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Tared’s voice still echoed in the back of my mind, that tone of unravelling control I’d rarely heard from him before. The other part of my life – the part filled with sword training in the sun and Alvish card games – would not become any easier at all.

I didn’t think they’d lend dead alves’ swords to little fae whores, either.

If only I’d been like the dramatic heroines in the tragedies Editta cried over by the fire during long winter nights – the kind that declared their everlasting love in flowery language and gave up home and hearth for whatever doom awaited them in their lovers’ arms. A healthy dose of self-sacrificial tendencies would have made my choices a lot easier. But I didn’t quite feel like becoming a tragedy, and as much as I intended to spend a significant portion of my life in Creon’s arms …

He'd been right when he left me behind in the Underground all those months ago, telling me I needed friends and family. I’d found that home. Made it my home, perhaps. And now he was the one threatening to come between me and the family I’d created?

The bloody irony of it.

He didn’t look up from his reading on the other side of the room no matter how often I glanced his way, a small frown of concentration breaking through his princely mask, his wings spilling over the low back of his chair. My pounding heart didn’t care. It didn’t care I was still annoyed about his provoking Tared either, about his stubborn attempts to hold on to the heartless creature that had once lived inside him. Even Beyla’s cold glances didn’t soothe the painful urge to claim him for myself – to curl up in his lap and run my fingers through the silk strands of his hair, to rest my head against the perfect firmness of his shoulder and know without a shred of doubt that he wasmine.

I did not want years of secrecy.

For the very first time, that thought rose in me not like a wish but like a certainty, a fact that sliced effortlessly through the haze of my fears.

I’d told myself I was fine sweeping him under the rug in a desperate attempt to please the rest of the world. But as I watched him from the other side of the room, watched those nimble movements of his fingers, watched the narrowing of his eyes as he contemplated his texts and the quirking of his lips as understanding dawned on him … The mereawarenessof him seemed to swell in me, feathery light and tingling with joy and yet substantial enough to press the breath from my lungs for a brief eternity.

A feeling I hadn't allowed myself for far, far too long.

If I shoved all fear aside for a moment, I just wanted him to be mine. I just wanted to be proudly his.

Somehow.

And if I didn’t want the rest of the world to spit me out over it …

A spark of determination took over, that same resolve that had landed me here on the continent against all odds, hunting for a lost goddess who may not want to be found. It was very damn simple, really. If I didn’t want to keep secrets, and I didn’t want the world to dislike the truth either …

Clearly the truth ought to be more likeable.

Which was admittedly not the first word that came to mind as my eyes slid over Creon’s quiet figure, noting the knives in his boots, the crude ink lines covering his arms and face, the ever-present air of shimmering danger he emanated. Gorgeous and brilliant and ruthless and brave, but he was notamiable– not a male who pleasantly talked his enemies into tolerating him.

Then again …

I could probably do the talking. All he had to do was look like I may be right.

The thought of a plan – astrategy– was enough to finally calm the vehement hammering of my heart. No matter how vague and insubstantial, this was at least something to aim for, a start to regain control. I would quietly sneak away with him the moment Tared and Beyla let us. Would tell him that I was done keeping secrets and that I needed him to stop sparking small wars with our allies – to stop making himselflesslikeable to the world.

Really, all he had to do was stop pretending he was still that murderous fae torturer he loathed from the bottom of his heart himself.

How hard could that be?

Tared and Naxi returned just before dusk swept over the forest, without Edored, but with the reassuring news that he’d woken up and appeared to be as much himself as could be expected under the influence of a heavy dose of willow bark and valerian.

‘Kept gabbling about dragons,’ Tared said, collapsing into the nearest chair and closing his eyes as if he’d need a week of sleep to make up for the past hours. ‘And he was demanding something stronger to drink by the time we left, so it doesn’t seem the magic did any lasting damage to whatever brain he still had.’

Lyn let out a laugh as she jumped from her bench to make more tea. The relief was tangible even in that joyless sound. ‘What did Ylfreda say?’

He opened one eye. ‘Don’t think I should repeat that for Em’s young ears to hear.’

‘Bastard,’ I said.

‘See?’ He threw me a grin. ‘You’ve been corrupted enough.’

I snorted, but the worst of my annoyance was already melting away. It had likely just been the panic and fear that made him attack Creon so needlessly a few hours ago, I told myself – and could I really blame him for that? I wouldn’t have been any friendlier had it been one of my family members standing on hell’s doorstep.

‘Ylfreda thinks the worst of the burns may scar,’ Naxi added, throwing me a sharp-toothed grin as she settled herself at the dinner table, ‘but most of them will probably heal. We were just in time, by the look of it.’

Beyla muttered a curse. ‘Thank the gods he faded back to us immediately, then.’