Page 71 of Cursed Shadows 1

Not just father, who doesn’t sit at the desk, but stands by it, his hand splayed on its edge. There’s a healer, one I recognize from home, the one who never quite helped me get through that so-called ‘common’ cold I had when I was little.

And Taroh’s father, Lord Braxis.

Lord Braxis is the one to give me pause.

I don’t hesitate at the sight of him because he’s the spitting image of Taroh in green eyes that remind me of lush grass, freshly rained on, in the sharp angles of his beautiful face, his tall and lean shape, or even the soft brown hair that glints red. I hesitate with a frown, then peel out of Pandora’s embrace, becausewhat the fuck ishedoing here?

Between Pandora and the healer, I see no reason at all Taroh’s father should be here. He has no direct business with Pandora or her health.

The frown cuts deeper into my puffy face, and I know it’s puffy because my sleep was wicked, fevered, and I was pulled too soon from it.

The sleeves of my sweater fall over my palms. I grip them and, lifting my fists, rub at my face.

“Rough night, as usual?” Pandora jests and tugs a loose strand of my hair that falls at the nape of my neck in the laziest, ugliest bun ever to curse these lands. But she doesn’t tug too hard, and that makes me turn my frown on her.

It’s only now that I read her—and see that the usual spark in her eyes when she pesters me is… dim? No, not dim—it’s vanished entirely.

She looks as weathered as I feel. But I’m hungover,so what ailsyou, sister? Before I can ask, it’s father who speaks, and my blood runs cold—

“Take a seat, daughters.”

I push by Pandora for the chair I prefer before she can steal it. She only hums something curt before moving for the one beside it.

In the company of Lord Braxis, I keep my ankles crossed, spine straight, and my hands folded on my lap. He watches me closely, and it feels too much like being in Taroh’s line of sight. I let myself wonder, stupidly, if he knows what his son has been doing in the shadows of these corridors?

Then I think of Daxeel, what he did in the shadows of the corridors, just last Quiet, and a blush creeps onto my cheeks. I swat at the heated images before they can stir arousal between my tightly pressed thighs.

Braxis leans back against the wall, his arms folded over his doublet-covered chest. The high neck of the coat grazes the underside of his pointed chin. And the way he watches me—only me—is cold. But on the odd occasion that he has acknowledged my existence with a glance, it hasn’t been the friendly sort. He doesn’t see me as a person, he sees me as a tool—something to be purchased from my father to unite the families in alliance.

And I know he only selected me for breeding. Halflings do better with this, conception, birth, the strength and survival of the babe. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want children, it only matters that I’ll be good at making them.

The healer doesn’t seem to realize I’m here at all. She’s given no looks of recognition or acknowledgement my way. She fusses over some scrolls at the far side of the desk.

It’s father who offers comfort. His smile is small, but sad. That sorrow touches his eyes, creased too much by the work he does to lift our family from ruins.

I don’t like the atmosphere budding around me. It’s thick and hard to breathe in.

I slash through it with, “What’s going on?”

I should have bit my tongue in front of the lord, I should have waited until I was spoken to. I’m not like Pandora, I’m not regarded as an equal or, in her case, a superior. I’m a halfling, and so my out-of-turn question earns a narrowed-eyed look from the lord.

Father shows no annoyance. His mouth just sets, grim.

Silence is my answer.

For a long while, we stew in it.

I hate it, I hate it so much that my nerves start to writhe in my gut, and I have the very human reaction to the quiet, where naturally my stomach starts to gurgle. It’s not loud, not like if I was a true human, but loud enough around the fae that I know they hear it, and my face is hot like untamed flames.

It's Pandora who decides to help me.

She shifts in the chair beside mine and reaches out.

I place my hand in hers, a blank look to my face. I just can’t fathom what any of this is about.

“You signed as my second,” she reminds me softly.

Her fingers are smooth around mine. She gives a tender squeeze.

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