by Eva Chase
Is Sylas expecting something? Other than that night when he caressed me while encouraging me to take myself to a bodily release, we haven’t shared more than a few kisses.
When we enter his bedroom, I glance up at him, searching out his expression in the dim moonlight that drifts through his window. He meets my gaze.
“I do want you to sleep,” he says, setting to rest those anxious questions. “Sleep here where you know any enemy, real or imagined, will have to get through me to reach you.”
“And after I sleep?” I ask tentatively.
The curl of his lips brings out an ache low in my belly, the rumble of his low baritone only intensifying it. “We’ll see what tomorrow brings.” He brushes those lips to my forehead and lowers me onto the far side of the bed. “I’ll make no demands. When you’re sure of what you want, I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”
The heat flares in my cheeks, but as my head settles into the down pillow, sleep is already creeping back over me. Sylas lies down a couple of feet away from me and tugs the covers up over us. I scoot a little closer, not quite touching him but basking in his smoky warmth.
The last thing I’m aware of before exhaustion pulls me back under is the stroke of his fingers easing a few stray locks of my hair back from my face.
I wake up to bright sunlight and the impression of body heat fading from the mattress by my arm. As I rub my eyes, Sylas emerges from his private lavatory, his dark hair falling damp across his shoulders from a shower. He finishes securing the ties that close the sharp V neckline of his shirt and lifts his gaze to meet mine, that now-familiar smolder kindling in his unmarked eye.
“Back to work already?” I say, hoping I don’t sound too disappointed. I’m not sure if I was hoping for a repeat of the last morning I slept in his bed or even more, but I definitely wouldn’t have minded cuddling up to his brawny form while I was alert enough to fully appreciate it.
Sylas’s mouth twitches into a smile that holds a hint of apology. “One of the sentries reported evidence of intrusion near the borders. I want to take a look at it myself as soon as possible. Stay here and sleep as long as you like.”
He bends over the bed in a motion that’s almost a prowl and steals a kiss that’s quick but impassioned enough to leave me flushed all over. With the passion it rouses in me, I’m tempted to grab hold of his shirt and pull him right back into the bed, but he’s already drawing away with a purposeful air. Nothing will keep the fae lord from an urgent duty—and those duties are partly aimed at protecting me, so I can’t really complain.
For several minutes longer, I sprawl in the bed, soaking in Sylas’s scent and the last tingles of warmth. But after years of having no more than a cage less than half the size of this bed to roam around in, I’m not one to squander my new freedom by lolling around. I get up and limp to the door, intent on retrieving some clothes and my foot brace from my bedroom and then discovering what August has planned for breakfast.
When I slip out, another strapping figure is just stepping out of his own room on the other side of the hall. Whitt pauses and cocks his head, the tufts of his sunkissed-brown hair typically mussed and his bright blue eyes sparkling, as inscrutably gorgeous as ever. He’s left his high-collared shirt unbuttoned partway down his chest, giving a glimpse of the true-name tattoos winding across the tan skin over his sternum. August told me Whitt has nearly as many as Sylas.
“Good morning, mite,” he says in that tone that always seems to skirt the line between teasing and outright mockery. “I’m guessing it was a good night as well.”
A fresh blush burns my cheeks. I’m abruptly aware of the thinness of my nightgown and the fact that I have nothing at all on underneath it, although Whitt is keeping his gaze rather studiously on my face. I cross my arms over my chest. “I had a nightmare.”
He arches his eyebrows. “Hmm, don’t let Sylas hear you talking about your trysts with him that way.”
“I wasn’t—” I cut myself off at Whitt’s smirk and settle for glowering at him. I could tell him that all I did in there was sleep, but he might not believe me anyway—and I wanted to do at least a little more than that, so what does it matter if he thinks I accomplished it?
Whitt chuckles, and something in his expression softens just slightly. “I like this new ferocity you’ve been cultivating. One of these days I may have to promote you from ‘mite’ to ‘mighty’.”
