Page 17

Talysse

A eidas’s superior Fae senses are right. Just a hundred feet down, the tunnel narrows, and we have to crawl into the Elders-be-blessed-not-too-deep creek to squeeze through the tight opening.

Skidding on my ass down the rounded stones of a tiny waterfall, I splash into a shallow pool.

It’s still dark.

Shivering, I creep out of the cold water, looking like a water hag. Only the stars prick the velvety darkness of the sky. The moon has set, and the air is so cold that my breath comes in foggy gusts.

When nights are that long, it gets really cold. In the stables, the water buckets for the horses often freeze solid, and the Bountiful Bosom windows are getting stained with pretty ice laces.

Aeidas stands on the rocky shore and watches the silent forest around us. The dead trees are crowding us like an army.

The coldness and the lack of sleep are draining the last remains of my strength. I rub my arms and blow into my palms, eyes never leaving the tall, dark silhouette of the prince.

What is this silver-haired bastard up to?

My bloodied, shaking fingers close around a rock. It’s a ridiculous weapon, but it might grant me the advantage of surprise.

“Talysse!” The stones crunch under his boots when he approaches me, and I hang on to the rock in my fist as if my life depended on it. Or maybe it does.

“You’re freezing,” he notes.

“N-n-no, I’m fine.” It’s not the stutter but the loud chatter of teeth that gives me away.

“There’s shelter just a mile away.” One step, and he looms over me, studying my face.

He’s right. Wet clothes cling to my skin, and my lips are probably a lovely shade of blue.

The fatigue makes my brain slow like a duck treading mud. Obviously, the prince is not going with the murder plan. What a relief! My magic depends on my physical fitness, and so do my reflexes. Fighting a Fae nearly twice my size could only end in one way. And it’s not a good one.

“You are shaking, Talysse.”

“I am aware of this, Aeidas.”

“Let’s go and find this shelter, and we can make a fire.” He slings his arm around me. His touch is warm and calming, grounding against all common sense. It’s not the touch of a murderer but a promise of safety and warmth. He smells of night herbs and freshly mowed grass, of enchanted castles and midnight secrets and it washes over my dumbfounded sense as we drag ourselves beneath the black canopy of trees long dead. What is this sudden care about my well-being? Is this another form of Fae cruelty—making me trust him before killing me? Yet right now, the idea of shelter is not that bad, even if I have to share it with this traitorous monster.

Focus, Talysse, one foot before the other. Survive the cold first; then you’ll see what fate will throw your way.

The last drops of daily warmth are gone, and the memory of the sun morphed into an icy fog that swirls around our ankles.

The Dead Hour, they call it, it’s the time when the darkness has lingered so long that even the nocturnal creatures are tired. It’s silent as in a tomb, only the occasional cracking of dry bunches under our feet and our panting breaking the silence. And my chattering teeth, of course.

My clothes are soaked from the final plunge in the creek, and a thin layer of ice starts forming on my doublet.

How long can I walk before collapsing from exhaustion and drifting into catatonic sleep? And giving this murderer the perfect opportunity to strangle me?

A murderer who has saved my life and loves gardening.

But I’m freezing, exhausted, and will soon collapse. Then I’ll be at the mercy of the elements and the Shadowfeeders, so I’d rather take the risk and see what shelter he has spotted.

The black trunks around are receding, and we step into a wide clearing.

An old, rotting woodcutters’ hut stands there, spared by some strange whim of the Elders.

Aeidas kicks the piles of dead leaves littering the threshold and forces the door open.

With a flick of his wrist, his twin wisps appear again, bathing his tall frame in cool blueish light. Something dark and shimmering solidifies in his hand. Magic buzzes around it, hinting at its deadly power.

Atos’s hairy armpits!

“Is this a Shadowblade, Aeidas?”

“Shhh, Talysse,” he hushes and steps into the darkness of the hut, his magical weapon raised.

Shadowblades are the stuff of fairytales, at least around Tenebris. Nobody has seen one in centuries. Legends tell of these deadly blades, forged by Atos himself for his favorite Unseelie: they can change shapes in the blink of an eye and appear in the hands of their wielder out of thin air.

And I was planning on fighting this with a rock! I bark a bitter laugh.

“Can’t you stay quiet for a minute, Talysse? You want to attract all Shadowfeeders of this forest?” Aeidas scolds me from the hut.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of Shadowfeeders, Aeidas! You have a Shadowblade!”

