Page 13 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
Five
Pain split through Everinne’s temples, the sharp ache throbbing in time to the beating of her heart. The agonizing stabbing splintered from the space between her shoulders all the way down to the base of her spine. Her muscles were stiff, her joints sore, like she’d slept in the same position all night. The inside of her mouth was gritty and gross, and the taste of stale alcohol still coated her tongue. Each time she rubbed her lips together, it was like grains of sand had been glued to them. Despite the opaque black curtains hanging from the windows in her bedroom, slashes of angry sunlight slanted across her bed, blinding her.
Everinne groaned, throwing one arm over her eyes.
She was never going to drink a soul snatcher again.
Then again, the nightmares hadn’t plagued her, so maybe those tart apple beverages weren’t such a bad idea after all.
At the mere thought of alcohol, her stomach revolted, and she rolled onto her side, quickly regretting her decision.
If she could just get to her kitchen, she could cure herself of this godsforsaken hangover. There was a specialty tea she purchased from one of the street vendors in the shopping district, and once she realized the blend of ginger, mint, and afew other herbs instantly relieved her of the night-after agony, she bought a small case to stock her tea drawer.
She crawled out of her bed, shoving her tangled hair back from her face. Then she spied the silver fur blanket. The one she’d used in Atlas’svalade, after he carted her out of the Grand Cru over his shoulder like he was disciplining a spoiled brat. Bleeding skies, she wouldn’t be able to show her face there again for at least two weeks. Maybe longer.
Somehow, the Prince of Prava always managed to ruin everything.
Everinne kicked off her shoes. The one with the broken heel would have to be fixed, but she would deal with that later. She peeled off her dress from the night before, debating if she could make it to the bathroom to shower without passing out from dehydration, and thought better of it. Food and water first, then she could rinse off the parlor’s reek.
And theglitter.
It was everywhere. Her bed. Her skin. Her hair. The fake stardust was probably all over her face too, along with smudged liner around her eyes, and smeared lipstick. There was a reason she never kept a mirror in her room. Or anywhere else for that matter.
She rummaged through her drawers, pulling out a pair of black leggings and an oversized blue shirt that most definitely did not belong to her. Perhaps the male witch who shared her bed with her last week had left it behind.
Oh well.
Tugging it on over her head, she padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, reached the threshold of her room, and froze.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee, warm buttery biscuits, and a very distinct blend of tea filled the air.
It could only mean one thing.
Veros was here, and whatever conversation they were going to have would not be a good one.
Everinne sighed, trudging out into the hall, then rounding the corner to where she discovered her brother seated at the small table in her kitchen.
Veros was leaning back in the wooden chair, with his ankle propped up on his knee. In one hand he had a cup of coffee, as black as her soul, and in the other was a book on keys and realms. His hair was dark, just like hers, not black but more of a deep ash brown. It was shorter on the sides, but full and thick on top, so the longer pieces swept across one half of his face. He possessed the same startling eyes as her, but whereas her facial features were softer, his were hard and strong. As always, his clothing was impeccable. Slate gray pants, polished black shoes, and a cream-colored sweater with a small gold wolf stitched upon the upper left chest. A solid gold chain dangled from his pocket, and she knew it connected to the timepiece he always kept safely tucked away.
Sitting on the table across from him was a lavender teacup, already filled to the brim with the steaming hangover remedy. A basket of untouched biscuits wrapped in a napkin was in the middle, and Everinne’s stomach rumbled when she caught a whiff of their savory scent.
Veros didn’t look up from his book when she sat down at the opposite side of the table. He didn’t even acknowledge her.
Everinne pulled one knee up, propping her heel on the edge of the wooden chair. She blew lightly on her tea, then took a small sip, watching him carefully from over the rim.
Seconds of uncomfortable silence ticked by, the tension becoming more palpable with every minute that passed.
Finally, he took a drink of his coffee, then set it down, his turquoise and gold gaze landing on her.
“Do you want to tell me about last night?” he asked, closing his book. “Or should I tell you what I already know?”
Fucking Atlas.
Everinne sipped her tea, meeting the intensity of his stare. “I was at the Grand Cru with Zoryana and had two drinks.”
His jaw ticked. “And?”
She was prepared for this, for the inevitable fight. This is what it always came down to between the two of them—Veros would scold her, remind her that she was ruining her life, and toss out idle threats hoping she would promise to change her ways. In turn, Everinne would remain defiant, eventually apologize, and lie to herself about being the sister he deserved.
