Page 24 of Cursed Shadows 1

I recognize him instantly.

Those azurite eyes that haunt me still, in my dreams and my waking mind. That thick head of hair tousled over his bronzed face; hair like black tar, still keeping that glossy shine to it that it did ten years ago.

A surge of panic flutters up into my chest. I flatten my hand against the sudden ache and curve my shoulders, as if to make myself smaller.

Did I come here, willingly, into a trap?

Did he come out here, not to escort us, but to end me?

I have delivered my death right to the song of his sword.

But then, as if hearing my thoughts, feeling the dizziness that steals me, Eamon squeezes my wrist once, twice, thrice.

Steady, steady, steady, he’s telling me.

His hybrid senses make him that bit sharper than litalves, and I understand that he can smell the sudden ripples of fear that roll over my body like waves that batter against a harsh cliff.

So I suck in a long, deep inhale that fills even my stomach, then carefully release it.

I fall into step with the group as we start to move onwards.

Notsomesteps from the darkness, but exactly six. Six steps, and it washes over me like poisoned claws scraping down my flesh.

I bare my teeth on instinct, shoulders stiff.

But I move with the group—and I chance a look ahead at him.

Those eyes don’t stray from me. There’s nothing kind in them.

His strong jaw tightens and his lashes lower, casting shadows down his face. He’s different now. Taller, so tall that I think I’d only come up to his pecs, I could only ever look around his muscled arms, not over his shoulder, not even on my tiptoes.

The kohl shade around his eyes seems darker now, like it’s weathered by life and experience, like he’s older now—and he is—but harsher, too.

What really catches me, though, are the markings that are painted in sharp, cutting lines that come up the side of his neck from beneath the collar of his black leathers. Tattoos, but the warrior kind, and I have the sudden realization that I don’t know this Daxeel, not at all.

Under his molten stare, Eamon doesn’t let go of my wrist. He holds firm with every step we take closer to the dark ones.

Still, I’m distantly aware of the tear falling down my cheek.

I can just make out that Daxeel clenches his jaw, tight.

I swallow back the lump in my throat and turn my gaze down. I can’t stand his hard look another moment, the stare that lacks any of the affection and lust I was once so used to, that I crave to see in him now.

I keep my head down and, with Eamon at my side, follow my father up the way.

All I focus on is my boots. The toes of them are scuffed from the dried earth out here, dead and barren. They aren’t new, but now that I watch them, study the cobalt blue of the leather,I think of Daxeel’s eyes, and I can’t believe I never made the connection before.

I’m silent as we reach the dark fae escorts. But when we come to a stop as a group, I allow myself a swift glance up.

Daxeel doesn’t look at me now. He looks directly at my father, and there’s nothing there that invites father to speak. This isn’t a greeting or a moment between light and dark in neutral lands. It’s a challenge.

Father doesn’t take the challenge. Why would he? To just look at Daxeel now is like looking into the eyes of an acclaimed, accomplished warrior—who takes no prisoners.

He was something back then. Now, he’s all and more.

Then the dark fae turn their backs on us, a sudden, unspoken decision that ripples through the three of them. Shadows shudder around us, then peel apart again, clearing another path—this one to the black carriages ahead.

These ones are drawn by the steeds from the dark lands. I’ve seen sketches of them before, read their descriptions in the archives and scripture halls. But to see them is something else entirely.

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