Page 61 of Cursed Shadows 2

I turn and run for the tower.

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Eamon is my angel, my brother, my comforter.

The moment I rush through the archway and onto the harsh stone of the tower, he pushes from his usual velvet cushion and steals me away to the edge of the roof.

He knew of course, knew the outcome I would face in confronting my father, but not once does he rub that in like salt to an iron-struck wound. In all his dignity, he simply wraps his arms around me.

I melt into him.

He holds me. Through the tears, the time that passes and takes us into the First Wind, and long after Daxeel and Samick join everyone on the tower with fresh drinks, Eamon just holds me.

Now, though, it’s a looser embrace, and we keep tucked away near the tower edge. He’s perched on the edge of a stack of crates.

I lean against him, my temple rested on his collarbone, and in silence, we watch bottles being passed around.

The hunger in my bloodshot eyes isn’t for Daxeel who cuts his gaze to me every other moment. It isn’t for the honeywine that Aleana hogs as she sits close enough to Rune on the cushions that their arms almost touch. The hunger is for the dark papered, somewhat inky looking smoke that Samick has pinched between his fingers. Grimroot, found in Dorcha from a plant that blooms only in the darkness.

The smoke that billows out from Samick’s sharp, fine nose is pure onyx. He parts his pale lips around the last of the vapours before handing off the grimroot to Daxeel at his side, leaned against the tower’s wall.

Without his narrowed gaze leaving me, Daxeel takes theroot and brings it to his full lips.

I watch as he smokes it for a beat, then the black vapours steal him from my sight entirely. I stay slumped against Eamon’s firm, slender chest.

Daxeel pushes from the wall and—holding the root to his lips, dark vapours lashing around him like shadows—he moves for me.

The bite of Eamon’s sharp clavicle digs into my temple. But my tired, reddened eyes betray nothing more than my soul’s fatigue as Daxeel advances.

Daxeel offers the root with a look darker than the smoke. “Only a little.”

A hush falls over Rune and Aleana.

Hand on my side, Eamon’s grip tenses.

And I just stare at Daxeel.

This is the first time he’s spoken to me so openly, besides calling mevicious onein the Hall when Bracken was staring at me. This is direct—and comes with an offering.

Hesitantly, I reach for the root, my irritated, itchy eyes fixed on his shadowy ones.

I pinch it between my fingers, suddenly aware of the truth of his words.

‘Only a little.’

I can’t overindulge like they can. I’m the only litalf up here on the tower. The rest are dark ones, they can handle the grimroot better than I can. And I’m the only halfling, because while Eamon is a hybrid, he has fae blood and nothing human about him.

Do they see me as an outsider?

I don’t feel like one.

Maybe I should.

Maybe I shouldn’t trust the root I bring to my lips. But I find I care so little about anything at all right now.

I suck in a long, harsh breath from the root.

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