Page 142 of Cursed Shadows 3

The point of no return.

If I accept this offer—and make no mistake, it is just that, an offer—I will be burning the remains of the wounded, dying bud between Daxeel and I.

And yet, I don’t deny Affay as quickly as my heart aches to.

I don’t pull from his hold, turn my cheek to him, reject him as I should.

Rather, I paint a smirk onto my face. “So do it.”

I accept the offer.

Because I must protect myself.

This nail in the coffin, this destruction—it will save me from the Grott. Father’s approval is all I need. But I need it fully, wholly, completely.

I need father to have no doubt in his mind that I have cleanly severed all ties between Daxeel and I. That Daxeel will never forgive me.

I need father to pluck the Grott out of my future.

Affay’s fingers curl around mine. A soft, tender hold—and he leads me through the density of the High Court to the curtained alcoves.

I dip through velvet drapes and instantly feel as though I’ve been stuffed into a green phial, emerald cushions scattered all over the floor.

And I do what twists my insides.

I let Affay get on his knees for me.

My legs drape over his shoulders—and when I find a pleasure that shivers my body once, twice, then vanishes, a pleasure that doesn’t reach my mind, heart, soul, that is when I fall onto my back…

And Affay finds his pleasure in me.

Drapes weave around the arched ceiling, thick velvets and gauzy strips of secrets, a fleeting blur of lilac.

I have those secrets in my silent tears.

I decide, right here in this very moment, I know what it is to be a whore.

25

††††††

Daxeel is faster, much faster than I am.

I chase his bootfalls through the bedchamber, out onto the corridor—but I lose him before I can reach the stairs when he jumps over the railing and slams down on the next landing.

I follow the scream. It’s a cry that warps, shrill, panicked, from the shout of Aleana’s name into ‘call the healer, call the healer!’

The screeching claws at my insides, talons scraping down my bones.

My bare feed pad on the steps, and I feel each one jolt through me. I make it a few steps before a hulking figure whooshes past me.

I stagger into the wooden banister with a grunt as a flow of buttery hair ribbons down the stairs. A yellow river; Rune’s sleep-hair as, shirtless, he barrels down the stairs, right by me, and disappears around the landing.

I shove from the banister and scramble down the steps.

But as I turn the landing to the next stairs, there’s no sign of Rune—then I hear the slam of the front door.

He’s gone to fetch the healer.

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