Page 213 of Evil Hearts

Ruven shuddered, a tight motion, and for one heartbeat, his grip on me tightened. But a moment later, he let go of me and tugged his tail off of my leg.

“You’re right,” he said, sounding shaky. “You’re right.” Ruven rested his forehead against my hair, breathing carefully. “Don’t…scream, alright? When you see me.” He took a careful breath. “Don’t scream.”

My skin chilled. Hooves, tail… whatwashe?

Devil, beast, monster… it didn’t matter, in the end. Screaming while in a stranger’s house was stupid in the extreme. Ruven clearly didn’t want to hurt me, and I was his bondservant. He owned my obedience.

“I won’t scream,” I whispered.

He nodded against my hair, then scooched me forward. I went without protest. My body had plenty of things to say about the abuse, but I did my best to ignore it, keeping my pain vocalizations to soft panting as I climbed out from under the bed.

I turned in time to see Ruven emerge, holding the cloak across his groin with his hand fisted in the dark cloth. He looked up, saw me staring, and flashed me a reckless smile that did nothing to hide his discomfort.

He had saber teeth, sitting on either side of his jaw, sharp ivory lengths unmarked by chips or scratches. Four sharp, black horns jutted out of his scalp, two right above his brows and two further back, curling like an antelope’s. My wide eyes fell down along the black markings marching up his throat like herringbone to where they fell back across his shoulders, curling around his torso in a second pair of ribs.

Ruven tucked his legs up, as if trying to look comfortable. He had lifted ankles, fetlocks growing at his heels and dark leg hair thickening to fur on three-toed, hoofed feet reminiscent of the ancient ancestors of horses. A long, black-skinned tail, splitting into a deep fork at the end, curled across his powerful legs like he could block them from sight.

He had nice fucking thighs. As in, thighs built for fucking, the kind you see on rugby players and men who spend hours a day practicing with a broadsword. Not that I noticed, of course.There was no reason to look at Ruven’s bare thighs, especially not when we were hiding in a stranger’s bedroom.

I swallowed and dragged my eyes back up to his. Ruven licked his lips, flashing a forked tongue. His saber teeth leaned forward, then flexed backwards, tucking out of the way along his jaw.

Not like a saber-toothed cat, I thought, still staring at him with my mouth parted and eyes too wide.Like one of those Chinese water deer.

Maybe the weirdest thing about it was that it wasn’t weird at all. I’d recognized Ruven when he’d been fae and when he’d been human, and I recognized him now that he was some sort of freaky tiefling with rock-hard abs and movie-star charisma.

“Whatareyou?” I whispered.

The corner of his mouth flipped up. “Your soulmate.”

I gave him alook. “More than that,” I said, keeping my voice down.

“True, though I’d rather get out of here before getting into the details,” he said, his smile growing wry. “For what it’s worth, I’m still fae, just strange—what we call ‘wildling.’ Touched by wild magic. A great deal of it, actually.” Ruven cracked his neck, then closed his eyes and took a deep breath. All his strangeness melted away, replaced by the version of himself he’d shown in the carriage.

Seeing him as a fae beauty again, I found to my surprise that I preferred the monster to the man. He was still Ruven, but he seemed less himself in some ineffable way. It was a bit like biting into a chocolate chip cookie to discover it was some low-calorie concoction. The cookie was still discernible as a chocolate chip cookie, but it was definitely a disappointing experience compared to the real deal.

Blessedly, the bedroom had a window to escape out of, and while my leather slippers didn’t do much for arch support, they’dserved well to keep the blood from splattering everywhere while Ruven had been carrying me. Somehow, he’d managed to keep hold of his bundle of clothing, too, and dressed himself in most of it with efficient movements. The silver brocade of the doublet got sacrificed; Ruven grew sharp black claws and tore it into strips. Those got wrapped around my feet and lower legs, one as a bandage and the other so I didn’t look so asymmetrical.

I still had the glass in my foot, but at least I wasn’t going to bleed everywhere, and I had more padding on the soles of my feet. Ruven helped me out of the window and followed with a great deal more grace; I made it one limping step before he growled and picked me up.

He carried me through a warren of dark streets, moving without apparent effort, his pointed ears turning, an animal’s taut wariness in his every step. It took almost an hour for us to make our way through the city, hiding from patrols and ordinary city-folk, before Ruven slipped into a dank back alley and set me on the ground. Without speaking, he pointed to a narrow set of witch’s stairs, the kind where each half of the stair is offset so it’s nearly as steep as a ladder, then traced his finger up until he pointed at a wall with peeling green paint.

I swallowed and nodded. The best I could do was hobble, panting from the shooting pain every time I had to put weight on my right foot. By the time I got to the door, I was soaked through with sweat and swaying from the exhaustion and pain, but at least Ruven didn’t make me wait. He splayed his hand on the wall and a dark crack appeared, cutting out the shape of a door with small finger-holes. It opened easily, moving with the silence of well-greased hinges, revealing only darkness beyond.

Ruven picked me up again, flashed me a smile, and stepped into the black rectangle of shadow.

Sleeping Arrangements

Light poured over us the moment we passed through the doorway. I blinked, squinting in the brightness as my eyes adjusted; a softsnickwas the only sound as Ruven closed the door behind us.

“What thefuck, Ru,” a tenor voice said.

I squinted until I could make him out: tanned skin, a tumble of dark brown hair, a small black sigil tattooed just below the corner of his left eye. Young-looking—but then, all the fae were young-looking, and the sharp ears cutting through his shoulder-length waves definitely marked him as fae.

“Ah, Syalin,” Ruven said brightly. “I’d like to introduce you to my lady Avalon Hartley, and before you loose that lecture on the tip of your tongue, do consider why I might introduce her in such a fashion,” he finished, not putting any space between the sentences.

Syalin, who indeed looked like he was about to launch into a tirade, snapped his jaw shut with an audible clack.

Ruven flashed him a beatific smile and walked over to the narrow cot in the small, white-washed room. He set me down with care, tracing his fingers down my thighs. “To finally formalize our meeting,” he said in a low voice, looking up at me from his position on one knee, “I am the Lord Castellan of Celedeis, first and bastard son of the Sovereign Princess Ulesteny Kalaine, and one of the most talented shapeshiftersthat has ever lived. As such, I’m probably the most important spy for the Court of Bones. They call me the Harrower of Dreams.”

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