Page 15 of Cursed Shadows 1

I’m not surprised. Tonight has planted poisonous roots in my heart; fears, so many fears, for my future with Taroh. But to leave me with a dark male, even one who saved me, is cruel. Who’s to say the dokkalf won’t finish what Taroh started?

Tears spill down my blotchy cheeks. My breaths tremble, but my body is rigid.

I don’t hear the leathers creak as the dark one turns on me.

Inky hair sweeps over his caramel complexion. But of course, it’s his eyes that hold my attention.

He stands over me, a tower looming too high. His gaze sweeps me, searching for wounds it seems. His mouth is set with a frown as he lifts his gloved hand—and offers it to me.

That gesture…

It does something to me.

The dark fae don’t offer much to anyone in terms of sympathy or even pity, not even to their beloveds. It’s something they know so little about,compassion. When they show these things, it’s practiced—forced. The intention matters, these gestures of comfort are to say, ‘do not be afraid’.

Right now, it’s almost like he’s trying to show me just that: Compassion.

It eases me. Feels like the ice-cold water that was flooding me starts to drain out of my body. Still, there’s enough of it that sticks to my bones, the natural and eternal fear I should hold for every dark fae, but slowly the tension relaxes through my body, and I just look up at him.

I contain a breath, forcing it to release steadily, not shake like it wants to. Moments pass, our gazes locked. Neither of us moves. Not until I swallow a bulbed sob and sniff back the tears.

Snubbing his hand, I reach out over the lush green blades for the valerian stalk.

He drops his hand to his side. “Are you not going to thank me?”

The darkness in his barbed accent chills my bones.

I hesitate for a beat, hand outstretched for the rolled valerian, but… then I recognize something in his tone, something so ridiculous, so unlikely…

Yet, as I chance a look up at him from beneath my lashes, I see it…

It’s not that he’s slid the dagger back into the thigh strap, or that he’s stepped into the stream of moonlight now, as if to further soothe my fear. It’s that his mouth is lifted at the corner with the faint whisper of a smirk, one so small, so slight, that it’s hardly there at all.

I don’t like what that does to me, how it flips my belly. My mind floods with memories, those wicked thoughts I had of him last night with my fingers delving into my wetness, my head turned to muffle my moans against the pillow.

Is it shame that has my face hot?

Avoiding his gaze, I snatch up the valerian.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” I mutter, because I know better than to ever let a dark fae think I’m indebted to him, even if I am.

The tremble of my fingers betrays me, it betrays my lingering fear of him, but also the aftershocks of Taroh.

His gaze cuts over my hands for the briefest of moments, then he’s staring down at my flushed face again.

His head tilts to the side, some tendrils of dark hair—glistening as though damp—sweep into his eyes. He watches me stand, and I don’t doubt he sees the wobble of my legs as I do.

The earlier threat in his tone is gone; no growl, only ice, “And what would he have done if I hadn’t followed your quiet cries, if I hadn’t helped you?”

I stuff the rolled parchment into my cleavage.

His gaze snaps to the movement—he makes no effort to hide his smouldering stare. And there it is. Behind the veil of practiced compassion. In his nature, there is no empathy, no pity. A dark fae fakes those gestures when they need to, but their minds are as cold and unfeeling as their hearts.

My eyes narrow on him. “No worse than what you might do to me, dark one.”

His face hardens. His upper lip breaks the mask as it curls and he steps towards me, but no growl or snarl rumbles through him. He only takes that one step closer, eyes gleaming like deep blue swords.

I fall back a step.

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