Page 12 of Crownless King

His eyes scanned the room, finding me. His chest fell with a long breath out and his shoulders dropped a little like the tension had drained from him.

A smile stretched across my face as I clutched my book to my chest.

“Hi. Welcome home.”

“Home indeed.” He sauntered my way, opening the closure of his cloak.

Dropping the cloak onto the chair by the fireplace, he came closer. I set the book down next to me and made a move to get up.

“Stay.” He stopped me with a hand gesture. “You look too comfortable to disturb.”

He tugged at the laces at the ruffled neckline of his white shirt, opening it up, then sat in the window seat next to me.

“How was your trip?” I asked.

He rubbed his chest.

“Good. Exhausting.” He winced and finally confessed, “I hated it.”

“Let’s not talk about it, then.”

His features relaxed. “Let’s not.”

He stretched his shoulders, looking like he was too tired even to sit up. Why did he not rest on the road? What was the rush to get back home?

I didn’t want to make any assumptions, but since he was sitting here with me instead of having a meal, taking a bath, and going to bed, I believed his rushing might have something to do with the pull between us. I’d felt it from the day I met him, and it seemed he felt it, too. Even if he chose to fight it.

He leaned against the window frame. Exhaustion was etched into his handsome features. Yet he wouldn’t leave.

“Do you want to lie down on the couch here?” I pointed at the sitting area by the fireplace.

“No.” He turned with his back to me, then lay down right there in the window seat, putting his head into my lap. “I wish to stay right here.” There was a challenge in his voice, like he was baiting me, expecting me to shove him off my lap.

But I didn’t take the bait. Instead, I reveled in the chance to have him close, the chance I so rarely got.

“As you wish.” I brushed his hair out of his face.

His ink-black hair, usually glossy, was a little matted today and more mussed than ever. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply as I combed through his hair with my fingers.

The sky was overcast, like usual, letting little sunlight through the window. For reading, I had several long candles lit in a large, floor standing candelabrum next to my seat. The candlelight broke through Voron’s light locks in the front. And when I lifted the silvery strands, I could see my hand right through them.

An eerie feeling prickled down my spine. The images of the cursed impaled by the orders of King Tiane rose in my mind unbidden. Their bodies had been riddled with see-through patches. Some of their hair had turned transparent. Just like this.

“What does it mean, Voron? When the hair turns white, like yours?”

The peaceful expression slipped off his face, making me immediately regret my question.

“Not white. Transparent,” he corrected softly.

He was right. It just looked white most of the time because of the way the light broke inside of each individual strand. And since the rest of his hair was so deeply black, the contrast was nearly as striking as between black and white.

“It’s a sign of aging,” he explained.

“Aging? But you aren’t that old. For a fae.”

Sky fae lived to be about five hundred years, I’d been told. And they didn’t start aging until only about the last decade of their lives. Voron was only one-hundred-and-eighty years old, not even half of his expected lifespan.

“Not old at all.” He grinned. “I’m in my prime.” He raked his hand through the hair over his forehead. “I’ve had these since I was ten.”

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