Page 36

??????

My fingers still on the edges of the tray; stagnant, somewhere between hovering and gripping the brass handles.

I sense him, that ghost of Daxeel’s soul that haunts me, that has haunted me since the summit.

I am motionless, muscles cringed to bone, and I wait…

I wait for the whisper of my name, that eerie echo of his voice, to come from behind me, as it does each time the ghost visits to torture me.

It has been almost five months since the Mountain of Slumber spat us from its summit and flung us back into our realm, and in those months, every single week, that ghost finds me for just a moment, a handful of seconds, and still, it cringes me.

It creeps around me, prickles my flesh, bares my teeth with that unnatural sense warping the air—and it’s getting harder to ignore.

This First Wind, that essence of Daxeel’s soul finds me in the kitchen at the back of the tavern.

I am frozen at the island bench, hands stiff at the handles of the tray, not quite gripping, and my breath keeps to my chest.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

The clock above the stove sounds so distant, so far away, but it is an intrusion as I wait for that whisper; the sound of my name wrought from anguish, low and suffered, a plea—

But it doesn’t come.

My face crumples with a frown.

An edge of disappointment nips at me.

I sigh, soft, and slide my fingers around the brass handles of the tray. My grip firms—and just as I make to turn around for the swing door, the whisper comes.

“Vicious one.”

I still.

My lashes flutter on my view, but I don’t really see the kitchen in front of me.

I have focus only for the whisper.

It once sounded like Daxeel.

Now, it is different. It is deeper, gravellier.

I peel my grip away from the handles.

My heart stops in my chest as, slow, I turn my chin to my shoulder. I should see the swing door behind me. The door that pushes open to the tavern.

But it is blocked from my view.

Blocked by a tall, muscular frame sheathed in leathers.

I blink on him, once, twice, stunned. Too stunned to utter a word, to move, to weep, to sneer.

This isn’t the whisper of his soul reaching out to mine, lost beyond the veil, searching for its other half. This is him.

Daxeel.

He is really here.

And… I am just rooted to the spot.

I lift my stare from a strong chest, glistening leathers winking at me in the dim light, and I find a familiar neck. The softest caramel complexion, inked with tattoos—but marred with a fresh marking.

A scar about two inches wide, slashed across his throat. I stare at it so long that Daxeel answers an unspoken, tangled question thrumming through me.

His hand lifts, inked and calloused, and his fingertips touch to the wrinkled scar. “Ateralum.”

I blink.

Then my heart drops to my gut.

The blade I used, the one I plunged into that very neck, was ateralum. The scar—it will never fade. It will reach all the way into his throat, as deep as I stabbed, and that is why his voice is changed.

I didn’t know.

I didn’t consider it.

The blade that the litalf used on Eamon, that is the one I used on Daxeel. Ateralum isn’t anything that makes sense to consider.

But these weren’t litalf officials.

They were rogue, they were bounty killers, and they used the black metal, so in turn, I used it, too.

The colour drains from my face.

I can’t bring myself to lift my eyes that bit higher, to see his beauty, to meet his gaze that is soft on me.

I stare at his neck. “You are back.”

His hoarse voice is as soft as it can be, “Yes.”

“You stole a world.”

“Yes.”

“Was it worth it?”

Again, he answers with no hesitation, “No.”

“That darkness…” I start, soft, and tug away from the bench, though I keep my gaze from his face, “it will plague Licht—won’t it?”

Daxeel is quiet for a moment. “One day the sun will rise on Licht but not touch the earth.”

So the darkness will invade the light lands.

I say nothing.

Daxeel joins me in that patient silence.

He keeps to the door, standing, watching—but he waits for me.

I consider the gloss of his leathers.

He is silent.

I lift my gaze to him—and my lashes low over the burning wetness of my eyes. “I loathe you.”

His face shutters.

Daxeel leans his weight back onto one boot, then drops his head. His downcast gaze is on the floor, those inky curls falling into his lovely face.

I hate that I want to touch him.