“You could call me Talia. That is my name.”
“But where would be the fun in that?”
He starts down the hall—in the same direction I need to head in, naturally. I could hang back and let the conversation die, but that feels awfully wimpy after he just complimented me on being fierce.
Whitt told me not that long ago that he’s glad I’m here, that he wants me to stay. I shouldn’t need to be nervous of him, even if something about his temperament always seems to put me off-balance.
“Does having fun matter a lot to you?” I ask, summoning a little more boldness as I follow him. “Is that why you hold all those revels for the pack?”
“I arrange our revels for many reasons, but enjoyment is certainly a significant part of them.” He glances at me, the teasing glint in his eyes sparking brighter. “I suspect you’d enjoy them too. You’ll have to attend one and find out what all the fuss is about.”
“I can’t attend one right now,” I remind him. “I’m not supposed to let the rest of the pack see me still.”
“True, true. Just something to keep in mind for future plans. I’ll have you know—”
I don’t get to find out what he thinks I need to know, because right then he halts in his tracks, his head cocking again as if he’s listening intently to something with those lightly pointed fae ears, though my human ones haven’t picked up anything unusual. His smile tightens into a more determined shape. “As enjoyable as this talk has been, you’ll have to excuse me.”
He stalks off and vanishes into the room where I’ve gathered he carries out whatever work exactly it is that he does for Sylas. The room where I overheard him talking to a pack member once—a pack member who somehow vanished from the room without leaving through the door. They were discussing a conflict with the fae from the winter realm, the ones the men of the keep call the Unseelie. Has more news come about that?
What if Sylas ends up having two wars to fight?
That question twines uneasily through my gut. I grab a change of clothes from the assortment the fae men have gathered for me over the month I’ve stayed here—they must travel into the human world now and then and… steal them? Could they even buy them properly if they wanted to play fair?—and duck into the lavatory so I can wash myself as well as get dressed.
Even though Sylas and I didn’t do anything all that intimate, my skin probably picked up plenty of his scent from sleeping in his bed. August might have agreed to the idea of both he and Sylas pursuing some sort of relationship with me, but smelling the other man on me one time before upset him enough to send him charging off in wolf form. I’d rather not risk provoking any possessive inclinations if I can help it.
I don’t really care what Whitt thinks of my nighttime activities, but I don’t want August thinking I’ve devoted myself much more to Sylas than to him after all.
When I’ve finished, less exposed in my daytime clothes and skin tingling from the scrubbing, I nearly run into Whitt striding down the hall outside with a more purposeful attitude than I’m used to from him.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
He stops long enough to say, “Yes. Better than we expected, I think, though I’ll have to see what Sylas makes of it.”
Before he can hurry onward, I make a vague motion toward the stairs. “He’s gone out. He said a sentry reported something and he wanted to take a look.”
Whitt lets out a faint huff. “Well, then. I suppose this matter is hardly earth-shattering enough to require his immediate attention. No reason I should go chasing after him when I could wait here while i
ndulging in a leisurely breakfast with prettier company.” He winks at me.
Even though I know he’s teasing, my lips can’t help twitching into a smile. I toss my nightgown into my bedroom and have just tapped my way down the stairs when the front door at the other end of the keep thumps. The fae lord comes around the bend looking as collected as always, so whatever he checked out couldn’t have been too much of a problem.
Whitt appears at the dining-room doorway in an instant. “A word, my liege?” he says in a sardonic voice.
Sylas comes to a halt by the doorway. “What is it?”
Whitt casts his gaze toward me where I’m approaching them and hesitates. I brace myself for him to draw his lord aside to speak with more privacy, but then he gives a curt nod. “You may as well hear this too.”
I wanted to know what was going on, but now that he’s implied that his news affects me somehow, my pulse stutters. I join them, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans to stop them from clenching into nervous fists.
