Page 3 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
“You wish. I just prefer my men fully dressed.”
“Liar. Your heartbeat says otherwise.”
“Just do it.” My tone is strained. I can’t look at him. An extended silence follows.
“I don’t take orders from you, mortal, or anyone outside my hive,” he growls, his voice a dark velvet that sends shivers down my spine.
I swallow hard, willing my voice to remain steady. “It’s snowing outside. Unless you fancy your penis becoming an icicleor for you to be punished for breaking the Old Code again, I suggest you cover up.”
“Is that a threat?” he purrs as he draws closer behind me.
The hairs on my neck stand at attention, my body hyper-aware of his proximity. I keep my gaze fixed on the far wall, raising the seal above my shoulder.
“Do you remember how you broke this?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. “The others are still blocked from using their full powers. If you know how to break the seals, stop messing around and do it.”
He plucks it from my hand, his touch sending an electric current through my arm. I wait for a heartbeat, then gather Fox’s discarded clothing. I bring the fabric to my nose, inhaling deeply. Fox’s scent—a mix of spice and mischief—clings to the clothes, offering a moment of bittersweet comfort. The enchanted spectacles weigh heavily in my pocket. Fox said the choice was mine, but is Styx the right one? Maybe it’s meant for one of the others in his hive.
“Titania,” he snarls at the seal, venom dripping from each syllable. “Where is she?”
“Still sleeping, I think. The Gentle Interlude has begun.” I toss Fox’s clothing at him, reluctant to part with the comforting scent. “Here. Put these on.”
He catches them with a grimace, shooting me a glare that could melt steel. As he dresses, I scan the temple for anything worth pocketing. My last attempt at pilfering ended with a jar of wisps and a close call. This time, I’ll be more discreet.
“Once you’re decent,” I say, fingering a small, intricately carved figurine, “we’ll leave, and you canflickerus back to Shadowfall Keep.”
A derisive snort punctuates his struggle with Fox’s too-small breeches. “I do what I want, tiny fangs.”
“Are you always this stub—” The words die in my throat as I face Styx.
Fox’s breeches strain against his muscular thighs, the waistband gaping to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of his chiseled abdomen. My gaze lingers as he unfurls Fox’s shirt with disdain. Each flex and pop of his muscles sends a wave of heat through my body. I was stupid to think he’d be less attractive with more clothes on.
“He dressed like a fucking Radiant,” Styx scoffs. “When did he become so ostentatious?”
I bristle at his tone. “He did what he needed to blend in.” Privately, I think Fox enjoyed the ornate fashion, but there’s no need to fuel Styx’s derision.
“If it didn’t reek of him, I’d doubt he wore it,” Styx mutters, his words laced with suspicion.
His every syllable drips with distrust. It feels like he’s waiting for me to say something incriminating, which confirms my suspicion he can’t access my thoughts. A flicker of hope ignites in my chest—perhaps the queen-hive bond is still half-triggered, as Fox theorized.
“Well, he did,” I retort, unable to keep the defensive edge from my voice.
Discarding the shirt, Styx prowls the temple half-naked, inspecting trinkets and treasures with feigned nonchalance. For a few minutes, I do the same. We fall into an almost companionable silence. While he’s not looking, I slip the acorn into my pants pocket, then cover the bulge with my cape. He doesn’t seem to notice, so I keep hunting for curious items that are smaller and easier to hide than a jar of wisps.
A delicate silver bell sits on a velvet cushion, its surface etched with runes. I can almost hear whispers emanating from it, promising desire and doom to anyone who dares ring it. When I poke it, no tinkling sound comes out. Interesting. Oops.Into my pocket, it goes. So do a pair of gossamer-thin gloves that seemed to ripple with an unseen wind, their fingers occasionally twitching as if longing to wrap around an unsuspecting throat.
“How long was I gone?” he asks, startling me. I pivot and find him turning over a bejeweled chest the size of his palm.
I gnaw my lower lip, dreading his reaction. “I’m not entirely sure. Fox said you were meant to be stone for only a year, but it’s been . . . longer.”
His gaze sharpens. “How much longer?”
“Um . . . maybe a few years?”
His visage flickers, and then he is suddenly before me, snarling. “Years?”
“I think so.”
“Years?” This time, the word is a guttural growl, his face contorting with rage and disbelief.
