Page 4 of His Dark Delights
“Thank you for the warning, sir.” The ghastly title struck through my heart. Frigid blood coursing through my veins provoked a vicious shiver through me. A feigned smile split my lips. “King Soren the Fairy Butcher? Well, I loathe to imagine the songs the bards will sing of him.”
Mr. Tatum chuckled. A heavy and morose sound. “You’ve got a point. I’m sure the tales they’ll sing of him will be morbid, even more so if you’re a fae.” He glanced at the scarf on my head. “Even only half.”
I almost choked over the dry lump in my throat. Hugging the gifted parcel tighter to my chest, my free hand idly traced the arch of my ear under the scarf.
“Again, I’m sorry about your father, Lilliana. Be careful in the coming storm.” Mr. Tatum offered one last nod before urging his mare toward the road. Alone with the cake in my arms, I watched Mr. Tatum vanish along the trail into the village. With tears stinging the corners of my eyes and a heart made of stone, I turned and fled for the safety of my cottage. Mr. Tatum’s warning hung over my head with the severity of an executioner’s blade.
The front door banged shut as the first raindrops dotted the ground. Moments later, a torrential downpour assaulted the roof. I allowed myself a few moments to breathe, to collect myself, and fightthrough the leaden fatigue in my muscles.
I stored the honey cake, then I stoked a fire in the primary hearth and mindlessly tossed together a stew for supper. After eating, I checked on the wounded knight in the bedroom. He slept soundly, and I noted a return of color on his face. His lashes were long and dark against the golden tan of his skin.
I didn’t know men could have such long, dark lashes.
Lured forward by the siren call of that loose strand of hair, I leaned forward and brushed it back from his forehead. Once again, I observed that he really was the most absurdly gorgeous male I’d ever seen. It was better than thinking about the circumstances I’d found him in.
As I drifted away from the man, his eyes shot open, and I squawked like a startled chicken. An unyielding hand caught my wrist hovering near his face, yet it was the dazzling pools of his blue eyes that held me captive.
“Has Freyja come to take me to the underworld?” His brittle voice croaked. Deep and sultry regardless of the raw rasp from injury and disuse. Something about the sound of it reached deep and lit a spark in an undiscovered space behind my navel.
My breath caught in my throat, and I shook my head. “I am no goddess, sir.”
“You lie. I am in your arms and on my way to the afterlife,” he insisted.
“Rest, sir. You must recover.”
“Rest?” An unreadable emotion flicked across his face. “Can I? Finally? Is my task over? Have they all finally died?” Without further argument, his eyes drifted shut and his head thumped into the pillow. Yethis hold remained on my wrist when his hand dropped to his chest.
Heart hammering and cheeks burning, I twisted my hand from the knight’s impressive grip. Unmoored in a sea of confusion and uncertainty, I thoughtlessly drifted to the window seat across the room. I sank into the thin cushion, wishing it would gobble up my exhausted body. My opposite hand feathered over the pulsing mark on my wrist left by his grasp. The space throbbed with warmth, as if he still held on tight, refusing to relinquish me.
He had compared me to the goddess of love and beauty. That must have been his injuries, some blow to the head speaking for him. Not even a deep breath soothed the turmoil under my skin, raging as wildly as the weather outside.
“Who are you?” I whispered into the dark. Haunting thoughts festered in the dark recesses of my mind, seething for my attention. “Are you one of the Fairy Butcher’s knights? Do you have fae blood on your hands?”
If he did, perhaps I’d made a mistake in saving him. What if the knight awoke and realized the hidden half of my heritage? Would he kill me without hesitation despite saving his life? No, I wouldn’t think like that. All life was precious, and my father would have wanted me to save him. At least, that’s what I told myself. It eased a fraction of my concerns as I braced myself for the long nights ahead.
Chapter Two
Lilly
Punishing storms assaulted the kingdom of Elleslan for nearly three days. Brutal spring rains that beat the mountains and savaged the trees. A merciless tempest as the skies remained a moody gray, forlorn and weeping over the land. If I believed in signs from the gods, the weather might have seemed to be some portent from fate.
But it was nothing more than water falling from the clouds. Just rain. In fleeting moments when the deluge slowed, I bundled up against the damp chill to check on the state of my animals or the drenched garden. Spring downpours, same as every year. Nothing unusual to concern me, and no visible threats were in sight.
Save for the potential threat of an unfamiliar man recovering from the edge of death in my home. Astranger. A man. Possibly a knight of the Butcher. The ultimate trifecta of danger. All things that should have instilled caution in my bones.
Yet I religiously tended his bedside, easing the fever that came and dressing his wounds. Days spent forcing broth past his lips and reading to him from my father’s favorite books. I couldn’t know if he heard me since he remained unresponsive through the storms as his sickness passed and his injuries healed.
Even asleep, even on the verge of death, there was something undeniably alluring about the man. I spent hours nibbling on honey cake and watching him. I noted the way his brows furrowed with pain, how his lips pursed as he dreamt, and the steady rise and fall of his well-muscled chest with each breath he inhaled. Admittedly, he was favorable to look upon. I appreciated the slight waves of his black hair and the stray curl over his forehead. The curve of his bow-shaped lips entranced me, and many times I fought the urge to trace them with my fingers.
His presence and the space he took up grew on me. Nursing someone back to health, or attempting to, followed a routine already familiar to me. It wasn’t so long ago that I’d cared for my father in his last months. The reminder sent choking pangs through my chest that I continually battled behind stone walls.
The first splinters of blue sliced through the storm midafternoon on the third day. Cooped up within the walls of my cottage, every nerve ending in my body buzzed to burst through the door and run barefoot through the meadow. To feel the damp soil on my toes, the breeze in my hair. More than anything, after being confined and ever watchful, the breath of nature in mylungs and the kiss of sunlight on my face called to me.
Though I’d never met her, I knew I inherited those traits from my mother. Every visceral ounce of my being sang with the flowers and the flora. I felt the roots in my muscles, the earth in my bones, and the rain in my veins. Half of my heritage; the gift she’d granted me through blood.
Or, in the current political unrest—a curse.
My mother; an unknown entity to me. Father told me wisps and threads about her. Little things that slipped through my fingers when I grasped and tugged for me. She was a concept through my childhood and youth. Elusive yet ever present. Conversations about her usually only accompanied warnings from my father.