Whitt focuses back on Sylas. “One of the people I sent to check up on Aerik reported in. From what he gathered and overheard, Aerik’s cadre and some others from his pack have been making comments rather publicly about how we’ve seemed pleased that no one has the tonic now. Trying to raise suspicions about our motivations or what have you.”
“That’s all?” Sylas says. “Nothing more damning than assumptions about our attitudes?”
“That was it. It might be simply an attempt to displace attention from themselves when the packs who relied on their regular deliveries of the tonic must be upset, but in combination with their interest in our territory… Aerik probably does see us as among the likely culprits in this one’s disappearance.” He gives my shoulder a swift pat. “But not the only ones—there’s no certainty to it. He’s trying to lay the groundwork for a larger case against us in case he needs to make one, yes, but he hasn’t got anywhere near enough ammunition to do a thorough job of it. We do make easy scapegoats.”
Sylas hums to himself, considering Whitt and then me. “We’ll wait until the others give their reports,” he said. “But if the rest of the word aligns with that… We can’t hide her forever, and it seems to me that showing we have nothing to hide may be a better tactic for dealing with such unsubstantiated concerns.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“If all’s still well tomorrow, we’ll introduce you to the pack and get you settled in as a regular fixture in their lives. Once that’s done, perhaps it’s time we invite Aerik and his cadre for a dinner to show there are no ill-feelings over their frequent neglect of our ‘friendship’.”
Wait, what?
Whitt grins. “Give him a chance to investigate up close and find nothing, and he won’t be able to justify continuing to suspect us. I like it.” He aims that grin at me. “With a few careful glamours, you’ll slip by right under his nose as a totally different woman.”
Sylas regards me with a solemn expression. “If you feel you’re ready for that, Talia. We won’t rush the matter—and I wouldn’t ask you to be around them at all if I didn’t think it’s our best hope of getting them to back off for a long while afterward.”
Face my former captors again. See them here in the keep that’s become my sanctuary. An icy shiver ripples over my skin.
It’s not just for myself. How much more danger will the men of this keep have to face because of my presence here? Aerik’s already being so hostile toward them. They shouldn’t have to deal with him at all, let alone invite him into their home where he can attack them up close—an attack that might involve not just words but teeth and claws if the truth comes out.
I’m drawing them here, just like before—just like—
Images of blood splattering grass and leaves in the darkness flash through my head. Snarls and cries, the strained rattle of a last breath. I flinch, holding in my shudder as well as I can. No!
But even as panic clangs through my chest, I understand why Sylas is suggesting this strategy. Stealing me away has already set him and his cadre on this path. It doesn’t seem like we can avoid Aerik forever. Wouldn’t it be better to get the confrontation over with and have him gone from my life than to be constantly on edge waiting for them to spring at us?
At least this way, Sylas can control the circumstances, completely on guard rather than taken by surprise.
I take one breath and then another, thinking of curling up between the three fae men last night, about the warm shelter of their wolfish bodies. When I manage to speak, my voice comes out quiet and a little hoarse but steady. “Are you sure you could disguise me enough that they wouldn’t recognize me?”
“You barely look like the little scrap we stole away anymore, even without magic,” Sylas says. “The main identifying factors will be your shoulder scars, your wounded foot, and your scent. The first can be covered easily enough with clothing, and we won’t reach out to them until I’m sure beyond any doubt that we can mask the other two.”
My body balks again all the same, but I force myself to nod. “All right. If this is the best way to make sure they don’t keep sneaking around here, we should do it.”
“Then tomorrow you make your debut.” Whitt claps his hands. “It looks as though you may get to attend one of my revels before much longer after all, mite.”
Chapter Four
Talia
I’ve only left the keep once before, and that was several evenings ago, in such a hurried mission that I didn’t dare look back. I’ve seen most of the scenery from the windows before, but it’s different taking it in at my leisure with the fresh outside air all around me and warmth of the ever-summer breeze licking over my skin. And I haven’t gotten a really good look at the keep itself before.
