Page 114 of As Above, So Below

It’s Netharis I’m most concerned about.

A life on the run isn’t the kind of life I’d imagined for myself, but it’s better than the alternative.

After dinner, I waited for Eve and Cora to leave for night prayer before ferrying myself out of the temple. It left me with an hour to fill before midnight, but upon finding this location, I felt no rush to leave or entertain myself elsewhere.

This meeting will solidify Ryc as the Sovereign King beyond any reasonable doubt, which foolishly I hold onto. I don’t want to believe the male I feel inexplicably drawn to is the same male who could use me like Netharis, or Celesta, or Kassil.

Surely Nektos wouldn’t design my Fate this way.

Perhaps Netharis wasn’t lying when he said her plans were cruel.

Within the depths of my being, I know Ryc and Alaryc are the same person. Two halves of the whole. The alluring fae and the powerful king. Just as I’m both demon and winged fae.

One does not exist without the other.

?????????????

I’m not sure when I’d fallen asleep, but I had.

I shift, seeking an impossible comfort against the stone, and a soft, lightweight material slides over my shoulder. A cloak. The lingering scent belongs to Ryc. Propelling myself upright, he chuckles behind me.

“I’m grateful I arrived when I did,” he says as I swing my legsaround, letting them hang off the parapet. “Finding you on the street after a fall like this would not have been ideal.”

Glancing down, the cobblestone street lies three stories below.

“No, I suppose not,” I return quietly, drawing his cloak tight around my shoulders. The night has grown chill.

Through the corner of my eye, Ryc sits a couple feet away, looking out over the city. Without his cloak and hood, he looks nothing like the mysterious, brooding figure that’s been trailing me for the last week and very much like the Sovereign King of Erus.

A steadfast, strong figure borne of nobility and grace sitting beside a vessel of death, a demon from the hells. This is several degrees of impossible, whatever this is, whatever we are.

Yet it’s as if the realm is holding its breath. Waiting.

Why?

For a while we sit in silence, staring, neither sure where to start. The draw in my chest urges me closer, and gripping logic tightly, I remain still. In my bones, I know the nature of this unknown thing between us hinges on how this conversation will unfold.

He shatters the silence, “You do not seem surprised by who I am.”

Not the questions I anticipated, but filled with curiosity all the same.

“Do not mistake my silence for a lack of surprise, fae,” I say flatly and he laughs. “If you seek volatility,” I scoff a small teasing laugh, returning my attention to the stars above, “there’s still time.”

“I’ve come to expect no less, little witch.” I can hear the smirk on his lips in his tone. “It is much more entertaining when you prove me wrong.”

My head swivels left and the scathing remark on my tongue dies.

In an instant, the complexities of the world melt away, leaving the two of us in an empty universe. The breath in my lungs evaporates, rendering me dizzy.

Three hundred years later and the color of his eyes still pierces through the very essence of me. It’s as if he sees all of me—all of my darkness, everything I am, everything I’ve done, and none of it matters.

Not to him.

On instinct, I lean closer, shortening the distance between us, tracing the scar on his brow. He doesn’t flinch, or pull away, or breathe under my touch. His left brow is cleaved in two near the tail. A smooth line of scarred skin, paler in comparison, travels down from his brow and traces his cheekbone. A claw, or a talon, I realize, must have given it to him.

But how?

When?