Feral Blood (Bound to the Fae Book 2)

by Eva Chase

  “Pilfer some herbs and spices from the pantry,” he tells me. “Whatever catches your fancy.”

  I enter the dim room cautiously, with no idea what will be a good match for the assortment of ingredients Whitt has already picked out. But then, that’s sort of the point, right? Toss a bunch of stuff in, have fun with it, see what happens. Even if it’s a mess, it’ll keep me thinking about things other than what Sylas and August are facing right now.

  I pull sprigs from a few bundles of herbs I like the scent of and snatch a couple of jars of powdered spices off the shelves. Back by the stove, Whitt has already dumped the meat and the eggs into the pot and is halfway through dicing up the vegetables with one of August’s enchanted knives that slides through anything edible like cutting butter. I drag one of the stools over to the other side of the stove and scrape the leaves off the sprigs with my fingernails to sprinkle them in.

  “What are you adding?” Whitt asks.

  “Spindle-slip, cinnamon, and a bunch of I don’t know what they’re called but I like them.” I sprinkle a dash of the cinnamon and some of the bright orange powder I grabbed after the herbs.

  “That’s the spirit.” Whitt gives me another smile and pours the chopped veggies into the mix. The liquid is already bubbling. He stirs it, peering into the pot. “I feel we’re missing something. A stew should be thicker. What’ve we got for that, mite?”

  My mind trips back nearly a decade to my mom grumbling as she attempted to thicken the Thanksgiving gravy. “Flour?” I leap to my feet with a burst of inspiration. “We could try fallowroot.” I’ve only had the stuff in pastries and pancakes before, but the thought of its rich, nutty flavor makes my mouth water.

  Whitt nods gleefully. “Everything is better with fallowroot.”

  I retrieve the small sack of the flour from the pantry and drop spoonfuls in while Whitt keeps stirring until we agree that the base is satisfyingly gooey-looking. Then I toss in a handful of dried berries just because, to his energetic approval. He goes back to the cold box and returns with a chunk of cream—“Because everything is also better with cream”—that absorbs into the simmering mixture in a matter of seconds.

  Whitt takes a sip of the broth and frowns, then snaps his fingers. “Pepper.” He adds a few unfamiliar syllables that must be a true name with another flick of his hand, and a jar of gray powder flies straight out of the pantry into his grasp. Once he’s sprinkled that in and stirred again, he offers me the spoon to taste.

  I lick a little off, momentarily concerned, but the flavors that flood my mouth are unusual but tempting enough that I clean the whole spoon. Nutty and savory with a bite of warmth and a zestiness I think is from the egg yolks. “It’s good.”

  Whitt snatches the spoon back and waves it at me. “No need to sound so surprised. I think the caulderims need a few more minutes if we don’t want to be chewing them for days, and then we’ll have a meal.”

  When he deems the stew ready, I get a couple of bowls and he slops the mixture into them with apparent abandon, although he manages not to spill any. We carry them over to the dining room.

  Whitt eyes the regal chair at the head of the table in an unexpected hesitation. Making the decision for both of us, I limp to the far end where none of us usually sit so there can’t be any sense of displacement. Our kitchen experiment managed to distract me from my worries about the men who aren’t here. The longer I can hold back those worries, the better.

  I drop into the seat right at the foot of the table. With a chuckle, Whitt follows and takes the chair kitty-corner to me. He spoons up a dollop of the stew and pops it into his mouth to chew it with a contemplative expression.

  “Well, I probably wouldn’t serve it to August, lest he tell me all the things we got wrong, but I’ll personally give us top marks.”

  I laugh and dig in. It’s true that the combination of flavors is odd, and maybe a few of them clash in ways that don’t entirely work, but our creation is definitely more satisfying than my hunk of bread. And even more satisfying when combined with the memory of freely flinging whatever we felt like into the pot. August might not approve of a technique so haphazard, but it was fun.

  After another mouthful, Whitt points his spoon at me. “So, mighty one, I gather you’re already making plans to leave us.”

