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I flatten my hand on her shoulder blade and manoeuvre her to walk in front of me.

That fast exposes me to Daxeel.

He is close now that the soft wool of his sweater brushes against the light material of my dress.

I feel his warmth on my back like a soothing caress.

The unpredictable nature of those stranger fae around us is what keeps him this close to me—and I doubt he’ll leave my side this whole trip.

Eamon calls over his shoulder at us, “They built it from redstone, so it doesn’t burn if this city catches flame again.”

Stone doesn’t burn—it’s a half-truth.

Really, flames from the fae realm can eat through just about anything that isn’t redstone or ateralum.

So I guess the real saying should beblack metal doesn’t burn, and neither does redstone, but pray for everything else.

Not as catchy.

My interest is fast snared when Dare shoulders into me to snag an ivory rose from a vase.

He brings it to his nose. The inhale of its fragrance fills his chest.

Roses are intoxicating to litalves—not to the dark fae. So I watch, a bit of wonder on my slack face, as he breathes in a second high from the rose before he tosses it aside, and it’s discarded on the floorboards of this Midhouse.

A stark contrast between his natures, the littering from the dark, the high from the light—and he lives somewhere between the two.

Dare intrigues me that way, how he seems to be so utterly dokkalf, but with little glimmers of light that strike as a reminder of his breed. Everything about him is so convincingly dark fae that I do forget sometimes he’s like Eamon, one of both.

Daxeel’s grip steals my wrist.

Before I can throw him a frown, I am yanked into the solid muscle of his chest—and right where I walked, a second ago, a sudden small fire ignites.

Rogue fireflies.

The stress of it has my teeth bared as I rush to keep up with Eamon through this seemingly never-ending corridor.

I don’t love it here.

The buzz doesn’t excite me, but instead suffocates me. It’s too chaotic, too jarring—it is scattered and I loathe it all.

So I’m fast to follow Eamon through the front door and suck in a hit of fresh air that’s not polluted by a crowd of fae and creatures and flying envelopes.

“Wait out here.” Eamon gestures ahead to the wooden fence that separates the townhouse from the street. “I’ll get us some human money.”

Before he can disappear back inside, I say, “I can glamour. I just need some leaves or parchment—”

“Some places are run by our kind,” he tells me with a wink, as though it’ll soften the blow that my skills aren’t as useful as I thought. “They will know a glamour when they see it.”

My mouth pushes out with a pout.

He pushes back inside the Midhouse, Ridge at his heels.

I watch after them a moment, then slide my gaze to Daxeel.

Across the stone courtyard, he leans against the edge of the open gate, ankles crossed, hands deep in his pockets. His gaze cuts between me and Aleana, his instincts torn on who to hover closest to.

Dare, on the other hand, has forgotten us.