Page 37 of Omission

“You truly like using my birth name, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then never stop.” Wrapping an arm around my waist, he tugs me closer and intertwines our legs together. My head is against his chest, his decadent scent with a tone of spice relaxing me. “Now sleep, my precious one. We’ll be home soon.”

XXX

There’s nothing in particular that wakes me this time, but when I do open my eyes this time, everything comes into focus. I’m in a room with large, arched windows that nearly reach the ceiling, the stained glass paneling at the top blocking out a bit of the evening light peeking through the trees. Because I’m surrounded; nature vibrates and thrives on these lands and within these walls.

I find potted greenery throughout, no matter which way I look without being overwhelming. It's an aesthetic without trying, but the scent of chocolate is still the predominant note within these walls.

On the sheets covering me.

In the air, I breathe.

I can feel it. Sense him in every single part of this bedroom.

It’s an open space with a king-size bed, and a tufted headboard in the same tone of dark teal as the walls. There’s a harmony in it, not pretentious nor boring, but more of a lived-in luxury that pulls a happy sigh from me.

There are gold accents throughout to break up the singular note. In a large, ornate golden framed mirror and then the sconces on the wall. The one piece of artwork with a frame that seems older than I’ve been alive, delicate, and with detailed filigree.

It’s gothic beauty, but where is the owner?

That’s who I want to see and without second thought, I throw the covers off and slip over the edge of the tall bed. A tiny jump and I’m on the ground, finding a pair of warm slippers just steps from me. They’re big, but work, and I head out the door a minute later after fixing my hair into a low bun at the base of my neck.

Without the use of modern technology in my realm, women used old techniques to style and curl their hair, while my mother taught me the advantages of wrapping your hair a certain way to create loose waves every time. I never used heat, but humid locks and a few bobby pins held it all together for me.

It’s what I did now but with the use of a rubber band this time. Leonardo had one on the left side of his bedside table near a well-read book on alchemy. The pages were a little bent, and the cover faded, but well-kept and used.

Once I step outside the room, I notice I’m on the second floor with a grand staircase a few feet from me. There’s a bustle below, the shuffling of feet and the drum of conversations in passing, and I wonder how many people live here with him?

On his territory. Are part of the royal coven.

Unlike the fae who mostly live in or close to our court, Wiccans choose to migrate and form small communities with others of their kind. Yet this is home, as much as the royal court will always call to me.

Peering over the banister, I descend a few steps in hopes of catching a glimpse of anyone I know. Unfortunately, what I find are women and men whom I’ve never seen and who turn their heads in my direction as I continue down. They don’t speak to me, expressions neutral where they stand, and I can’t help but want to run and hide.

“Quit staring,” a voice calls out, and an older woman steps through the growing crowd. They seem to be multiplying as I reach the final step, varying in ages and dressed in different uniforms. From men dressed like the guards who helped us back in Canada, to maids, and some who look like they’re simply visiting or passing through. “His Highness will not be happy to find everyone in here acting this way. Back to whatever you were doing.”

“But she’s a fae, Mrs. Isotta.” This comes from a young witch dressed in a figure-hugging black dress that ended mid-thigh, the bell sleeves long and flowy. She’s beautiful on the outside with dark hair and ample curves, but something about her gives off an off-putting feel. Her vibrations are dark. “What is a traitor to the crown doing in our king’s home? In his clothes?”

There’s a possessive look on her face. The jealousy in her whiny voice makes me believe she’s someone to the warlock king, and I don’t like it.

“I’m Leonardo’s guest.” Gasps come from those around me at the blatant use of his name; I will not back down either. I’ve spent all my life hiding and looking down and afraid of my own shadow—no more. He claimed me as his, I feel the bond tug at me now as I stand here my distress turning into annoyance and this witch’s attempt to rile up the crowd here against me.

I know who I am. Who my father was.

But that doesn’t mean I will live my life paying for every broken plate the man has stacked against him.

“How dare you! Show some respect and address him by his title.”

“Miss Chiara, that’s enough. You are no one here to question our king or his guest.”

“Her kind cannot be trusted.” At her words, murmurs grow. Stares become more penetrating, but I find relief in the lack of hostility. Curious? Yes. Hold trepidation? Also yes, but no hate outside of this Chiara woman who likes to hear herself speak. “Or do we not remember what happened to our prior—”

“King Larue’s daughter owes no one a damn thing. Not me. Not any of you.” Leonardo stalks toward me, eyes smoldering as he gives my short frame a heated roam from head to toe. He’s sweating and the black cotton shirt clings to his muscles, a few specks of blood coating his cheek and I know they’re not his. The blood has a tinge of dark blue to it. Fae. Behind him, Gabriella and Theodore follow close behind and they both glare at the witch. “She is my mate. My queen.”

My nose twitches the closer he gets, and I can now make out the owners of the sanguine drops marking his clothes and cheek. There’s also no mistaking Brice or Ruben’s stench.

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