Page 120 of Heir of Illusion

“I need to get back.”

He nods, slowly moving backward and putting space between us. His palms close into fists, as if he’s having to physically restrain himself from touching me. If I’m honest, I’m fighting those same instincts. Every nerve in my body is screaming at me to reach out and kiss him again.

One side of Thorne’s mouth kicks up at my hesitation. “I thought you needed to go?”

“I do.” My brows pinch together as I realize I’ve been standing here staring at him for longer than I intended.

“Then you should probably do that.” He prowls closer, a predator scenting blood in the water. “Unless you changed your mind?”

I shake my head, my thoughts turning fuzzy again.

“Are you sure?” he whispers as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’d be happy to prove to you why leaving is the wrong choice.”

I lick my lips as my mouth turns dry. Knowing I need to escape before I sink back into his addictive touch, I call on the last of my strength to wrap myself in an illusion. The sensation of needles pricking my skin helps to steady me.

Thorne doesn’t move as I make my way to the edge of the alley, his eyes on me the entire time. He still hasn’t revealed how he always knows exactly where I am, even when he can’t see me. Frustration builds, making it easier to leave.

“Goodnight, Reaper,” I grumble.

His warm laugh echoes through the dark, and when he speaks, I can hear the smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Angel.”

Shaking my head, I rush out of the alley and make my way back to the Palace. The sound of wings follows me the whole way home.

Chapter

Thirty-One

“Nigel Pomeroy was one of the best men I’ve ever known,” Baylor declares from behind a podium made of solid gold. He’s immaculate as ever in his black dolman, not a single blond strand out of place. “And one of the most loyal.”

Hushed cries echo through the room as the crowd pretends to be overcome with grief. Thankfully, the veil Alva placed on my head this morning hides a myriad of sins, such as my dry eyes and expressionless face. There’s no performance today. No need to manufacture sadness for all the courtiers and nobles nodding along with Baylor’s every word. I can simply exist.

The funeral took two days to prepare. It’s costing the treasury a small fortune, but Baylor insisted it be held in the royal temple, a place even the elite are lucky to enter. The main room is a sea of glittering gold. Every inch of it decorated with priceless art. Gilded statues of the Fates stare down at us from the back of the stage, the three sisters depicted as terrifying warriors. The sculptures are frighteningly realistic, giving one the sense that at any moment, they could lift their weapons and attack. Honestly, that doesn’t sound half bad.

My father would have been pleased with the turnout. The temple is packed with dozens of simpering lords and ladies who are eager to mourn with their king. I spot Lady Naomi and Lord Darcus a few rows behind me, dabbing invisible tears with their handkerchiefs. I expect they are trying to distance themselves from Bridgid’s taint after her father’s unfortunate fall from grace. I doubt anyone in this room will truly grieve for Nigel Pomeroy. Most will have forgotten his name by the end of the day.

“When Nigel realized my dear pet was awraith,” Baylor gestures toward my spot in the front row. “He sent his only daughter to serve me and the kingdom, despite how devastated he was to be parted from her.”

Oh, so we’re just completely revising history now? Great.

“That was true loyalty to our great isle.” His voice rises as it echoes through the temple. “May we all be more like Nigel Pomeroy.”

I shift in my seat, arching my back. You’d think with the amount of money they’ve invested in this place, they could have at least provided some cushions. But no, the wooden bench is hard and unforgiving, just like my late father. At least Bellamy and I don’t have to share our row with anyone else since the front is reserved for family only.

Ignoring Baylor’s monologue, I observe my brother next to me. Strangely stoic, he hasn’t shed a single tear today. As a child, I was never quite understood their relationship. I knew it was different from the one I had with my father, but Lord Pomeroy wasn’t a warm or loving man. Not even with his true born heir. And yet Bellamy has stayed with him all these years. He appears to have been a dutiful son, and yet he appears completely unaffected by his father’s death.

As if he can sense my stare, Bel subtly turns his head, one brow arched in question.

“Are you alright?” I whisper, not knowing what else to say.

His gaze drops and lines appear around his mouth. “I’m feeling too many things to put into words.”

“That’s okay.” I reach for his hand and take it in mine. “You don’t have to.”

As much as I hated the man, if Bel did care for him, then he deserves to grieve however he wishes. It’s not my place to judge.

“Maybe we could have dinner together?” I ask. “Just the two of us?”

His eyes meet mine again, this time full of regret. “I’m leaving as soon as the funeral’s over.”

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