Page 105 of Cursed Shadows 3

A loud clack spears through the bedchamber.

I feel the sound in my bones—the clack of the lock.

My eyes widen as the door swings open.

He breaks in.

In two heartbeats, Dare reaches the foot of the bed. He snatches a fistful of furs, then yanks them down until my scowl is revealed.

I aim my narrowed eyes down the crumpled furs and blankets.

At the foot of the bed, Dare keeps his hand fisted in them, but his attention is on me, gilt eyes gleaming like fireflies.

An eyebrow arches with a hint of amusement.

Amused by my suffering.

“How did you get in?” The hoarseness of my throaty voice should surprise me, but I hardly feel anything.

“It’s my job.” His tone is light. “And Hemlock House likes me best. All doors open for me.”

Distantly, I’m aware of some phases or weeks ago—time is such a haze to me now—when the door swung open with so much fever that it almost knocked me off my feet; it opened for him, for Dare, the meddlesome spy I wish would drink a cup of molten iron, maybe see if he is as allergic to it as I am.

Those ugly thoughts twist my mind, and it shows. My scowl is so warped that it’s turned ugly.

Dare mirrors it with a wrinkled nose and mouth. He runs me over with blatant disdain, as though he can see through the remaining sheet to the clammy chemise that clings to my body.

“Gods, you stink.” Hard, he yanks the layers right off me. The furs hit the floorboards. “Normally I would suggest a washaftertraining, but I beg you have now one. For my sake.”

My mind is as sluggish as a carriage trudging through mud.

Then my throaty voice crinkles through the air like old parchment, “Training?”

Dare pushes back from the foot of the bed.

He clicks his slender, pale fingers once—and in-rushes Tris.

I cut my weary eyes to her, to the pile of fresh linen in her arms, the fast swerve of her gaze as she takes in every bit of mess in the bedchamber, from sweaty, discarded stockings on the chairs and tables to stacked trays and crockeries crusted with old, mouldy food residue.

The flat line of her mouth betrays her thoughts to me, the blatant ‘I have a lot of work to do’ disappointment.

“Training.” Dare echoes the word as he makes for the wardrobe. He starts to rifle through the clothes hanging in there. “Did you think you would get through the second passage on your looks alone?” The glance he spares me is one of mockery. “You might be a pretty halfling, but all fae are pretty.”

Dare plucks out a pair of slim black breeches and a fitted blue sweater. He tosses them at me—and they lob me off the head.

I hiss something grumbled, like I’m still in the throes of sleep, but then a pair of black boots knock off my thigh and turn my hiss into a snarl.

“You have five minutes to wash—and then I enter your washroom.” His eyes gleam, less with excitement, more with the gold steel threat that shudders my spine. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have no problem invading your space. Make it quick.”

Before I can react—with words or a middle finger—Tris has set the linen down on a chair and rushed to my side. She takes me by the arm; her fingers are cool on the sweat of my flesh.

There is no energy in me. None to fight Tris or Dare, none to do much more than let Tris lead me to the washroom.

She washes me, makes quick work of it, then helps me dress like I’m a dazed elder who has lost all grip on reality.

The last part might be true.

It’s my first time on the roof of Hemlock House.

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