  My heart lurches at the thought of being anywhere but here. I sputter, almost choking on a lump of sausage before I catch the sly glint in his eyes. I make a face at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “I was right there when you were discussing future travels with your dress-making faerie friend,” he reminds me, smirking.

  I’m feeling bold enough with him now to take the smirk as permission to kick him under the table. “I was only talking about checking out other parts of the domain, like a day trip, and I think you know that.”

  “Ah, but why restrict yourself? The faerie world is full of wonders beyond those you could have dreamed of discovering where you came from. I thought you were such an avid traveler?”

  I hadn’t really had the chance to do much more than dream about traveling, but remembering that tightens my chest in a way I’d rather avoid. “What should I make sure to see here, then?” I ask instead, raising my eyebrows to encourage one of his spiels. “With all your spying, you must know the best places, right?”

  “Hmm, you know me so well already.” Whitt’s tone is still teasing, but his smirk has softened. He takes another bite of stew and leans back in his chair.

  “Let’s see… If you’re simply interested in breathtaking spectacles, there’s the Shimmering Falls not far from the Heart. The water tumbling over that cliff sparkles brighter than the most finely cut diamond, so lush the vegetation around the pool at its base displays foliage and flowers twice as vivid as anywhere else in the land. It’s one of August’s favorite picnic spots—or was, when we lived closer and the arch-lords didn’t object to us passing through their domains at our leisure.”

  That caveat makes my heart sink, thinking of August and Sylas traveling through those domains now. “You haven’t been there in a while, then.”

  Whitt makes a careless wave of his hand. “Don’t look like that. It only means we’ll enjoy it nearly as much as you do when we make it there next. Let’s see, what else? If you’re in the mood for more adventure, I hear the Shifting Dunes are quite thrilling, although of course you have to watch out for the sand sharks…”

  Between bites, he spins pictures of a dozen other fantastical places I can barely imagine being real, answering my awed questions as they come. By the time I’m scraping the bottom of my bowl, my stomach satisfyingly full, I’ve created a substantial mental scrapbook dedicated to Faerieland. Whitt discusses it all so breezily that a tickling sensation of hope has risen in my chest.

  If he believes I’ll get to see all those places, that Sylas and August will succeed in making their deal with the arch-lords and I’ll keep my freedom, then maybe I don’t need to worry at all.

  Whitt pauses to lick his spoon. “What of your world? What wonders did you plan to seek out there? I have to admit my explorations on that side have been much less extensive.”

  Still more extensive than mine, I’m sure. I rub my mouth. “There was the series of mountain pools above the jungle, somewhere in… Tanzania? Tunisia? I don’t remember for sure. The photos looked so gorgeous. And the pyramids in Egypt—all that desert… The rainforest in Ecuador…”

  My stomach tightens unexpectedly. Trying to put those dreams into words makes them feel so flimsy compared to the descriptions Whitt just gave me.

  I duck my head. “I used to imagine places like that all the time when Aerik had me. Float away inside my head. Now that I’ve imagined them so much, I don’t know if the reality would actually live up to all those hopes. But—I’m getting a chance to focus on new dreams now.”

  Whitt’s eyes have darkened at the mention of my past imprisonment, but he taps the table with gusto. “Yes. Yes, you are.”

  He scoops u
p the last of his own stew and gulps it down. Then he motions toward my bowl. Before I can nudge it toward him, he’s already spoken a true word I can recognize from past experience as clay. Both his bowl and mine lift from the tabletop and whisk away to the kitchen as if drawn by a homing beacon.

  I stare after them and then yank my attention back to Whitt. “You do that so easily.” None of the men of the keep have worked magic that casually in front of me before. From the pleased expression that brightens Whitt’s face, I suspect he was purposefully showing off.

  “Centuries of practice. But I’d better hold off on more than little gestures like that until I completely recover from all my vial-constructing last night.” He sets his elbows on the table and leans forward to study me. “How have your magical studies been progressing?”

