Page 43

I stared at Emon—no, not Emon .

King Daemon Ash Strider of The West Isles. Ruler of all shifters!

There was so much there that I should have recognized. Gold eyes, a family trait passed from father to son. The term golden one , the prince of shifters was crowned the golden son. Even his goddess damn name, Emon, was a giveaway, even if it was shortened.

Had I just been blinded by his charismatic compassion? The ease at which he had exposed his soul to me? Was it all a ploy to gain my trust and for what gain?

I swallowed back the sudden rising bitterness.

“It’s not you, it was never you. I blocked your ability to recognize who I was with personal wards put upon me. The moment you entered Finlandia, they broke.”

I frowned. I focused on the one question that mattered. “Why?”

The shifter king looked over his bare shoulder at me sympathetically, pausing before a large wooden door.

“Why did I choose to keep the truth from you?” He gave me a sad smile.

“Would you believe me if I told you it was because I wished to keep you safe and also selfishly wanted you to get to know the real me and not as the murderous king you already think me to be?”

“That’s not good enough.” I barely kept the hurt out of my tone. “Knowing you puts no more of a target on my back than the one I already have.”

He grunted and pushed the heavy door open. “I wish that were true, little umbra, but knowing me puts you in more danger than you realize.” He stepped to the side, sweeping his arm out to beckon me to enter. “I am sorry if I hurt you from my omission.”

“No you are not.” I spat, irritated that I couldn’t say that he did not hurt me. I smoothed down the gold layers of fabric I wore before gliding into a room that looked much like a private study.

Two exits were on the back wall leading out to a large balcony where gauzy gold fabric stirred from the coolness of the night breeze.

The exits framed a floor to ceiling black stone fireplace that was roaring with warmth and light.

Lavish rugs of all colors were strewn about on the floor, absorbing the warmth from the fireplace and yielding comfort against the otherwise white stone walls.

Two leather chairs faced the fireplace and on the adjacent wall, was an enormously long and elegantly carved live edge desk that looked like a tree had just laid to rest here in this very room.

Books lay scattered across its polished grain, some open, as if someone had been frantically looking for answers.

“Even still it was never my intention.” He continued.

I looked up to see his imploring concern, the same expression he held the night we buried the cù-sìth together. I gritted my teeth at the annoying way my heart fluttered. Had it not learned its lesson yet?

“Even you can admit you never would have come here knowing who I truly was.” He shut the door.

I shrugged indifferently, the opposite of the way I was feeling. “I never did want to come here.” Without him…I stopped the words from tumbling from my treacherous mouth.

Emon grunted. “Yet you are here. How? And with a faeling? ”

I spun and faced him. “Fate.” I said snarkily.

Startled gold eyes searched mine and I held my breath at the shocked silence, recognizing that my words had caused a crack in the barriers I had made to protect myself.

I flicked a finger in his direction, hardening my voice. “Enough of this, it is you that owes me answers, shifter. Not the other way around. Stop asking the questions and start answering them.”

Shaking his head, he laughed. “I have not forgotten. Get comfortable and settle in. We are going to need a few drinks for this. At least I do.” He turned away towards a bar cart in the far corner of the room.

Instead of taking a seat in one of the large leather chairs near the fireplace, I perused the books scattered on his desk, my fingertips skimming the thick dust covering their pages. With the amount layered here, whoever left it this way was in a hurry, and was gone for a long time.

I glanced at Emon's turned back where he poured a drink, already knowing that fae was him.

Why would he have left his kingdom for so long just to find me?

Frowning, I tilted my head to read the titles. The History of the Blood Wars, The Accounts of the Blood Fae, The Sanguine-Blood Lands, Transformations of Fae, Faerie and Its Creation…my hand stilled on one in particular.

“The Unaccounted Life of the Last Shadow Fae.” I read it out loud, my voice hoarse.

A glass of amber appeared in front of me and I took it, glancing at him, noticing he was sipping from his own drink and staring at the book with admiration in his eyes.

“A good read for those who love tales of outlandish adventure and the daredevil risks of the most powerful shadow fae alive.”

I looked back down, trailing my hand over the delicate script. “The last shadow fae. This book…it’s about me?”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up feeling his predator-like grin roaming over me. “Yes. You are famous here, little umbra. I told you that. Most shifters see you differently than the fae of Faerie.”

“Oh.” I had no words .

“I have to know.” He stepped closer and took a drink, I could see him watching me intently over the rim of his glass. “Did you really surf the skies upon the wings of the Roc?”

A nervous bubble of laughter escaped me.

“The mountain eagles would not appreciate such outlandish tales about them. Surf the skies on their wings? The audacity! Although that would have been a much more pleasant experience.” I shook my head, seeing that time of my life very vividly.

“It was more like free falling from their fire-lit talons, thousands of feet in the air. I was forced to use my shadows to saddle-break their leader mid-flight while fending off streams of fire, beaks, and flesh tearing talons. It took me three days to heal. In the end, the Roc finally listened to me.”

Emon chuckled. “Sounds like a good time to me.”

I smiled fondly. “It was.” Closing the book, I frowned. “I was unaware there were books written about me.” I skimmed the black leather cover. “There is no author.”

I could feel Emon’s thoughtful gaze at my back. “These are the accounts from all over Faerie. Told by many fae. Most of it was written in my hand but the stories are not my own. Perhaps one day I may be blessed to have my own tales to recite about you.”

I pressed my lips together and held back the one glaring question I always had when it came to him.

Why?

Except, I was not brave enough to face that answer. Instead, I scanned the wall behind the desk where thousands of volumes were lovingly stacked against it. “May I have access to some of these? There are a few I do not recognize.”

Emon grunted beside me. “Of course. What is mine is yours. You do not need permission from me.”

Spinning I turned to confront him but he had already walked away, back to the bar cart. I studied him curiously…not understanding him at all.

Feeling my scrutiny he waved towards the leather chairs in front of the onyx fireplace. “Sit. I believe I owe you answers—proof and an explanation.”

Following his bidding with gritted teeth I took a seat in the large confines of the leather chair, surprised by the buttery softness holding in the fire’s warmth.

Emon settled himself in the other and sighed, dropping his head back, blinking up at the vaulted ceiling, his drink still gripped loosely in his hand on the arm of the chair .

“Ask.”

Mesmerized by the beauty of his profile, I barely registered he had spoken. “What?”

He chuckled and slowly turned his head towards me with amusement. “Ask your shadows to return my bag to me. They stole it in Faerie, before Kira discovered us.”

I raised my brows at him. “You have an odd habit of trusting other creatures to take care of your things…things that seem to be very important.”

Reaching out and feeling my need for them, the dark plumes of shadow appeared in front of Emon, spitting out his leather satchel straight into his lap.

Emon jolted at the impact and then chuckled fondly at them. “Thank you, my little deviants.”

A small smile graced my lips, he was just as crazy as I was…talking to shadows.

Waving them aside he set his drink down on the side table between us and flipped open the heavy flap of his bag, reaching inward.

He rummaged through the contents with excruciating slowness before pausing.

There was a slight tick in his jaw, a stiffening of his body, before he exhaled forcefully and pulled from within an ornate black scroll.

I leaned forward in my chair as did the shadows in the room, drawn in by it. “ Where did you get that?”