Shadowblades can inflict serious damage on the demons, but only Sunblades can kill them, the magical weapons forged by Cymmetra for the Seelie Kings and Queens. All of them are dead, of course. Slaughtered by the Unseelie during the war.

The sound of falling objects and a soft curse spill into the night. What is happening inside?

“Are you okay, Aeidas?” A stupid thing to ask someone wielding an indestructible weapon. The air inside is cool, laced with a scent of mold. The rotten floor planks screech under my steps. The hut seems to be abandoned for centuries, left to the mercy of the tiny critters and insects but spared by the elements. Cobwebs drape from the massive beams supporting the roof, shimmering like threaded silver in the light of Aeidas’s wisps; the maul of a dark fireplace gapes on the wall. The space is crowded with overturned shelves and broken clay plates. No human bones, no foul stench, no weird words scribbled on the walls this time. It appears the inhabitants left in a hurry.

A single bed, covered in rags, stands right next to the fireplace.

“Not a bad place to spend the rest of the night, Talysse!” He collects the shelves, breaks them over his knee, and piles them into the stone fireplace.

“Indeed. I’ve seen much worse.”

He throws me a long, thoughtful look.

His blade is gone. Dismissed.

Thank Cymmetra. Something about this weapon, about the lethal power harnessed into it, unsettles me. For a moment, I imagine how he must look in battle when all the charm of a prince is stripped off, and the raw, murderous essence of Fae royalty is unleashed. It must be quite a terrifying sight. Oblivious to my presence, he snaps his fingers and sparks fly into the kindling. The flames lick the dry wood, and soon, the hut is bathed in soft golden light.

I stretch my hands, basking in the blissful warmth.

“You better take those wet clothes off,” he says over his shoulder.

“I know you cannot resist me, but in Tenebris, gentlemen should buy me dinner before asking for this,” I spit, trying to calm the wild beating of my heart.

“Is that before or after your friends from the back alley smack them with a club?”

I shrug. “Depends on the job.”

“Oh, there are other jobs? Now I’m curious. What else is on the menu? Pickpocketing men while you kiss them?” He chuckles, throwing more wood into the flames.

Elders above, his guess is so close. “Pickpocketing is not my trade. My looks are very…memorable.” I point at my white hair strand without hiding an amused grin. The silence stretches, and the prince rises and takes a step toward me. The warmth of his body, combined with this cursed scent of his, tempts me with promises of dark, forbidden pleasures.

“Indeed,” he murmurs. “Your eyes are so unusual for a Satreyan.”

His gaze drops to my wrist, where Mother’s bracelet pulsates with soft magic.

“Look, I’ll just sit by the fire and get dry—”

“Talysse,” Aeidas clicks his tongue, “I’m surprised you’re such a prude. The fire will die in an hour. You’d better take advantage of the heat now and dry those clothes. And no worries, I’ve seen ladies without garments before.” His voice is low and raspy now.

Oh, I bet he did. Plenty of them. Even if he wasn’t the heir to that cursed throne, his looks are enough to lure flocks of Unseelie ladies into his bed chamber.

Disgusting.

“Or you can stand there and catch your death.” He shrugs.

His glowing sage eyes pin me, and the right corner of his lips curls up, displaying a sharp fang. He looks like a predator ready to pounce, and for one maddening moment, my exhausted brain thinks that he’d make me take these clothes off. A thought that sends a wave of heat through my core. He starts unbuttoning his midnight-colored shirt, his gaze relentlessly fixed on me.

“I’ve seen…gentlemen without their garments, too.” I lift my chin and glare back at him defiantly.

A deep, devilish chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Did you now?”

“Yep, the last one was the blacksmith’s apprentice, a handsome young man with hair like straw, very proud of his physique—” Rambling nonsense is often my last resort when in trouble. But I’d say anything just to keep myself distracted from this shameless display of magnificence before me. And of danger too—his Ancestral Mark: red like blood and carved into his flesh. The Sacred Mountain, split in two, and the moon crescent over it; letters of some long-lost language swirl around it. Royal Seelie and Unseelie are born with this mark, a reminder of their guilt.

My gaze crawls back up to his face. He’s watching me, his eyes bright green now, like the fields in spring.

