Page 39 of What Is Dark Within Me

“Sure,” she told him, unable to keep from returning the radiant smile he gave at her answer.

“Thank you, Aleja. I’ll leave you be. Perhaps we can meet under less harrowing circumstances next time.”

She didn’t wait to watch him go. Now that she was alone in the woods again, the Remnant’s ever-shifting form reminded her how little she knew about the Hiding Place. But over dinner with Bonnie, Aleja realized she shouldn’t have strayed deep enough into the woods to tell the story without betraying Liam’s secret, and so she didn’t.

Can you trust someone who asked you to cover for them at your first meeting? said the voice, who’d had to listen to as many true crime podcasts as Aleja.

The Knowing One lied about having known me. About the fact that we were married. I can’t trust anyone here, she countered.

Maybe you saw something in him once,said the voice.

Oh, shut up.

“What happened to the Astraelis when they lost?” Aleja asked Bonnie over a bowl of thick stew.

Bonnie put her spoon down and tucked both hands under her chin. “I assume they’re in their realm, re-grouping. That’s the thing about some wars. They never really end; merely pause long enough for everyone to lick their wounds, bury their dead, and pretend peace will last forever.”

She brightened as Aleja took a second helping of the perfectly moist cake Bonnie had brought out for dessert. “Don’t worry yourself about the Astraelis,” she went on. “The truce has held for centuries. There’s no reason to assume it will break soon unless you decide to go hunting them down.”

“But Nicolas said the Hiding Place is unstable, and there are only six Dark Saints. If they wanted to attack, wouldn’t now be—”

“Concentrate on finding your friend. If there is another war coming, it won’t be for a long time.”

* * *

A hand strokedAleja’s inner thigh; her knees parted as her back bowed, every part of her reacting to the touch. This is a dream, she realized. Aleja had been good at recognizing them since her grandmother’s demise, and luckily, Catalina never showed up unannounced onthissort of night.

That wasn’t much of a consolation when she realized the person trailing kisses up her torso had a head of black hair with a single streak of gray, or that when he looked up at her gasp of delight, his eyes were silver.

Nicolas really is handsome, she thought, now that she could examine his face without the messy reality of his presence. The hand teasing her inner thigh drifted higher, and she noticed the question in his eyes, as if asking for permission to touch her in the place that ached for his attention.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered when she froze beneath him.

He sounded entirely unlike himself and full of genuine concern.

“I don’t know why I’m dreaming about this. Dreaming aboutyou,” she said.

“Dreaming?” he asked with a low laugh. “If you find this boring, we can go fuck in the gardens. It was fun last time if you ignored the thorns.”

Aleja woke up.

It took a moment for the sensation of his weight atop hers to fade and she ached in a way she hadn’t in over a year—the last time she’d so much as kissed a man. Even then, it had been nothing more than a sloppy make-out session at some college party she hadn’t wanted to attend. Aleja slipped a hand between her legs, needing something, any kind of release, but the heat in her dissipated as soon as her thoughts returned to Nicolas.

Maybe he hadn’t been as cruel to her family as she’d grown up believing, but he was still the Knowing One.

She kicked off her sweat-soaked sheets, unable to lie still any longer. Her hands burned, as if another burst of fire was about to escape her. It was time to get some fresh air before she set the curtains aflame.

The halls were cooler and blessedly empty. After a few minutes turning the corners, Aleja realized she’d never seen these paintings before.

“Dammit,” she muttered, cursing herself for not paying closer attention to her route.

The palace seemed to be in one of its moods. A cat she sometimes caught glimpses of blinked slowly at her from atop a piece of Rococo furniture.

“I never did anything to you,” she grumbled, searching for anything familiar. A distant light flickered in one of the rooms down the hall, and Aleja wasn’t sure she had any choice except to move toward it. Maybe someone inside could guide her back to her room.

But—because she was the luckiest witchling in the entire world—the person draped across a chaise, sketching into a leather book with a nub of charcoal, was the man she’d been so desperate to touch in her dream. Nicolas looked up as she entered, blowing charcoal dust off the page before closing the book and setting it aside. He sat before a marble sculpture of a man chained to a pile of rocks, a look of agony on his face as his back contorted. Perched on the sculpture’s stomach was an enormous eagle.

“Prometheus,” she muttered, needing to break the silence. At least, it didn’t seem like she could set this room on fire if she tried. Everything in it gleamed of stone and polished marble.

---