Page 87

Two scatters to his feet, but he doesn’t flee. “Don’t act all territorial with me. Three will train her next. Do you expect me to believe she will pass his test as she is now?”

The shadows thicken around us as One pushes his brother away from the blanket. “Leave us, or by Morpheus?—”

“Do you hear yourself? Have you forgotten what happened the last time a woman came between us?”

Smoke rises from One’s body, the pulse of his anger palpable. “Leave! Now!”

A ripple of light and smoke glitches over Two’s body, and he vanishes as though he was shoved out of the Dreaming by his brother’s powers.

One finally angles his mask to me. “I’m sorry. Two shouldn’t have intruded on your break to continue your training. But you passed his test, however cruel and unfortunately scheduled it was.”

I hug my knees, willing my ragged breaths to slow down. “I passed?”

“Yes. You recognized the illusion. As soon as you wake up, you will be ready for the third and final part of your training.”

“Fantasies.”

He gives me a sharp nod. “As cruel as they can be.”

I swallow down the lump in my throat and push aside the skirt of my dress, making space for him on the blanket. “Please stay for a little while.”

“I really shouldn’t,” he says, but he sits beside me all the same, taking in our surroundings. The leaves of the willow tree bristle above us, the fields of corn stretching as far as the eye can see. One’s fingers twitch over the tartan blanket. “Oh kitten…why would you dream of me?”

I nudge his side. “Admit it. You missed me, too.”

“I—You missed me?” He fails to mask a smile, and a soft chuckle escapes me.

“I did.” I shift to my knees beside him and keep my hands in my lap. “Why do you hide from me?”

“I had to hunt alone the last couple of weeks. For the one who weaved the Dreamcatcher spider.” He angles his chin to the ground, and the small tilt makes him look nervous and almost…timid. “And honestly it’s easier…not to see you every day,” he finally adds.

I’d be crushed if it wasn’t for the desire rumbling right beneath the surface of the words. Feeling bold, I peel off his scarred mask, and he lets me. My voice cracks, my feelings for him taking a life of their own. “Why can’t you be my teacher? You’re better than them. Stronger than the king himself.”

He leans forward and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “How do you figure that?”

“When the king freezes us, you only pretend to be under his control.”

A sinister shard twinkles in his golden eyes. “I’m weak. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here with you.”

The sentence quickens my breath and squeezes my belly with need. He might be infuriating and stubborn—and completely off-limits—but I want him. Most of all, I crave the kind and hard-working man that hides beneath the mask of the severe, unfeeling hunter. I’ve caught enough glimpses of him by now to know he’s real.

“Your emotions don’t make you weak, One,” I say.

“They do if they make me want to break my promises.” He stares into the distance. “An old friend of mine wrote a famous quote. True love transcends crowns, blood, and flesh. Love has?—”

“No masters, only slaves,” I cut in. “It stings too fast for you to see, and when you recognize its scorpion’s tail, you’re already dead.”

“You’ve read Delusions of Winter?”

“Five times. It’s the first Fae book I ever read. My mother gave it to me when I turned sixteen, about a month before she died.”

His brows lift. “Your father let you keep Fae poetry in his library?”

I press my lips together, torn between the instinct to defend my father for his beliefs, and my own twisted emotions about them. “He knew I had to learn more about this realm. A lot of books were…cautionary tales. Delusions of Winter was romantic.” I glance down, unable to look at his beautiful face while we discuss this.

“You find depressing poetry romantic?” It’s a rhetorical question, and when I don’t answer, he adds, “It’s Elio’s most famous collection of poems. His queen died about fifty years ago and since then, he hasn’t been the most joyful fella.”

I swallow the hard lump in my throat, my gaze stuck on a red thread of wool sticking out of the blanket. “Grief is hard.”