“I loathe you,” I echo, “for all that you have done, to me, to Eamon, to the realms beyond Dorcha.”

Daxeel keeps to the swing door, not a step closer to me. But his head is tilted forward, almost hanging in shame.

His eyes lift to watch me from beneath his long lashes.

I point my finger at him, an accusation. “This was between us—and you dragged all the worlds into our slights.” I scoff, a wetness in my throat. “And they say in your culture that females are the ones of emotion.”

Unmoving, unflinching, he is still against my viciousness. Daxeel just stands there… and takes it, the cost of my attention.

“Do you remember that night under the willow?” I ask. “You told me it was for a male to protect a female. That males are stronger, females are meant to be kept. That we are pretty and lure the flowers into bloom, but the flowers wince from you because they fear you.”

Still, he just watches me—he listens.

“Twice, I have bested you,” I tell him, my chin lifting, and I turn my pointed finger to touch my own throat. “I am the reason you wear that scar—” his eyes flicker “—but you are the cause of your own misery.”

“Yes.”

The rush of his urgent answer startles me.

That hesitation grips me for a mere moment before I banish it, and I take a step forward.

“I dug my blade into you on the summit…” A wet smile twists my face. “And you were surprised . You weren’t shocked that I did it… you were shocked that I had it in me .” That smile warps into an ugly grin. “But I do. I have more in me than you ever will… because I have the nerve to actually fucking kill you.”

Daxeel flinches.

“Not with dupe daggers, not with threats,” I take another step closer, “not with wishes to Mother to do it for me. No, I can take a rolling pin and club your skull to mulch,” I snarl.

His boot slides back, just a touch.

“I can sink my fingers into your pretty, perfect eyes—and gouge them out until they are mush in my hands.”

His throat swells—and he swallows, thick. “I always knew you were vicious, I never denied that—”

I lunge a step forward, a crimson flare burning my face, “ Shut your fucking mouth !”

Daxeel recoils, the faintest jerk of the shoulders. His gaze is unflinching, focused and steady on me, but he is silenced.

Not just him, but the noise from the tavern front, it dims, it dies to a quiet of intense listening, sharp ears, and I can picture them out there, wide eyes flickering around, gazes locking, mouthed words.

But I would do this with an audience, I would break and say everything that is bottled inside of me—no matter who listened.

“You called me vicious, but you meant like a daffodil… You meant it like my father did.” I take another step, menacing, my hands fisting at my sides. “Pretty poison. You saw defence in a sharp tongue, snobbery, a liking for fine things. You saw a female you could best with manipulation and shiny things… and maybe that is what I was.

“I warned you time and time again, you were breaking me. Father was breaking me. Taroh was breaking me. And together, you all smashed me to pieces, and Eamon was the one who tried to put me back together. You should have listened to my warnings, Daxeel—because now, I am different. I am vicious in a whole other way… And I am not sad for myself. I …” My upper lip curls. “ Am .” My teeth bare. “ Broken .”

“So tell me…” I come to a stop in front of him, my eyes burning up at him, “what you could possibly do to even begin working for my forgiveness?”

His brow furrows, sorrowed.

“It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” I arch my brows at him. “To beg in some way, to plead with me to love you again.”

His mouth thins, and I suspect the gesture it to trap words inside, to battle his rising impatience.

“So what will you do?” I hate that a tear rolls down my cheek. “What great plans do you have to woo me? Nothing? Is that head of yours empty beyond the hope of turning up here and I simply would fall into your waiting arms?”

A darkness flashes through his eyes, but he turns them down to the scuffed toes of my boots.

“Did you pin all your hopes on the fact that you missed me? Or did you know I missed you?”

Hope surges through him, and his gaze snaps up to mine.

But a snarling smile slides across my face. “You think because I love you that I would have you back?” I spit at his boots. “Get out.” I scoff and, softly, shake my head. “Get out of my kitchen.”

The tavern—in its entirety—belongs to Daxeel. It isn’t my kitchen. But he doesn’t point that out, and I doubt he ever will.

