Page 16 of Cruelest Kiss and Fairest Blood (Tales So Wicked #2)

Lenore

T he nearly thousand-pound animal is too still beneath my palms. Frustration expels from my lungs in a puff of jammy breath.

I’d been taking the air, munching on strawberry tarts when movement caught my eye in the pasture just beyond the gates.

Vultures circling about, but not yet landing, meant the animal may still be alive. It was in bad shape when I found it.

“Come on. One hoof at a time,” I urge the stout, white-and-grey horse. “Come on.”

My fingers graze across his dappled hair.

It’s fuzzy with the last traces of his winter coat.

He needs a good brushing. I’ll give him one when he comes back.

I pour more and more energy into him. I don’t know what happened, but the red staining his muzzle leads me to believe we missed a yew tree somewhere on the property.

The handlers are tasked with clearing all the yew, knowing it is toxic to horses.

But our land spreads so wide and far. Things can be missed.

I’ve always loved horses. They have far more personality than people give them credit for. This sweet young boy is a gentle giant. He’ll lay his head in your lap like one of the castle pups. Horses rarely recognize their size. They just want to be loved on.

My limbs begin to shake. Come on, come on. I channel all the energy I can. Sweat beads across my brow; my chest heaves with the effort. Resurrection doesn’t usually take this long.

Minutes pass. My arms grow tired, weak. Still the horse does not move.

I reach deeper within, grasping at that life-force energy, pulling it, begging.

A breeze blows past, rustling his grey mane.

Come spring, I’ll braid his mane with wildflowers.

He’ll never get sick again. I’ll hunt for the yew tree myself. As soon as he comes back. Come back .

The soft white of his shoulder darkens as my tears rain down.

“Come on,” I grit out. I’m losing the battle. My ability to channel is dissipating too quickly.

A subtle shift in energy alerts me to a familiar presence. I cannot bear to tear my attention away from the horse. Not even for him.

Harrow’s voice comes out softer than I’ve heard it before. “It’s been in my domain for too long, little raven. There’s no bringing that one back.”

“No,” I whisper. “I can do it.”

His hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing gently. “You and your gift are miraculous, but even you cannot save them all.”

The truth in his words breaks me open. The sweet boy lying so still beneath my touch is gone. A sob overtakes me. My emotions run high after I’ve resurrected or failed to resurrect an animal. The magic takes everything, leaving me split open and raw.

Harrow’s hand remains on my shoulder as I cry, silently comforting.

He gives me the space I need to release the anguish overtaking me.

I try so hard. I always try so hard . He doesn’t attempt to stop me.

Doesn’t give me a “Shhh, don’t cry,” like people so often do.

Sometimes we need to cry. Leaving that much emotion pent up within us allows it to fester and grow into something far more harmful.

I don’t know how long I cry for, but eventually my body settles. A black handkerchief appears on my lap. “Thank you,” I mumble as I work to tidy my face.

“Deep breaths in and out,” he urges. I follow his command, inhaling deeply. “Better?”

“Better.” I nod. Graceful fingers reach around to touch my face. Harrow tilts my chin to the side and drops down to meet my gaze. I see his face fully for the first time.

Ice. Envy. Danger. Moonlight. Drowning. Living. Phantom. He’s as lethally beautiful as I remember from that first momentary glimpse.

His coloring and contours seem born from the very features that sweep the night sky, beauty and brilliance colliding with the forbidden kiss of a darkness that could swallow the world whole.

He’s fatally alluring and as mesmerizing as a fire in a world of ice.

The man in front of me is something too sharply edged to be considered an angel, too angelically lovely to be a demon.

Starlight dances in his eyes. Irises of liquid silver glisten and glow.

His gaze pierces me like a black-feathered arrow through my bleeding, star-crossed heart.

I don’t know if I believe everything he says, but looking into those luminescent eyes, there’s no doubt in my mind that Harrow is anything but human.

The pale white hair that drapes messily across his forehead makes him look as if he were dipped in moonlight.

His skin is nearly as pale as his hair. It’s as smooth as glass, with an otherworldly glow to it.

A straight, aquiline nose leads down to a pair of lips so defined that I know they could devastate me with one subtle smirk. A jawline carved from marble itself manages to redefine the word masculine with the simplest of jaw ticks.

