Page 47 of A Deal with the Shadow King

“Wow.” Almost half. “And what does ‘by the spindle’ mean?”

“According to Fae legends, the fabric of the universe is weaved in real time by the seven gods through a single, golden spindle. Everything we are—everything we feel—is immortalized in an endless tapestry. And the different threads used decide what course our lives will take.” He angles his mask to the ground between us. “Penelope means weaver, did you know?”

The sweet, eerie way my name rolls off his tongue emboldens me to inch closer, but I shake my head.

“She was a Fae queen. Everyone thought her husband had been killed at war, but she didn’t believe them. Countless suitors tried to steal her away, but she set out to weave a burial shroud for him and vowed not to take any man to bed before she’d finished weaving it—a task she never intended on completing.”

My stomach flip-flops. “Clever.”

“The perfect name for a pious, loyal wife.” He licks his lips and discards his empty bottle in the sink, a shadow darkening his mask. “The spider was planted here to attack me. Poor Clara—the lovely woman who kept the fridge full and paid my bills—was just collateral damage. We should deal with her body before we go.” He jumps off the counter, and the strange smog over his heart thickens.

This time, I can’t resist the urge to touch it, and my hand darts out of its own volition. “What is that?”

One snatches my wrist and holds it close to his chest, effectively covering the anomaly. “A leftover scar…from a past mistake.” His lips press together for a moment before he adds, “No one is supposed to be able to see it.”

“It moves.” I try and fail to peek at it again.

One’s voice quiets down, and his slow drawl riddles me with goosebumps. “It was a very bad mistake.”

I stare at the claw marks, where I figure his eyes are, and graze the edge of his mask with my other hand.

“Don’t—”

Despite his warning, I peel the layer of obsidian stone away from his face. His nails dig into my pulse point, but he doesn’t stop me, my captive hand still locked over his heart.

I spent hours imagining what he looked like, wondering if the claw marks in his mask were a clue as to what laid underneath.

A scar runs from One’s forehead to his cheek in a straight line, but it’s by no means his most striking or bewitching feature. Liquid gold burns within his irises, and he draws in a sharp intake of breath. Our gazes are locked as I trace the arch of his scarred brow. His strong cheekbones match the shape of his jaw, and I follow the aesthetic curve of his nose down to his mouth.

His grip tightens around my wrist. “Careful, kitten.”

“Why do you keep the mask on? You’re…perfect,” I ramble, stunned by his appearance.

“You think I’m perfect?” He snickers in a derisive manner and prowls forward. My backside bumps the island as he releases my wrist to wrap a hand around my throat. “Do you have any idea how imperfect I can be?”

“No,” but the tug in my belly tells me I want to find out.

The base of his thumb settles in the hollow of my throat, and if he means to scare me, he’s doing a very poor job of it. My gaze drops to his lips.

“Fuck.” He curls a hand around the back of my neck to hold me closer, and I push myself off the ground to kiss him.

He meets me halfway.

When he takes advantage of my small gasp to slide his tongue inside my mouth, I respond out of instinct. The taste of charred pears and fine wine invades my senses, and a low, approving growl grates his throat.

This kiss is nothing like the ones I shared with Isaac.

Our tongues crash into one another, over and over again, in a slow, delectable dance. I can’t get enough. I want more.

I want it all.

He angles my face to the sky and dips his head to lick the slope of my neck. The touch of his lips there is so overwhelming that I cry out. My knees wobble, but he pins me to the counter at my back, his strong thigh sliding between my legs.

The need to retaliate grows beyond my control, and I forget myself. Without an ounce of hesitation, I rake my nails down his shoulder blades and test the contours of his body. The feel of his strong, naked back sets me ablaze as I study which spot plagues him with goosebumps and which causes him to shudder.

My dark Fae reaches behind me and tugs on the end of my braid, pulling the thread down. He unravels it with both hands like he’s been dying to do so for weeks. The caress somehow carries the weight of all the other wasted opportunities combined, his touch not the same as the touch of a mortal. Lithe. Heavy. Simply more.

We breathe together for ten, twenty, maybe a hundred breaths, and kiss as though we were always meant to kiss.

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