Slightly, he dips his head, then turns for the door.

I watch him leave, the defeated weight sagging his shoulders.

My heart thumps in my chest. Every beat pulsates in my head, my ears, and I cringe against it.

The swing door shuts behind him.

The moment it does, my face distorts. The silence of my sob is enough to lower me to my knees, slow, subdued.

My hands flatten on my face, bury it, muffle the whining breaths drawing through me.

I am crouched, silent, shoulders jerking, for too long before I swallow back the last of the sobs, and I force myself to stand.

There are more tears in me to shed. They lash at me from the inside, desperate to claw their way free of the pressure I push down on them.

But I fight them, still, and swat at my cheeks.

The snivel shudders my lips, trembles my insides. And, as I blink and wipe the tears away, all that flashes in my mind is that scar stroked across his throat.

I swallow, thick, then draw in a deep breath.

I must steady myself before I go out there.

The meal on the tray is covered with a lid, but the moisture will grow, until the food is soggy.

I have already wasted too much of the meal’s time.

I shake it off, literally, flap my hands at my sides, head lolled back, and will some sense into me.

I don’t know what happened.

I saw him, I turned to look at him, I saw his face—and something in me spilled. A bottle, full of poison, toppled over, then pouring out of my mouth.

I banished him.

He left. He obeyed.

And I find it is lonelier in the kitchen without him.

I steel my grip on the tray’s handles, then hoist it to my middle. My mouth circles a steadying breath before I back into the swing door, cutlery rattling on the tray, then turn for the armchairs angled towards the fireplace.

On my way, I pass Leif, lounged on the floral couch against the wall, Hedda sprawled out with him in his slumber.

I spare them a fleeting glance before I approach the patron next to the fireplace, and I set down the tray with a murmured apology.

The older male, whose jaw wears the scars of claws, merely nods, eyes a touch wide. He flicks his gaze from me to over my shoulder.

I straighten up from the coffee table, then trace his wide-eyed gaze to the second fireplace.

Forranach’s favoured spot. He likes the view from the window when he’s tending to the inventory lists.

That isn’t quite what he’s doing now, this quiet hour of the First Wind.

He plays cards with Rune—

And my gaze darkens on the third male, his back to the card game.

Daxeel is hunched on the edge of the coffee table.

His gaze lifts to me, a sudden gleam of cerulean lights—then he’s pushing up to his full height.

I watch him rise, taller and taller.

At my sides, my hands fist. Nails cut into the meat of my palms.

Daxeel reaches for his weapons belt.

My gaze flares on the movement.

All gazes latch onto it, the hand that touches the clasp of the belt, then—in a swift move—releases it.

The belt clatters to the floorboards.

I cast a flickering glance around at the faces angled at us. It is a quiet hour, just a dozen fae in the tavern—and that includes the workers.

But all are watching.

Rune’s face is flushed from the burn of the hearth, but his unease shows in the way he shifts in his chair, the way he thins his lips and rubs them together.

Daxeel’s coarse voice lures my attention back to him, “Of all the things I apologise for, of all the things I regret—I am ashamed of so much, Nari. I am most of ashamed of not seeing you.”

I frown.

Standing here, a stupid look on my face, all I can manage is a frown as Daxeel pushes into slow, gradual steps.

Yet there is nothing soft about the way he looks at me, a stare that burns through the worlds.

I am silenced by it, the stare, the intensity, the weapons belt discarded on the polished floorboards, his advance.

Those tears I strained to fight off in the kitchen, they return with a crusade against me.

I am fast defeated, and the wetness spills down my cheeks in a heartbeat, tears curving into the corners of my mouth and salting my tongue.

“Look at what you do—look at what you have accomplished. You stood on your own, in the grief of loss, and you built. You, vicious thing, are a warrior like no one I have ever known.”

He reaches into his sleeve and threads out a blade. His fingers release—and it hits the floor.

He discards his weaponry right here, under the stares of old warriors.

