Page 2 of Of Wind and Terror

Everyone knows he’s insane.

It’s shocking to us all that the Night Kingdom is the one heading this war.

Draven’s blade digs into my skin farther, drawing blood. His head tilts to the side as he studies the tiny droplet.

“Interesting,” he purrs. “I always thought a Winter fae would bleed white or blue or maybe even silver. Isn’t it funny that we all bleed the same color, regardless of the court we come from?”

The mask I wore for years rearranges itself on my face, as easy as breathing. It’s second nature to don this persona, to hide all of my emotions behind an impenetrable barrier.

“Gaia’s temple is sacred, Draven,” I say coldly, ignoring his offhand remarks. “Is there a reason why you’re here?”

His silver eyes—almost the exact same shade as liquid mercury—darken. “I think you know exactly why I’m here.” His blade presses even harder against my skin. “Where is my wife?”

Wife?

Anger briefly flares to life inside of me, but I shove the irrational emotion down. It wouldn’t do me any good to express it.

Emotions are nothing but a hindrance that give your enemies something to grab ahold of and use against you. Show your neck, they’ll wrap a noose around it. Give them your back, they’ll stab a knife into it. It’s better to be impassive and cold, especially around those you deem a threat, then allow your walls to crumble.

“Your wife?” I keep both my expression and voice carefully blank. Apathy has a name, and right then, it’s mine. “Congratulations. Now, excuse my bluntness, but does your wife know about this marriage?”

A dozen emotions flit in those fathomless eyes of his, one after another, before finally settling on amusement. He drops the blade from my neck with a chuckle.

“I’ve always liked you, Calan. You’re honest. Just like my little bird.” He resheathes his sword and steps backwards. “But you’re no help to me right now. It appears as if you lost her.” For a brief moment, darkness materializes in his eyes, a starless night shrouding the world in misery. Then he blinks, and it’s gone. His cocksure smile returns. “You can help me find her. I’m certain you suspect where she might have gone.”

“You’re acting as if I know who you’re talking about.” I fold my arms over my chest with a scowl, even as I itch to wipe at the blood cascading down my neck and remove it from my skin. The last thing I want is for it to touch the collar of my shirt. I’m already filthy, and the sight of red on my clothes may be the thing that careens me over the edge.

“Draven.” A tall, blond-haired man appears in the hallway of the temple. He, too, is covered in blood and dirt, indicating that he’s recently been in a struggle. Still, his blue eyes are soft, devoid of the malice I see in Draven. Why does he look so familiar? “There’s no sign of Kassandra.”

Hearing her name leave his lips twists my stomach into knots. Anger burns inside of me.

I don’t want him talking about her, looking at her, or even thinking about her.

I may not want Kassandra as a mate, but I’ll be damned if anyone else gets her.

For the first time since I discovered she has left the temple, I’m grateful. It means she has a chance of escaping Draven and whatever insidious plans he has for her. I don’t know what it is about the infuriating female that has captured the attention of so many fae, but it’s better for everyone if she hides away and never shows her face again.

Because if she does, it’ll be a tug-of-war with her in the middle. I refuse to allow her to be ripped apart by the savage brutality that is the courts.

“I suppose I may have a reason to keep you alive after all,” Draven muses, a strange glimmer materializing in his eyes the longer he stares at me. “Come now. Let us find my wife and bring her home.”

2

TREYTON

“Please. No more.” The Winter fae hangs his head, shaggy white hair, lined here and there with purple streaks, falling forward to obscure his face from view.

Even still, I have his features memorized.

Light-blue eyes, currently swollen shut and discolored with bruises.

Pink lips, split and bloody.

High cheekbones, though both of them are broken and almost black now, a stark contrast to his pale skin.

A cleft on his chin. Though now that I’m looking at it closely, that could actually be a dislocated bone.

My favorite torturer—a tall, broad fae by the name of Diyno—glances over his shoulder at me, one of his purple brows arched. The question in his green eyes is clear.

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