Page 12 of Cursed Shadows 2

They keep their brisk pace. It’s only when they reach the library that Daxeel shares a look with Rune, a silent one, and the blond fae nods once.

Daxeel draws back for the darkness of the corridor.

And then he’s gone.

The others will walk home to Kithe without Daxeel this Quiet.

†

the night she gave me a daffodil

††† TEN YEARS EARLIER †††

Sprawled out in the grass, Nari keeps to the shade with him. But she falls onto her back and looks up at him—then hands him the yellow flower.

Her eyes are cautious. Expects him to wilt it in his hand, kill it with his darkness alone. Other dark males would. They would be offended by the flower. The one that belongs to the sun.

But Daxeel watches it shine yellow in his palm despite the night, and then he looks at her.

“It’s my name. Narcissa. It means daffodil.” She acts coy. A small smile and caution and hope in her gaze.

She isn’t coy. It’s a farce.

He sees right through it.

Almost has him smiling. But he plays along with her little scheme.

He likes her schemes.

She wants him to be reminded of her in every part of this land. See her in these flowers that grow wild in fields, in the vases of the High Court and at these lessons beneath the trees where these wild flowers grow like weeds.

Manipulating him.

Vicious female.

He understands, she is his evate, his mate. Those feelings that stirred in the first moments of evate, they haven’t faded away. Each night and day, they only grow stronger.

So when he finally mates with her in the trap he’s orchestrated for her some nights from now—a trap made of pretty and shiny baubles he knows she can’t resist—she will become his entirely.

The claim will be made, the bond forged.

Nari is not vicious female.

She is his viciousone.

5

††††††

The knock is steady and firm.

The door shudders with the two raps of his knuckles on the wood just as the flame in the lantern flashes blue.

Break of the Quiet.

He’s right on time.

Standing by the door, my insides are rinsing. Feels like Knife has his long, spidery fingers buried in my guts, and he wrings them out like he does to the garments he washes.

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