Page 145 of What Lies Within Masks & Shadows

Then his grip loosened, and he stepped away, dropping her arms. “I may be a villain, but I amnotElysian trash. I am trying to protect you, not hurt you.” Somehow, the rage in his voice softened.

She almost believed him.Almost.

“I can take care of myself,” Alora spat, liquid forming in her eyes for reasons she felt incapable of deciphering.

Crossing her arms, she quickly wiped a traitorous tear escaping over her eyelashes. Crying because of a male—howridiculous. She could’ve laughed—might have even wanted to—but the tears seemed to keep falling. Each droplet felt more like a wave of despair; a pathetic and ugly weakness splayed out for him to see.

Garrik lowered his head, shoulders dropping in a deep sigh as his hands found his hips.

Alora slumped back against the wood and waited for him to say something. Listening to a cadence of something dripping. She counted them, deliberately, allowing her heartbeat to slow as well as the tears burning her eyes to fade away. Had the steady drips been there the whole time?

Her senses snapped, attuning to Garrik when he shifted, and she watched him run his hand through his blood-crusted hair. The cadence quickened with his stretch. It didn’t take long before she noticed the crimson droplets splattering on the floorboards near his boot.

Furrowing her eyebrows as he glanced at his side, Alora followed suit with her own assessment. “Are you injured?”

“It is nothing,” he censored, sounding callous and dismissive.

Mouth tightening, she noticed the slight wet stain darkening his tunic. The slice in the fabric and the red, festering, slice beneath should have reduced him to suffering at least somewhat. Pushing from the wall, Alora extended her hand, moving to examine the wound.

“It’s not ‘nothing.’”

But Garrik backed away, his lips forming a thin line. “I do not care to repeat myself.” He turned toward the door at the end of the hall. “Come. We need to move?—”

Muffled shouts tore from inside the tavern behind them. “Fan out,” a female voice ordered as footsteps thumped against wooden floorboards around the corner. “Find whoever did this and bring me their head!”

Garrik lurched forward, enclosing his hand around her forearm. “Move.”

Hiding in the shadows and leaving a blood trail of droplets every few steps, she expected a storm of darkness to overtake them. Instead, Garrik led her down an alleyway.

Why wasn’t he just dawning them back to camp? Why physically run from the horde of Ravens scouring Maraz for the murderers of their comrades? She had to admit. Going back tocamp—to Jade and her tent and her punishment—was the last thing she wanted to do. But running? When he had the power to take them anywhere? It didn’t make sense.

Barely wincing in pain, Garrik braced himself against the alley wall, hand clutching his side, as he warily scanned the street stretching out before him.

“Where are we going?” Not daring to speak above a whisper, Alora followed his gaze.

He simply pushed off the wall before stepping out under a fire-lit street torch. “This way.”

Another twenty blood-dripping steps and he led her to a three-story stone building with dark wooden beams. It was half falling apart and cracked stones crumbled on the front near a rickety wooden door that the doorknob jiggled when turned.

Garrik held the door open for her and let it quietly close behind him.

Six steps inside and across a slick bricked floor, a short gray-haired High Fae elder stood behind a long counter. Dried herbs hung from above as well as a wall of keys behind. His round-rimmed glasses nearly tumbled off his nose when he looked up from a steaming mug he was stirring, and he smiled wide, rounding his cheeks.

Garrik nodded in a way of greeting.

The elder nodded back, never once missing a stir of the mug.

Odd.

But Alora said nothing as she followed him. And rounding a corner, she noticed his shoulder brushing against the dirty, cream-colored wall as if his balance was unsteady.

Then he stopped, and her gaze landed upon the rickety staircase instead. Its boards warped, uneven—and nails jutted out at odd angles. She tensed her shoulders as if bracing for impact. Fingernails dug into her palms, and her breathquickened ever-so-slightly, eyes widening at the unstable incline.

Her boots almost stopped, hands trembling as the borders of her vision cascaded with darkness. But Garrik stopped below the first step, clutching his side, and deeply inhaled, scanning up the darkened corridor.

“I can hardly walk,” was all he said before she felt tendrils of shadow dancing around her body.

Like in that forest on her first night with him, Garrik’s Smokeshadows dawned them away. Her body was enveloped by swirling darkness. A velvety touch caressed her skin as she breezed into a void of nothingness, into something as light as air. Misting away on ash clouds and the unimaginable comfort of shadows.

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