Harrow swallows, and my gaze travels to his neck.

The bobbing of his throat is almost sensual.

His white button-up shirt is slightly open, teasing at the muscular chest beneath.

It’s not the stiff, textured attire he was wearing when I glimpsed him in the garden, nor when I touched his wings.

That felt more like armor. This clothing is unexpectedly casual.

A braided silver chain sits beneath the hollow of his throat, weighed down with a pendant that lies atop his breastbone.

The jewel within it is so bright it might as well be burning with a green flame beneath the glassy teardrop surface.

He shifts slightly and the stone changes from green to blue and back again.

It’s the most unusual gem I’ve ever seen.

He runs a hand through his icy locks and I note the jewelry he wears.

Rings adorn nearly every finger. Some are chunky and square, others are thin or braided.

A silver skull winged with two intwining serpents rests on his right index finger.

Stones brighter than any rubies I’ve seen take up residence in the skeleton’s eye sockets. His fingernails are black.

“You paint your nails?” I blurt the question before I can think better. It just seems like an incredibly odd thing for someone like him to do.

“No,” he answers, rubbing his index finger over his inky thumbnail.

That’s it? Well, I guess I won’t get an explanation there. My gaze moves to his body.

He’s crouched, eyes focused intently on me.

It’s hard to discern his true height in this position, but based on the length of his torso and his long, bent legs, I would guess that he stands well over six feet.

The longer I look, the more inhuman he begins to appear.

There’s something about him, not just the eyes and hair, but something I can’t quite put my finger on.

“Why did you show me your face?”

“Selfish reasons, really. Don’t go thinking it’s chivalrous, Roseheart.”

I keep my gaze locked on his. I can’t bear to take my eyes away from his face now that I’ve seen it.

I’m afraid if I look away, he’ll evaporate, slipping through my fingers like mist in the morning breeze.

I’m not sure what he means. How can it be selfish when it’s the exact thing I’ve been wishing for? My silence wins when he speaks again.

“You looked so terribly sad.” He reaches for the glowing pendant, fiddling with the stone. “It made me uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?”

“It made me ache in my chest which should be a bloody physical impossibility. I couldn’t stand it.

” He sighs heavily, running those ring-adorned fingers through his white-blond locks again.

His hair looks so soft. There’s no crown atop his head.

I could have sworn there was when he appeared to me before.

“And I knew it would make you happy to see me. It did. That broken-open look in your eyes went away. Now that you’re happy, the ache in my chest has eased. So, see, it was all for me.”

His mouth sets in a firm line. Mine pulls into a soft smile that warms me, melting through the letdown of my magical failure. If I’m not mistaken, it sounds as if he cares for me. Perhaps he isn’t used to caring for things. Especially if he is who he says he is.

“Are you really the Prince of Death?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“You rule the Underworld?”

He tilts his head, the right side of his mouth curving upward. “Mmhm.”

“How can this be real? You? We’ve always been told things like this are just fairy tales. There’s no such thing as magical beings.”

“You’re the daughter of one of the Epimeliads, and you can resurrect animals yet you still believe there is no such thing as magic?”

“What are Epimeliads?”

His brows knit. “Tree nymphs. Usually tied to a place by a specific tree. Though, they seem to be more mobile these days.”

I blink at him.

“The Epimeliads protect apple trees specifically, but your mother appears to have a knack for all things green.”

“My mother? A tree nymph?” It sounds crazy.

“You didn’t know?”

My thoughts turn to the apple tree. “A rare golden apple tree appeared in the castle the day I was born.” I speak mainly to myself.

As far as I know, no other tree with such unique apples exists.

We’ve always been aware of my mother’s talent for growing things, but I never considered she was some type of mythical creature. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“She may not know. This is a kingdom where most magic has been forgotten or lost. Her people likely live elsewhere now.” Harrow’s tone is far too casual for someone who just told me my mother is not fully human.

“Wait, are you saying there are kingdoms that still have magic? How can that be possible?”

“There are so many things you humans believe to be farce that are, in fact, true. Your mortal mind would crack trying to comprehend everything that’s out there.”

“Like what? What things are out there?” I lean into him, as if I could glean the information to sate my curiosity purely through proximity.