Page 11 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
He stalked toward the curb where thevaladewas parked, waiting for him. It was a sleek black vehicle powered by arcanemagic. The windows were heavily tinted, the interior was svelte and luxurious, with numerous compartments and amenities—like chilled sparkling wine. Two guards flanked him on both sides, and one darted forward, opening the door for him. Atlas grunted his thanks.
“P-put me d-down. Now.” Everinne’s harsh whisper echoed around them and she flicked his back. He barely felt it. “You’re acting l-like a j-jerk.”
He could almost hear her teeth chattering over the wind.
“And you’re acting like a petulant child.” He bit the words out, then plucked her off his shoulder and dumped her unceremoniously onto the backseat of hisvalade.
She sprawled across the smooth black leather, hissing through her teeth. Atlas slid in next to her, the door closing soundlessly behind him, and she scrambled over to the other side. Like she couldn’t stand to be near him. Good. He couldn’t stand her either, especially not when she was drunk.
Everinne refused to look at him. Instead, she fidgeted with the compartments along the interior of the vehicle, running her fingers along the glossy edges and curves. For a moment, she stared at the reflective partition separating them from Atlas’s driver, but then her gaze drifted to the glass ceiling where the stars were hiding behind layers of clouds and Starysa’s bright city lights. She wrapped her arms around herself, then snagged her bottom lip with her teeth, and reached down to touch her ankle.
Her fingers jerked away and even in the slash of dim light coming in through the car’s windows as they drove away from the Grand Cru, Atlas realized her ankle was already beginning to swell.
“Let me see it,” he demanded, his kindness having long ago evaporated. Along with his patience.
“No,” she snarled, crossing her arms.
Another tremble wrecked her, and Atlas reached over, tugging the silver fur blanket from the bench across from them. He tossed it on top of her and he tried again.
“Everinne.” He patted his thigh, meeting her glare with one of his own. “Give me your ankle.”
She huffed out a breath of annoyance, burying herself beneath the fur, wincing when she tried to adjust her position. “I said no.”
“Fine.” Atlas stretched his legs out, crossing one ankle over the other as the city passed by in a blur of colored lights and ornate buildings. “Let it swell, then you can hobble up seven flights of stairs by yourself because you’re too stubborn.”
She paled slightly, but a tiny line formed across her brow. Sliding against the leather, she shifted, revealing the length of her leg from beneath the protection of the fur blanket. Carefully, she propped her injured ankle upon his thigh. It was quite possibly the most sensual thing he’d ever witnessed.
Atlas immediately shook the traitorous thought from his mind.
This wasEverinne.
Veros’s sister.
Not only was she untouchable, but she was unpredictable. Risky. Venomous. The last thing he wanted to do was get tangled up in imagining what those smooth legs of hers might look like wrapped around—no.
Atlas blinked and stared down at her ankle resting upon his lap.
The skin was already mottled with splotches of bluish-purple. Granted, it would heal in no time with her fae blood, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t help speed up the process. He pressed one of the gold buttons on the side of the door and the small compartment flipped open. Hidden inside was a dagger with a golden wolf’s head carved into the hilt and fire rubies foreyes, a pack of stigs, a small box of matches since he couldn’t control fire, and a glass jar filled with a healing salve.
He pulled out one of the stigs—dried skullcap tightly wrapped in a passionflower stem, perfect for smoking—and pinched it between his lips. Grabbing one of the matches, he struck it against the bottom of Everinne’s jeweled shoe. She jerked, her turquoise gaze flaring in the faint glow of the tiny orange flame.
“The fuck,” she mumbled, but Atlas ignored her.
He lit the stig, inhaled deeply, then blew out a puff of floral, minty smoke. Almost instantly, his muscles relaxed, the tension crawling along the back of his neck and shoulders eased, and his mood mellowed.
“You shouldn’t smoke.” Everinne notched open one of the windows and a frigid gust of air fluttered the tendrils of dark hair curling at her neck. When he refused to answer, she huffed in annoyance and tried to pull her leg back. Atlas clamped one hand down on her knee, preventing her from moving. She sighed dramatically, her bottom lip sticking out in what he assumed was supposed to be a snarl but looked like more of a pout. “It’s bad for you.”
“That’s not the only thing that’s bad for me.” Atlas rolled the stig to the corner of his mouth and grabbed the jar of salve. He twisted off the top, scooped out a small amount of the slightly yellow ointment, and carefully applied it to her swollen ankle.
Everinne’s head lolled back against the seat and her eyes fluttered closed, her wispy lashes casting indistinct shadows across the very top of her glitter-covered cheeks. He continued to gently rub the salve into her skin until it dissolved completely and an almost imperceptible sound of pleasure escaped her.
His gut seized.
“What is that stuff?” she asked. Her eyes were still closed and her breathing was becoming deeper.
“It’s a healing salve.” Atlas closed the jar and returned it to the compartment, clicking it shut. “A friend of mine picked it up during his travels.”
“Which friend?”