“A formidable opponent...” He drops to a knee. “The one I follow.”

The one I follow…

I turn my wet cheek to him. Not to reject, but to shut my eyes and reel myself back in.

The sobs are bubbling in my chest, too raw. My mouth quivers around them.

I blink my eyes, my sight distorted by the tears. The swallow that bobs my throat is thick, loud .

I find my watery stare met with the shock on the faces of the patrons.

Not many this hour, but the ones who are here are of old age and proud mind.

Their faces give them away—the sheer disapproval for what Daxeel is doing: Publicly denouncing loyalty to anything but me. Dorcha, war, bloodshed, none of those matter, not if he doesn’t have me.

I look at him, there, kneeling on the floorboards. A forearm braced on his knee, a boot planted, and his head bowed. Dark tendrils brush over his face, and his eyes would gleam up at me through them if his gaze wasn’t latched onto the floor—in submission.

I slide my boot back; and that one move has Daxeel’s body tensing in his bow.

Knee planted on the floorboards, he keeps his head dropped, and he waits—but I see it on him, the tension tightening his muscles beneath the leather, that a flurry of panic is thriving in him… because I might walk away.

I want to.

A part of me aches to forever turn my back on him.

I loathe all that he has done.

I loathe so much of him.

But the other part of me, it aches for another path, to throw myself into his arms, to have him hold me in my tears, hold me through my pain.

Forranach’s grumbled voice is a murmur, soft, but I hear it as clear as lightning in a silent sky—

And it strikes me.

“Forgiveness is a difficult thing.”

Forgiveness…

The very thing I wanted from Daxeel. The very thing I fought for.

Now that I have it, it is my turn to forgive him.

Eamon .

The name shudders through me, and I flinch.

Does he forgive me?

Does he forgive that I am the reason he is dead?

My lashes shut on the fresh wave of tears. And, when I open them, my breath is a whisper, “What do you want from me?”

Daxeel lifts his head. The bloodshot of his eyes come with no shame to crisp his cheeks. “I have designs on you, Narcissa Elmfield.”

Designs .

It jolts a faint scoff through me, an almost laugh, but it is wet and bubbly.

Such a normal thing for two fae. Designs. It is the courtship of two free fae, unmated, no evate, no pressures, no society.

It is something light and sweet with no definite future written out for it.

It…

It is lovely.

And yet, I just turn my dead, dull stare on him, lashes damp with tears, my breath thick with them.

The clock keeps on ticking.

The stares aimed at us grow uneasy.

The silence swells, it thickens into something painful.

Daxeel lets a breath deflate him.

His leg tenses, muscles harden, then he is pushing up from his kneeling position.

Defeat is draped over him.

“Everything I have…” He lifts an anguished look to me, fringed with darkness. “All that I am. It is yours.”

I look down at the floorboards.

Daxeel sighs something soft. “I do not blame you, vicious one. The poisoned bond distorted me—and with that, I broke you. I ask for your forgiveness where I never offered you mine. If you find solace in my pain, then you should know that I will suffer endlessly, without the rage to hold onto in the storm. I have no anchor in this misery.”

Out the corner of my eye, I catch his movements.

Daxeel dips into a bow that he holds for a mere moment before he’s upright again and marching out of the tavern.

The air disturbs around me with his departure.

But the moment his hand clasps on the doorknob, something jolts through me, a slingshot of ice-cold panic.

“ Wait .”

The rush of that wispy word stops him dead in his tracks. It always does.

He stills, unmoving, his back to me, hand on the doorknob.

Silence is hushed all over the tavern.

And that silence remains.

I have no follow up. I have nothing to say more than wait , nothing to desire beyond a need for him to stay.

As though reading that on me, my resistance, but sensing the vulnerable opening, Daxeel is a sudden tension of determination.

He pushes back from the door and rounds on me.

My face twists with his advance.

I am motionless against it—and still, as he grabs my face by the cheeks and brings his mouth to mine.

His kiss starts soft.