Page 34 of The Faebound Trials (Mates and Madness: The Phantom Prince and The Bloodweaver #1)

But there was no way to question Ellis. He was dragged away from me.

Zethia separated me from my friends.

I was left alone in the same quarters I stayed.

I wanted to scream. I was mentally overwhelmed.

I sat down at the nearest chair I could find and noticed the papers scattered at the table. I wanted to crumple it. And I did.

It was the same as I had left it behind.

But I noticed Zethia’s scent lingering in the room. And it was stronger in the soft sheets of my bed.

There was no way to escape this place. No way to know where they brought Kell and Ellis. Everyone’s lips were sealed.

I shivered when the cold water hit my face.

After soaking my body in the clean water, I got up and tried to pull the door, hoping it would open. It still wouldn’t budge, but a girl could only hope.

No matter how exhausted I was, sleep wouldn’t come.

Thoughts raced through my mind. Questions made my heart pound.

Frustrated, I scanned the room, my eyes fell on the books neatly piled at the corner of the room.

I grabbed the closest one to me. The text engraved on the spine wasn’t familiar to me. Maybe it was one of the letters Zethia had forgotten to teach me.

I could read to pass time.

It wasn’t like they would let me out if I tried to rip my throat apart from screaming.

The book was heavy in my hands. I had to carry it with two hands.

I sat down, gently placing the book on the table.

Two words hit me when I opened the book.

Thesavria’s Tales.

Excitement bloomed in my stomach. I brushed the slightly elevated letterings, and it was beautiful.

I’d always loved tales. Always loved listening to them. Always loved the complex stories, characters, and dialogues creative mortals poured their heart into.

I loved tales when they ended with a new beginning, I loved tales when they arrived at a happy ending. It helped me escape my reality.

But there was a part of me that hated it too. A beautiful tale mirrors reality, and tales could be scary, could inflict pain and fear, joy or anger, love or hatred.

There was a part of me that hated it when I enjoyed it too much, because it made me want to believe.

I once hated the ones who had enough time to think about ghosts, the ones who didn’t have to suffer each day wondering when they’d get their next meal.

And I knew it stemmed from my jealousy.

And I hated that about myself. It stemmed from my foolish attempt to blame the ones who had thrived to live, those who had enjoyed life and art through these stories while trying to live the destroyed realm we all had to live.

If I was only a normal child, who was born in a time where I grew up from a happy family that loves and cares for me, would I be different? Would I be less hateful? And more loving?

It would hurt me to ruin the book by writing on it.

And it wasn’t even mine, how dare I write on it?

So while I read the tales, I grabbed a separate paper and started writing my thoughts on it.

It made me smile.

I had forgotten the time while I was lost in the tales of Thesavria.

I felt my nerves calmed.

And I only realized I fell asleep when my eyes fluttered open at the sound of footsteps.

I was dreaming. Or maybe I was in a trance.

Because I had tried to lift my body up to run for the door but I couldn’t move my body.

Though my heart was calm. And I wasn’t panicking.

I was sure I was dreaming.

I watched a shadow stalking through the room. Its silver hair was down to his waist, straight and beautiful.

His dark silhouette reminded me of a looming danger as his serpentine gait stopped just before where I was.

Picking up the papers I had written on, I watched him as my eyes tried to focus the blur.

Zethia stood about two meters tall in the shadows. But his silver hair glowed and casted an eerie warning as he watched me in silence.

I was in a daze. A hazy dream where I couldn’t move. I should be shaking in fear. But I was overwhelmed with intense calm, soothing my restless bones.

His eyes were on the opened books about Thesavria’s Tales. He was still holding the paper.

“I wish you had written using the language I had taught you. Not the gibberish one you promised you’d tell me.” He lifted the paper and I could be wrong but I saw his lips touched the words I had written, savoring it as I watched him close his eyes as he took it in.

“I never knew you loved tales. If I had known you’d always loved stories, I would have used one to make you come to me. Make you wonder. Make you look for me.” His voice was soft and dreamy but the weight in his words were true. “I would write a tale so similar to ours that you will never doubt it was about you and me.”

I was in trance when I saw his fingers slightly brushing the hair falling on my face. I saw him lean on me, his silver hair falling on my face as he dangerously closed the distance between us.

“I’d write in the tale how you’d left me once. How you made me question my sanity.” His voice was lower than before. More of a whisper. But the raw pain in his voice was there. “Now, I would use this chance to tear you open and make you speak. If I had to force you to say what you are. I’d do it. I would make you speak .”

He gently kissed the crown of my head. Then he gently brushed his long fingers across my cheeks. Contrary to his warnings, and the contempt in his voice, his touch was different. His touch was gentle, reverent even.

“And I would never let you leave me again. Wrecked and ruined. Picking up the pieces you’d left me behind. If I had to cut your feet to make you stay with me. I would do it.”