Page 65 of Cursed Shadows 1

Maybe it’s the knowledge that Daxeel visits the harem that has my lips curling in distaste at her, my eyes narrowing into slits.

She swallows, then quickly recovers.

Her grin is forced, but so fucking beautiful, and I want to cram mud into it. “What can I get you?”

Eamon orders for us, “Tavarak and honeywine. Bottles.”

He doesn’t have to pay, but the two gold coins he gives her means she’ll prioritise us for the rest of our time in the Hall. She takes the tip with a smile and—a fleeting glance spared on me—leaves for the bar.

Aleana leans in closer, and I’m surprised she can actually get any closer since we’re pressed up together like jarred fish. Her voice is a whisper that tickles the fallen strands of hair from my updo, “Was it just me or was she staring a bit too much at you?”

I shift around to give myself some space and lean my side against the spine of the chair. This way, I can better see her. “We’re the same kind. Light halflings.”

Fleetingly, Affay’s wicked grin flashes in my mind. The light halfling prince who seeks me out to steal a kiss or a romp here and there. It’s not that we love—or even like—each other, but that all light halflings seem to have a tether to each other, something that draws us in closer, becauseweunderstand.

Our lives aren’t terrible in the fae lands. But there’s a nuance to it that the hybrids and fullbloods don’t seem to understand. We halflings are wanted, most of the time. Fae seek out humans to breed, and we become the spare children or the wanted ones. Often more spoilt or preferred by our parents. But there’s a hierarchy in place, and we know where we sit on that scale. Lower than the middle, above human spouses, abovehuman slaves, and certainly above the unseelie fae. But beneath everything and everyone else.

We matter when we benefit them.

So it doesn’t surprise me that this halfling sees me, looks at me, and wants to maybe find kinship in me, not just in the light lands—but in the Midlands, where there are less of us.

Aleana nods, but there’s a doubtful edge to her hard-set mouth, and her gaze sweeps over the Hall to watch the whore return from the bar. She studies her closely and, as her brother often does, makes no effort to hide the blatant stare.

My attention is fast snared by the bulbed honeywine bottle. She sets glasses down on the coffee table, but no one bothers with them. Samick reaches for the tavarak, a murky amber liquor with a thick stench to it that burns my nostrils the moment he pops off the cork.

Behind him, those jarred fireflies dim their lights as he moves, and I watch them fall to the bottom as if to play dead.

Eamon hands over the honeywine.

Aleana takes it, uncorks the lid, and gets started.

I flick my gaze to the harem worker.

A frown pinches my brow as I see she’s looking up at me from beneath her lashes, a blush spread over her cheeks as she takes the tray from the table.

“We’ll need more,” I tell her, and it’s not a lie because Aleana has polished off half the wine already.

At Comlar, no one pays for their drinks or meals. It’s all covered by the Licht and Dorcha. And so gluttony is abound.

My own included.

The harem female brings more bottles, and I ignore her odd looks.

The flames in the hearth gleam blue for a moment, a shade to match Aleana’s unsettling diamond eyes, and tells us an hour has passed. The First Wind has started—and it’s not long before fae start trickling in through the doors.

Our cosy quiet is quick to be stomped on. The more that come, the louder the laughs and chats become. And by the time those blue flames gleam again, then turn back to ordinary oranges and reds, I need to raise my voice just to talk to Aleana.

Eamon is pushed up on the side of the couch, near Samick, and they go over Samick’s coal-like throwing stars with interest. That textured black metal I recognize as ateralum, a dark material only found in Dorcha.

I tug the wine from Aleana’s grip.

Her gaze is hooded, and I wonder if it’s her sickly fatigue coming on, or it’s just the wine. Maybe both. Whatever it is, she’s aware enough to let the bottle slip from her grip, then she shifts to face me.

Tucked up, face-to-face, our knees press together, and if we were females who loved other females, this might look like a romantic, intimate moment.

It becomes a secret moment, though, when—with her eyes glazed—she whispers, “My brother loves you, still.”

Stunned, I blink. Just a flutter of the lashes.

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