  My fingers curl instinctively, recalling the feel of the bronze spoon I was holding just a minute ago. “Well, you’ve seen what I can do with bronze now. I still need to be upset before it seems to work. But I guess any time it’s urgent that I need to use that word, chances are I’ll be upset without even trying.”

  “August has been working on teaching you more true names, hasn’t he?”

  “We’ve just focused on light so far. I haven’t made as much headway with that. It doesn’t come quite the same way.”

  Whitt cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

  I gesture vaguely. “I can only seem to get the energy right when I’m really happy. And somehow it’s harder to make myself feel that than it is to bring back fear or anger from my memories.”

  “Hmm. I don’t think that’s so odd. There are so many things one can be afraid of or angry about, especially having been through as much as you have. True happiness is harder to find.”

  My voice comes out quiet. “Yeah.” But as I gaze back at him, the rare but no longer unfamiliar glow of joy beams through me.

  This has made me happy: goofing around with Whitt, listening to his stories, simply enjoying each other’s company. The longing grips me to show him, to make him see that he hasn’t ruined anything. On this day that should be agonizing, he’s the one who’s made it better.

  Still meeting his eyes, I raise my hands above the table and channel that emotion into the word. “Sole-un-straw.”

  Light flares between my palms, dazzling me for the few seconds before it wisps away. When my vision clears, Whitt is staring at me, his expression tensed but otherwise unreadable.

  Maybe it was so brief it seemed more like an insult. My cheeks flush. “I—I don’t have much control over it yet, even when I am feeling happy. I can’t manage more than that.”

  When Whitt speaks, his tone is unusually gentle, with a rough note running through it. “Talia, it was lovely. There isn’t another human in the world who could have conjured even a spark, you know.”

  A smile stretches across my face, and I find myself saying, before I can second-guess the impulse, “They mustn’t have the right inspiration.”

  His eyes flicker, and he wets his lips. Then he scoots his chair back from the table and beckons to me. “Come here?”

  My heart suddenly thumping, I get up and walk the few steps to his side. Whitt reaches out to take my hand, carefully tucking his around mine. He considers our intertwined fingers as if searching for something in the shape they make. His palm rests warmly against mine.

  “The more I’m around you,” he says, “the more I see how valiant and vibrant and good you are. I want you to know I’ve set aside any fear that you’ll ruin anything at all, even unintentionally. But that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

  I swallow hard. “Whitt—"

  He shakes his head against whatever he thinks I’m going to say. “I don’t lie, but I’m in the habit of talking around difficult subjects rather than confronting them directly. I stay up to all hours, and I’m irritable if woken for any reason short of the apocalypse. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully trust anyone, including myself. I have many stellar qualities, but you’d have trouble finding kindness, patience, or generosity among them.”

  He rattles those declarations off in a flippant tone, but he’s speaking to our hands rather than to my face. When he looks up at me, I raise my eyebrows. “Are you trying to talk me out of wanting to be with you?”

  The corner of his mouth twitches, so briefly I can’t tell which direction it was headed in. “Just making sure you know what you’re getting into.”

  Am I “getting into” it? Into him? My heart pounds harder. Right here, on the verge, my position feels abruptly precarious. I’ve already offered so much of myself to the men of this keep.

  But I want more. I want everything this unexpected arrangement can bring with all three of them. Maybe it isn’t romance the way I might have imagined when I had no reality to judge from, maybe I have no idea where it’ll lead, but while I don’t belong to them or they to me, I’m more sure than ever that we all belong together. We fit—a lord, a lord’s cadre, and their lady—with this one piece that hadn’t quite settled into place.

  There’s so much about the future that I’m frightened of, but I’m not scared of the man in front of me, not even a little. This is my choice as much as giving my blood was, and I’ll accept whatever consequences might come from it too.

  This is a dream I can already make real.

