Page 27 of Of Wind and Terror

Draven.

I’m back in Draven’s room.

I’m still dreaming.

Only this time, I don’t have on the shackles that prohibit me from removing my gloves.

I wear a black nightgown that contrasts greatly with my cascade of gold curls. The material clings to my generous curves, but fortunately, the material is thick enough to not be revealing.

The room is, unsurprisingly, empty. No Draven. No Mikage.

But instead of feeling comforted and reassured, an uneasy feeling skitters down my spine.

Something isn’t right.

After throwing my legs over the side of the bed, I pad on silent feet towards the door. There, I lean my cheek against the cold wood and listen for any sound on the other side.

Silence.

Thick and potent.

I try to think through everything that transpired.

I was with Blaze—my cheeks once again burn at just the memory, and the ache between my thighs pulsates deliciously—and then I was in that strange clearing. Someone spoke to me there, but when I try to recall the words, they come to me garbled and indistinct. Now, I’m here, in Draven’s castle. The Night Prince must’ve summoned me.

So where is he?

I push open the door and inwardly wince when it creaks. I expect to hear the pounding of footsteps or the shout of guards, but there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. My breathing sounds abnormally loud in the quiet.

As I move down the hallway, I study the suits of armor lining the hall, polished to perfection and shining in the torchlight. Framed paintings are displayed on the wall as well, and I wonder if they’re Draven’s ancestors. All of them have midnight-colored hair, pale skin, and uncanny silver eyes.

My feet falter when I reach the door at the very end of the hall—a door I know leads down a long staircase and into the dungeons.

Why did I walk here?

And why is there an incessant tugging in the center of my stomach telling me to keep moving? It feels as if someone tied a rope around my waist and is now pulling on it. I move forward almost of my own accord, the trepidation I felt before amplifying.

Once again, I expect to be greeted by guards or servants or even the Night Prince himself. But as I walk down the steep staircase, I realize that this area, too, is empty.

The tugging sensation intensifies.

Down here, the stench of mold and sweat is unmistakable. It’s so pungent that I can’t help but turn my face away and bury my nose in my upper arm. Still, I keep moving, keep walking, feeling as if each step forward is altering my life in a way that’s utterly profound.

I pass the cell I’ve been held in on more than one occasion.

And then come to a stop at the cell directly beside mine.

A lone figure sits on the cement floor, his head lowered in a way that has his tangled black hair obscuring his features from view. The pressure on my chest—a weight I didn’t even realize has been there—eases. I’m finally able to breathe, my airways no longer clogged.

As if he can feel my eyes on him, the unknown fae lifts his head, and I’m greeted with a pair of eyes so silver they could be liquid mercury. They rest in an angular face that’s as handsome as it is familiar—though when I last saw this particular fae, he was almost meticulous in appearance, not a single hair out of place. This male looks as if he’s been in a fight with a pack of pacons…and lost. Dirt and blood are smeared across his face, and bruises darken his pasty skin. His hair is also shorter than I remember it being.

Still, his name comes to my lips without conscious thought, even though I know I won’t actually be able to speak it out loud.

My hands move of their own accord and shakily sign, “Draven?”

10

KASSANDRA

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