Emmett and Lydia back. Two: Bram and his guards are watching me more closely than I ever could have imagined.

At that moment the music stops. The party goes still. And Bram strides in.

The Thorn Queen Copyright © 2026 by Sasha Peyton Smith. Reproduced by permission of HarperCollins Publishers. All rights reserved.

The Thorn Queen,by Sasha Peyton Smith will be released on April 14, 2026 from HarperCollins. To preorder the book, click on the retailer of your choice:

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