  I squeeze Whitt’s hand, grappling for the right words to erase whatever doubt he’s still holding onto. “You always find a way to talk that lets me believe everything’s okay, no matter how upset I was a second ago. You stay up so you can give your pack-kin something to celebrate, even though none of you really want to be here. You might not always trust me, but when you’ve realized you saw things wrong, you’ve fixed your mistake in whatever way you can. And I don’t know how you define kindness, patience, or generosity, but I’ve seen with my own eyes how far you’ll go for Sylas and August and the entire pack—and for me. I couldn’t ask for more than that. I wouldn’t. I want you exactly like this.”

  I stop, worried that I’ve strayed into babbling territory, but Whitt’s expression washes away my own doubts. It’s as if something has fallen away behind his eyes and through the planes of his stunning face—as if I’m really seeing him, without the sly calculation and the affected nonchalance, just a man who never expected to hear anyone speak of him so fondly. Who’s disarmed by it with an elation he can’t hide or isn’t trying to.

  Is this the open, joyful version of Whitt I imagined the night of the revel when he talked about how he’s always on guard? Maybe not completely; maybe he hasn’t lowered all his armor. But it’s closer than I’ve ever gotten before.

  Close enough that I can’t stop myself from leaning in to kiss him.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Talia

  Just before my lips brush his, Whitt raises his free hand to catch my cheek—not stopping me but urging me on. Our mouths collide with more force than I was prepared for.

  But it’s good—so good. His fingers slip from my cheek into my hair, teasing over my scalp. He drops my hand to loop his other arm around my waist, and his mouth slides against mine, hot and firm yet soft, with just a hint of roughness. Each movement of them sends a tingle down through my chest.

  He draws out the kiss, coaxing my lips a little apart, tracing the tip of his tongue along the seam, tilting his head to deepen the embrace. It isn’t like August’s worshipful eagerness or Sylas’s commanding passion. The sense rises up with a flutter around my heart that Whitt is reveling in me, drawing out every particle of enjoyment he can from our closeness, savoring me as if I’m the most exquisite dessert.

  I may as well be made of spun sugar when he’s touching me like this. One kiss and I’m already melting into him.

  He eases a few inches back with a chuckle that grazes my cheek with the heat of his breath. His voice is raw. “I could get drunk on you.”

  I trail my fingers over his cheek and into his hair like he did to me. “Then why don’t you?”

  I’m not sure who closes
the last of the distance, but an instant later we’re kissing again. Whitt devours me, leaving me aching for more, for things I can’t even put words to. With every press of his lips, my breath grows shakier. My knees wobble beneath me, and I find the wherewithal to brace one next to his legs on the seat of the chair and swing the other over to straddle him.

  The skirt of my dress rides up on my thighs. Whitt lets out an approving murmur at the increased contact, fitting his mouth against mine even more deeply. His fingers twine in my hair, pulling to the barest edge of pain that somehow provokes an electric pulse of pleasure right down my spine. His other hand strokes up my side to cup my breast.

  He seems to know exactly how to touch me to draw out the giddiest waves of bliss. His thumb finds my nipple and raises it to a peak with one swift swivel; his tongue coaxes mine to explore his mouth. All I can do is kiss him back and clutch onto his shirt, holding on for the ride.

  He’s been with other women before—lots of other women, from how Sylas has talked. He knows what he’s doing from practice. But that thought only stirs the faintest twinge of jealousy in me, there and then washed away by the pleasure he’s conjuring all through my body.

  It’s me he’s with right now. It’s me he wants right now. He’s taking his time, relishing me, drinking in my reactions and following what makes me whimper with need.

  I echo his movements, wanting to spark the same thrill of desire in him as he’s lighting in me: tangling my fingers in his rumpled hair, melding my lips to his, running my hand up and down his sculpted chest over his shirt. The groan that escapes him suggests I’m doing something right.

  He wrenches his mouth from mine to chart a path of kisses down the side of my neck before burying his face in the crook of my shoulder. His breath scorches my skin as his lips and tongue work over the sensitive span of skin. He skims that spot with the edges of his teeth and then, when I quiver and gasp, nips me with sharper intensity.