Page 75 of Cursed Shadows 1

Samick—the ice prince himself—isn’t enough to stir me out of my pot of self-pity as he takes to standing by the fireplace. But I don’t shoot him a glare. I think I would die instantly if I did.

It’s Daxeel who gets my second glower.

He moves like a shadow into the Hall, but as he comes our way, his jaw clenches and his daggered gaze slides to the side. He only just looks at her as she passes him, but I notice how closely the whore brushes up against the muscles of his leather-wrapped arm, I notice that she pauses enough to whisper a word or two that has him nodding his head just once, sharp.

Then they break apart as though they hadn’t interacted at all.

As he moves for us, his cobalt eyes are fast to cut into me, to find me on the usual armchair with his sister. But if he’s surprised to see the harshness of my tightened face, the narrowed slits of my eyes, and the twitch of my upper lip, then he doesn’t show it on his schooled expression.

So much is different now.

Ten years ago, if anyone told me I was to be stuck at Comlar with a Daxeel who hated me and an unbreakable oath to the Sacrament, I would have laughed, then cried, then ran. I would have fought this fate so wildly, so desperately that it would never have come to be. Even if it meant abandoning the fae lands altogether and disappearing into the human ones, lands I never desire to exist in for more than a stolen visit here and there.

My life is more to me than my wants.

I am not the type to fall on my sword for some greater purpose or pride or any other silly fantasy. What I value is myself.

Still, it’s all so overwhelming.

And I watch, narrow-eyed, as Daxeel snatches a bottle of tavarak from the table, then falls back onto the couch. Scrolls crumple beneath him, but he ignores them and kicks up a boot to rest on some tomes that litter the table.

My heart twists. No attempt to even pretend he gives a fuck about my horrible fate. One he knows I won’t survive.

Right now, I hate him.

He has every right and more to loathe me. I should expect nothing at all from him, if not the worst of fae nature. And yet, his hands on my body, just a week ago, tricked me into illusions,delusions.

The Daxeel who leans back on that couch, very much the relaxed dark warrior after a long, blood-shedding phase, is not the one I fell in love with.

Back then, Daxeel was… not youthful, but he was less than the male he is now. There was a softness in him in those days, a softness in even the sharpest looks he gave me, a tender spot that existed for me and a patience he’s since lost hold of.

Now, those eyes are weapons, and they wear the shadows of blood and death and torture. His own torture and those that he inflicts on others—and me. Yet, his nature is his nature, and there’s not a fleck of remorse to be found on him, in his eyes, or even if I were to cut him open and dig through his insides.

He is dark fae.

He is Daxeel.

And just like I am to these corridors, to him I’m a ghost.

With a harsh grunt, I push from the armchair, slam the bottle down on the coffee table, then storm off without a word of goodbye.

Eamon’s sad look follows me all the way out of the Hall. I feel the warmth of its pity on me. But if I look over my shoulder athim, I might see the dark one who has left the others behind—the dark one who follows me out of the Hall, stalks me through the corridors, and tracks me all the way up to the quiet of the tower.

The rain that falls from the darkness is a welcome downpour of what feels like ice striking me.

I lean my head back, angling my face to the onslaught, and spread my arms. My boots are firm on the edge of the tower, my body sways with the wind pushing and pulling at me.

Sometimes, I might like to fall.

My arms raise higher, like a phoenix’s wings on the winds, and I feel nothing other than the drop calling to me. Would I plumet immediately, or catch enough of a breeze that I could stay flying for just a second?

I’m not numb. I feel peaceful.

That peace is disturbed when the heat of a muscular chest brushes up against my back and the warmth of a breath rustles the tresses at my ear.

Even with my height raised by the rim of the tower I’m standing on, he’s taller than me.

Daxeel’s softly spoken words are a whisper at my ear, “What if I were to push you?”

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