Page 10
Jules
The Eyrie—Dining Hall
The dining room in the Eyrie is like something out of a fever dream.
Polished black stone gleams beneath my booted feet. But I can still feel it somehow.
Warm and smooth, despite looking like it should be cold.
The walls are draped in massive woven tapestries— some dark and violent, others bright with gold thread —and the weirdest thing is, they move.
I blink at one, and I swear the characters inside shift slightly.
A warrior lifts his sword.
A woman turns her head and mouths something soundless.
“Are they alive?” I whisper.
Alaric glances at the tapestries.
“They are enchanted. They show pieces of our history. Each time you look, you might see something new.”
Okay. No big deal.
“Like living history blankets. Okay,” I murmur.
Totally normal.
He quirks an eyebrow at me, then we step farther into the room, and the scent of whatever’s on the table wraps around me like some decadent cloud of temptation.
My stomach growls. Loudly.
The table itself stretches long and wide, carved from dark wood that looks older than most countries.
And it’s already filled with food. Plates and platters are piled high with things I don’t even recognize, but they smell amazing.
No servants. No awkward hovering.
Just the two of us.
Thank goodness, because I’d already feel weird enough being waited on in this dress.
Yes, this dress.
The silk one Alaric conjured for me.
The one that clings in the right places and glides everywhere else.
I probably shouldn’t love it as much as I do. But I do.
Especially now that I see him.
Because holy hell.
He’s wearing tight black pants and one of those flowy shirts you only see in period dramas or fantasy movies.
Like if a pirate and a fae king had a lovechild and then trained him in seduction.
“How do you always look like you're ready to ruin someone's life at a royal ball?” I mutter, eyes shamelessly sweeping him.
His smirk is slow and devastating.
“Yours, in particular, would be my preference.”
My mouth goes dry.
“Careful, Lord Alaric. You’ll make a girl feel special.”
“Good. Because you are special, Myrrin .”
His voice wraps around my name like silk and smoke.
We sit.
Or I try to sit gracefully, which is hard when my legs still feel jelly-like from how he looks at me.
He serves me first— yes, actually serves me —scooping something sweet and savory onto my plate before tending to his own.
The food? Ridiculous.
Like magic met comfort food and decided to flex.
Tender meats with flavors I can’t name but want to chase.
Fruit that bursts like sunlight on my tongue.
Bread so soft it could make angels weep.
And the whole time, he watches me.
As if each bite I take is something he’s hoarded. Something that feeds him, too.
We talk.
Well, sort of.
It’s a mix of banter and flirtation, little challenges and teases.
He tells me about Nightfall’s skies and this special stone that if you hold it, it will change color when you lie.
I tell him he talks like a walking storybook.
At one point, he reaches over and brushes a crumb from my lip, and I swear my entire soul short circuits.
Then, when I’ve eaten more than I should admit, he sits back, wineglass in hand, and lets his eyes rake slowly down my body.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice darkening with intent, “I believe it’s time for dessert.”
“Oh? And what’s on the menu?” I tease, even though my pulse stutters.
His smile is dangerous now. Lethal in that beautiful, slow way.
“You are.”
“Why me?” I ask, because really, why me?
I can’t fathom a single reason why someone like him would choose to take me— a chubby bartender from Jersey —to this magical place.
“Because in all my travels, Jules Strano, in all the centuries I have walked this realm, I cannot imagine a single being I would rather have here with me right now.”
And before I can come up with a single witty response, Alaric moves, crossing the distance between us in the blink of an eye.
His face hovers for a moment. His pupils elongate. Like something else is watching me from within him, then he moves.
He kisses me.
Not gently. Not hesitantly.
Like he’s claiming something.
Like he knows this kiss will taste better than anything in this world or the next.
And fuck me, he’s right.
Because when his mouth captures mine, when his hands slide to my waist and he lifts me from my chair, dragging me closer to his impossibly hard body, everything else disappears.