“And how was he?” the prince asks, hanging his shirt on a hook on the mantelpiece. Elders help me. The light of the fire gilds every dip and every swell of pure, lean muscle, painting a contrast between the two dips on the sides of his stomach, which narrow down to a—

“Quite disappointing. Myrtle told me about some interesting trick he can pull off.” Aeidas listens with a smirk, and to take my mind off the fine dusting of dark hair disappearing into his low-rise leather pants, I start boldly unbuttoning my shirt.

“Hmmm, which trick might that be?” He purrs but quickly looks away when my fingers fiddle with the second button.

“He probably had a bad day. I’m afraid I’ll never find out.” A lie. Myrtle told me about the way he can use his tongue, which made her scream with pleasure. Something I’ve never experienced with a man and something that makes me very, very curious.

Aeidas kneels before the fireplace, throwing more wood in. His eyes are fixed on the flames when I hang my clothes on the hook. Standing behind him only in linen panties and the lacy band holding my breasts together, I rake my fingers through my hair, grateful that it’s so long and provides some cover. His scent of midnight dew, woodsmoke, and secret gardens makes my head spin, and I quickly step away.

The air deeper in the hut is still cold, and the rags on the bed are teeming with life. Tiny shapes dart to the cobwebbed corners when the old covers are gone. I pile them all on the floor, together with the mice nests, raising clouds of dust and moths, and look around for something to cover myself with.

While the prince is breaking planks and branches over his knee and feeding them into the fire, I manage to pull out some moldy but well-preserved blankets from a trunk.

“As a lady, I’m claiming the bed!” I strew some dry leaves from the floor on the bed planks, throw the covers over them, and smile at my job. That would do.

“Oh, that’s not how it works, Talysse,” his deep voice rumbles so close to me that my skin sprouts goosebumps. “It’s too cold to sleep alone.” Atos, take me! Warmth pools from my core and settles lower, when the meaning of his words reaches me. His eyes are nearly black when I turn to face him, and there is tension in the line of his strong shoulders.

He’s right. The fire is not enough to keep us warm, and standing here, my breath is visible again.

“Let me keep you warm,” he breathes, leaning in closer. Slickness spreads between my thighs.

What is wrong with me? He is Fae royalty—a natural-born predator, shaped by nature and by the Elders in a way to be irresistible.

“We don’t know how long the night will last, Talysse. And we have firewood for less than an hour. Let me warm you.” His long, thick lashes cast shadows over his eyes, but there’s still that predatory glimmer in them.

“I will not touch you in any…inappropriate way; you have my word.”

With fatigue comes madness because I nod. And because some hungry curiosity gnaws on my insides.

He’s right, it’s too cold under the thin cover, eaten by the moths, and I’m shivering when I stiffly lay down, facing the wall.

“You humans get cold so easily,” the prince whispers when he slips underneath the cover.

“How many humans have you bedded?” I snap, letting out a soft moan when the rugged plane of his chest molds onto the bare skin of my back. Another maddening low chuckle.

“See? It’s already working. You’re much warmer now,” he murmurs into my ear and slings his heavy arm over my waist. I’m hyperaware of the places our bodies meet.

Elder Seuta, what twisted games are you playing?

He makes a tiny feral sound when I struggle to pull away. A hard, callused palm presses against my abdomen and pulls me back into him.

“May your night be short, Talysse,” he rasps in my ear, his hot breath stiffening my nipples under the breast band.

Well, how to sleep in a situation like this? The hot, hard plane of his chest glued to my bare back; every slow, deep beat of his heart tangible; his fingers resting just inches away from my soaked folds.

Praise the Elders; he’s still wearing pants, yet there’s still the hard outline of something massive pressed against my nearly bare ass.

I’m panting, my nipples painfully straining against the breast band. Body and mind are fighting over melting into him, surrendering to his warmth, or packing the blanket and moving to the floor. Murderous thoughts also cross my tired brain, already walking the thin line to madness.

He is my enemy.

A ruthless, power-hungry Unseelie who sent my family to death.

But how to convince my body that this is wrong? That his arms around me, his even breathing, that wretched feeling of safety I’ve never experienced before—that this is all a sin?

Those are troubles for the daylight.

“You’re safe with me, Talysse,” he murmurs as if talking in his sleep.

And he’s right. Sleeping in the arms of a Shadowblade wielder must be the safest place in this damned world unless he’s trying to kill you, which might be the case here…

Then he does something mesmerizing and terrifying at the same time.

His callused fingers start drawing tiny circles on my lower stomach, gently, like butterflies, and he whispers into my ear, “Sleep, Talysse.”