I turn on my heel where I’ve stopped on the soft grass that tickles my bare feet. Beyond the nearby fields, patches of forest darken the horizon in almost every direction except the low, rolling hills to my left. To my right, spires of pinkish stone jut up from the distant treetops in spindly towers, dotted with lime-green vegetation. And behind me…
Getting a good eyeful of the place I’ve lived in for the past month, my breath catches. Inside the keep, it’s easy to imagine that while the structure is a bit odd—every wall and ceiling made of the same polished wood as the floors, lighting fixtures that look like branches—it’s still simply a very grand house. Outside, it’s both one of the most beautiful and the most alien buildings I’ve ever seen.
It looks as though several immense trees sprouted up and fused into one being, only the curves of one bending into the next showing where they might have begun and ended. Nothing sprouts from the smoothed bark of the outer walls, but above the second floor, branches weave together into an intricate pattern like the finest sort of lace. Delicate rings spiral out around the arched windows as if they used to be knots in the wood.
“It doesn’t quite live up to Hearthshire, but we built it under direr circumstances,” Sylas says beside me, as if he thinks I’m underwhelmed rather than overwhelmed by the sight. He tips his head toward the pack village. “Are you ready?”
Right. We did come out here for a reason. One I haven’t really forgotten, nervousness making my stomach jump. I might have been using the view as an excuse to dawdle. I square my shoulders. “As I’ll ever be.”
Heading over to meet the larger pack feels weirdly like showing up in a new classroom halfway through the school year. The people Sylas is about to introduce me to have their own friendships and probably rivalries, histories that stretch back farther than I’ve even been alive. How am I going to fit in with all that?
Actually, it’s a gazillion times worse than a classroom, because these “people” aren’t even people. They’re fae, and I’m human, and August has already told me that pretty much every fae views humans as something lesser than themselves.
I limp along beside Sylas, his pace slowed in consideration of my own, sucking the wildflower-scented air into my lungs and willing my
heart not to hammer straight through my ribs. Several fae are already moving around their houses, which look like much smaller versions of the keep’s construction: enormous tree stumps that’ve been twisted off to form a pointed roof a few feet above their heads.
A woman is tending to a garden full of bright leaves and berries in a cacophony of colors. A couple of men are working together to bend several pieces of wood into some kind of contraption, it appears with magic, while small pearl-gray hens peck at the grass by their feet. A small group is just tramping back into the middle of the village with weapons over their shoulders or at their hips and a large doe carried on a harness between them.
At the sight of their lord, all activity ceases. Sylas’s pack leaves off their work to approach us, more emerging from the houses as if his presence alone sets off some sort of signal to alert them.
Sylas and I come to a stop at the edge of the patchier grass on the foot-worn paths between the houses, his hand rising to my shoulder. It’s a gesture mainly for their benefit, I suspect—to emphasize that I’m under his protection? That they should treat me with all the respect he’d require?—but his firm grasp helps me stand straight and steady before all these strangers.
And there are a lot. Not compared to most packs, from what the men of the keep have indicated, but to me, when I haven’t been around more than four other people at a time in nearly a decade… My gaze darts across them too nervously for me to do a proper count, but I’d guess there are about thirty. And this isn’t the full pack. There are others off on sentry duty or fighting in that conflict with the Unseelie too.
I couldn’t say all of them are exactly attractive, but there’s an eye-catching, unearthly quality to their faces and forms, as difficult to look away from as Sylas and his cadre’s stunning features. They range from twig-thin to barrel-chested, dressed in simple shirts and slacks or dresses of a thin but tightly woven flowy material. Most of them have favored the earthy tones Sylas and August generally wear, but some, a few of which I recognize as regulars at Whitt’s revels, are decked out in vibrant jewel tones closer to his preferences.
