Page 111 of Dark Fate

Her smirk is a spark in the dark, full of promise and sly delight as she draws back just enough to lock onto my gaze, her voice a tease dipped in honey. "Well, since you're offering... I'll consider it an IOU. But Rhyland, I'll be collecting with interest," she quips, that sass of hers fanning the flames in me even higher.

And her wit—it's the goddamn cherry on top.

All I can do is smile before I claim her mouth again.

Danica

51

Rhyland's kiss crashes into me, a full-on make-out hurricane that blows away all the Whisperlings' icy bullshit. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back hard, taking out my anger at myself on his lips.

My mind races, lashing at myself for succumbing to the Vales' treacherous illusions. I should have known better; I should have been stronger. Emily's phantom screams still echo in my ears, a reminder of my momentary lapse.

Damn, I love his taste—a sexy ocean breeze. It yanks me back to reality quicker than a Jägerbomb. I'm lost in the storm of his kiss, reminding myself this is real—no smoky asshole illusion could replicate Rhyland's smoking hot mouth devouring mine.

The weight of his remorse gnaws at my core. We clashed and tore into each other with the ferocity lovers sometimes show. I get it—it's not all going to be smooth sailing—but that's not the soil where a strong relationship grows.

When we finally come up for air, foreheads touching and breathing hard, I know I'm back. No more falling for fake trapdoors for Shadow Dickwad and whatever messed-up tricks he pulls next. From now on, I'll remember what's real—Rhyland lighting me up like a pinball machine. His love guides me home like a lighthouse when I'm adrift.

Rhyland's eyes shimmer and an apology is already on his lips. "Don't," I manage to say before he can speak. Don't apologize. I'll—fix it."

I'm breathless from more than just the kiss; the weight of responsibility presses on my chest like a physical force. He searches my face, and for a heartbeat, I worry he'll argue. But instead, he nods, understanding the promise in my words.

We linger there until the sun begins its ascent, casting pale light that struggles to penetrate the dense fog. It's not much, but it gives us a semblance of visibility—a white canvas that hints at shapes and shadows rather than the complete obscurity of night.

"What of Azrael and Adrian?" Erik inquires. "Do you have any thoughts on where they might have ventured off to?"

Channeling my inner DNA whiz, a lightbulb flicks on—they are sitting ducks without my blood. They must be laying low until dusk blankets everything. I waste no time in bouncing this theory off Erik.

"Seems the sun is in our damn favor for once," Rhyland growls.

Mounting our horses feels like an act of defiance against the night's events. We're still here; we're still moving forward. I take out the map again—a piece of parchment that holds more than just directions—and lightly tap the next location.

The map stirs to life under my fingers as if waking from slumber. A delicate glow emanates from its surface as it begins to illustrate our next destination: Whispering Woods.

The voice accompanying the map's animation is ethereal, a whisper yet clear enough to cut through the fog, which clings to us like a second skin.

"Whispering Woods," it intones as though confiding a secret meant only for us. "It is a place where ancient trees weave a canopy so thick that daylight fears to tread. Here lies the domain of the Whisperlings—spirits born from profound silence and keepers of secrets untold." The animated lines on the parchment form an intricate dance of gnarled branches and paths that appear and disappear in mere moments—a maze meant to ensnare unwary travelers. "The paths are many," continues the voice as if reciting lore passed down through ages uncounted. "Yet most lead not where they promise but into confusion and ensnarement."

Even I can't help a little involuntary shiver—there's a real, creepy truth bomb in those words. Deep down, I know that whatever freaky Friday we're about to march into in those woods will be more than just some throwdown or fancy footwork challenge.

"To traverse these woods unharmed," concludes the map's narration, showing a glowing path cutting through deception, "one must be sharp of mind—beware, for things are not what they seem."

Crap. After the dumpster fire of last night, my faith in my own head game is seriously shaken. I better strap on those mental blinders tight, or we're booking a sequel to disaster—this time, with more encore.

And a cryptic riddle to boot!

Just freaking great!

"Oh, Princess, what porous mental shields you have," Lucian drawls with a smirk. "Pro tip—Might want to patch those up before your thoughts become public domain."

"Alright, Luci," I shoot back, my words laced with a pinch of sass. "What's the big, dark vampire secret that has you speaking in riddles?"

"Newsflash: Your mind has fewer defenses than a cardboard fort. Even a charming intruder like myself can stroll right in without knocking."

The rumble of Rhyland's growl vibrates through me from behind like a subwoofer of pure irritation. It's his not-so-subtle way of telling Lucian to choose his next words wisely—unless he's looking for a one-way ticket to a vampire-style ass-whooping.

"Ha! Relax, brother. I've retired my Peeping Tom days—swear on my fangs." He smiles with all fang. "One traumatic mental stroll was one too many. But don't blame me when your thoughts come blaring through like a goddamn stadium PA system. Your brain's a wide-open broadcasting station."

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