Page 19 of Tales of a Deadly Devotion
‘You—’ The dryness of my throat stole the words, but under the rawness of emotion in his gaze I forced the rest out. ‘You asked me to stay.’
How tense the strong line of his jaw was, how weighted with pain his expression had become as he looked down at me. Unable to stop touching me but hesitant at the same time.
‘Kat.’ My name slipped from his lips, his resolve crumpling as his forehead came to rest against my own. Breath unsteady as his fingers curled gently against the nape of my neck. As if I was something too delicately precious.
I wanted him to be real. Wanted to say a hundred things to him in this dream. This strange gift from the ancestors. A moment of calm in my agony.
His touch numbing that pain inside of me and putting my demons to rest so I could sink into the warmth of the bed.
You came back.His words followed me into the peaceful quiet of sleep but my mother’s voice was there too. Waiting, as if fearful I’d forget.
Live, Tauria.
Chapter Eight
Kat
Serus.
The first prince of the dark, created of the depths of the Old Gods’ magic and moonlight. Manifesting with pale, forsaken demon fire. Who wielded an ancient shadow sword, the only blade that could challenge the fire of a Kysillian’s. The King who never was. The Old Gods’ weapon.
Myth of the Old Gods – Unknown
Serus.
Tales that never mattered before haunted me now. The Verr histories they said were nothing but dark fairy tales. All the things that should never have been forgotten.
My moments of consciousness were a fleeting blur. A tangle of dreams and madness. Alma’s rumbling purr against the crook of my neck from her feline form. The rustling of pages and the endless stories of plant herbs and common weeds echoed into my dreams from William. Then there was the annoyed grumbling of a voyav as if bored with the drama of my death.
The image that came most clearly to my mind was the dark form of Emrys slumped in the chair at my bedside. Head bowed, dark hair falling onto his brow. Hand still resting on the covers as if he’d been holding my own. Those dark-tippedfingers, shadows weaving between his knuckles. That small crescent moon at his index finger. How he was reaching out for me in the moonlight-drenched bedroom – just as he had in that pit. Pressed flat against the bloody ashen earth, reaching for me, desperate and pleading.
Stay and forgive me.
Please.
The pain in that plea. I wanted to reach for him, to wake him, but this was still a dream. So I used the last of my strength to slide my fingers so gently between his own. That dark power brushing my skin in comfort as if to hold me tighter.
‘Shh.’ The groggy sound left my lips as those shadows sank contentedly back into his pale flesh and exhaustion dragged me down into my dreamless sleep once more. Where that name lingered the most.
Serus.
It was almost on my lips, pulling me back into the discomfort of waking hours later. Limbs too sore and heavy as the dim winter morning light filtered through the window, too much for the pain at my temples. Making me wince as I rolled deeper into the sanctuary of the covers with a muted groan. I expected to see the worried imposing form of Emrys from my dreams. Or Alma. To hear the comforting tones of William’s voice.
However, it appeared my misfortunes would continue.
Thean Page was the first thing I saw, slouched in a wing-backed chair next to the bed, feet up on the counterpane as they rubbed an apple on the lapel of their pristine, fawn-coloured hunting coat. Short auburn hair brushed back from their handsome face, eyes heavily lined with dark make-up despite the masculine form they’d chosen this morning. The white shirt creased and unbuttoned halfway to reveal their sun-kissed skin and the runes painted there.
‘Maybe you should check your heritage.’ They smiled sharply enough to show fangs, unsurprised to see me awake despite the fact I was certain I was dead. ‘I didn’t believe Kysillians were this resilient.’
We aren’t.The distant memory of a stormy night in the long grass came back to me, uncertain if it was last night or days ago. Emrys’s anguish and William’s worry, the biting cold and the madness.
‘What do you want, Thean?’ I groaned, my head resting heavily on the pillow.
‘I’m merely here for curiosity,’ they answered with the biting crack of the apple, ‘to see how long this madness can last.’
Madness.
Kysalor. The power of one word to remind me so vividly of every failure. Shame rolled through me. I’d lost control.
