Page 142 of Cursed Shadows 5

I am crouched, silent, shoulders jerking, for too long before I swallow back the last of the sobs, and I force myself to stand.

There are more tears in me to shed. They lash at me from the inside, desperate to claw their way free of the pressure I push down on them.

But I fight them, still, and swat at my cheeks.

The snivel shudders my lips, trembles my insides. And, as I blink and wipe the tears away, all that flashes in my mind is that scar stroked across his throat.

I swallow, thick, then draw in a deep breath.

I must steady myself before I go out there.

The meal on the tray is covered with a lid, but the moisture will grow, until the food is soggy.

I have already wasted too much of the meal’s time.

I shake it off, literally, flap my hands at my sides, head lolled back, and will some sense into me.

I don’t know what happened.

I saw him, I turned to look at him, I saw his face—and something in me spilled. A bottle, full of poison, toppled over, then pouring out of my mouth.

I banished him.

He left. He obeyed.

And I find it is lonelier in the kitchen without him.

I steel my grip on the tray’s handles, then hoist it to my middle. My mouth circles a steadying breath before I back into the swing door, cutlery rattling on the tray, then turn for the armchairs angled towards the fireplace.

On my way, I pass Leif, lounged on the floral couch against the wall, Hedda sprawled out with him in his slumber.

I spare them a fleeting glance before I approach the patron next to the fireplace, and I set down the tray with a murmured apology.

The older male, whose jaw wears the scars of claws, merely nods, eyes a touch wide. He flicks his gaze from me to over my shoulder.

I straighten up from the coffee table, then trace his wide-eyed gaze to the second fireplace.

Forranach’s favoured spot. He likes the view from the window when he’s tending to the inventory lists.

That isn’t quite what he’s doing now, this quiet hour of the First Wind.

He plays cards with Rune—

And my gaze darkens on the third male, his back to the card game.

Daxeel is hunched on the edge of the coffee table.

His gaze lifts to me, a sudden gleam of cerulean lights—then he’s pushing up to his full height.

I watch him rise, taller and taller.

At my sides, my hands fist. Nails cut into the meat of my palms.

Daxeel reaches for his weapons belt.

My gaze flares on the movement.

All gazes latch onto it, the hand that touches the clasp of the belt, then—in a swift move—releases it.

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