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It didn’t matter where he’d been…

As long as it was far away from her.

Moments passed. She still didn’t move, didn’t dare make a sound. Likely, the mud beneath her boots would betray her, ultimately alerting Garrik that she was outside her tent without a guard. And the last thing she desired to do tonight was to explain why she dared defy his orders, again.

Feeling as if she’d escaped discovery when his tent remained dark and quiet, she stepped forward, sliding in the wet mud, only to come to an abrupt stop.

Garrik emerged from his tent. Pausing outside the entrance, he stood with his arms at his side, face lifted toward the clouded night sky with his eyes closed. Breathing deep the strong, musty aroma of the thunderstorm's aftermath. A breeze fluttered his hair across his forehead, the appearance messy but … charming.

Even with the warning coursing through her bones, she couldn’t turn away. Imagining him as a warrior preparing for battle. His monstrous sword was sheathed at his side, another settled in a scabbard down the straight of his back. A black leather bandolier of throwing daggers hung across his broad chest.

More ruthless and deadly than she’d seen him in the alley of Telldaira. More… She couldn’t place it. Just … somethingmore.

Much to Alora’s surprise, his gaze didn’t roam her way. His vicious figure simply turned and disappeared down the moonlit path.

And she foolishly decided to follow him.

Ahead,torchlight appeared.

One by one until an annulus of light formed.

Alora slipped quietly behind a thick tree at the edge of a small clearing. Mere feet from a torch that emerged from the ground before her. Careful to stay hidden, she braced her hands against it and slowly inched out enough to see the High Prince standing in the illuminated center.

He’d almost evaded her in the forest. With nothing, not a broken branch or a disturbance of raindrops on leaves. Not a boot print or rustling of trees. Nothing was out of place. The High Prince was skilled—stealthy—no doubt years of training were to thank for that. By luck alone, she saw the small glow and followed.

Fire light danced on his rippling figure. He was death and stolen dreams filled with mystery and hope. She couldn’t help the hard swallow at the sight of his sinful form. Her breaths drew short. Careful not to make a sound. Knowing, with his magic, he would likely hear the faintest whisper on a wind.

Garrik unsheathed his sword at his right side. Rotating his wrist to swing the weapon in a circle with his dominant hand. He began maneuvering his feet in perfectly paced footsteps, not one out of place. Strategic. Calculated.

Like frozen ice on a winter lake, he stilled. Head tilted. And a lethal grin appeared.

With the scoop of a hand, Smokeshadows billowed in tendrils across the annulus. Mist and darkness swirled and raged until three large clouds molded into the shapes of?—

Alora’s eyes widened, scratching the bark into her fingertips as her grip tightened.

Faeries.

They looked like faeries. Two males and a female by their shapes.

He created his own sparring opponents.Each had their own shadow swords. Each slowly circled him as if they possessed their own minds. As if they were living, breathing beings.

Garrik dug in his heels. Muscular legs launched him high into the air toward them. Carried by a cloud of shadows, his sword cut through the air, crossing the shadowed blade of a male.

Puffs of shadow tendriled around each stab and slash over the figures. Each advancing on him as if in real battle. And surrounding him, they attacked from all angles.

Not one came close to grazing him with their sword. She was certain that they would have if given the chance. But his strikes were brutal—barbaric—yet intricately magnificent with each ruthless and horrifying kill of the shadows. When the last, the female, fell to her knees before him, Garrik’s sword sunk deep into the shadow’s skull until he cleaved her in two. The tendrils misted away, leaving its split body to fade into the dirt too.

The sight mesmerized Alora. Her hand clung to the bark of the tree to steady herself.

Garrik’s intoxicating figure rippled with every movement, pushing against the sleeves of his tunic. Perfectly carved leg muscles strained against his pants until the clothing restricted him enough that he tore his tunic off.

It had to be a sin to watch something so breathtaking.

Even with his terrible scars, he was the most beautiful male she had seen. In fact, the scars made him even more spectacular. The way his skin pulled tight across them, the swells and dips of his muscles … the darkness that followed him.

High Fae were incredibly beautiful, even the less pleasing ones. Differing from most faeries in mismatched and sometimes horrifying forms, High Fae were of a human-like appearance. They walked with gentle, almost perfectly quiet grace, with eyes that glowed even on a cloudy day, and elegantly pointed ears ranging from linear outer ears to a dramatic curve like the moon himself.

He was like a wild dream; she hated to admit, but she would be happy to sleep within it. No wonder there were myths of humans desiring to find themselves sleeping with a High Fae—a High Fae Prince especially—and steal them away into their fantasies.