Page 65 of Bound to the Shadow Queen
And this time I let it.
Everly
Already,his mana was a beacon, pulling my feet toward our shared door. It was tense with an emotion I couldn’t quite read, but not remotely subdued. My husband was awake.
My ring pulsed with each step, with each lie I told myself as I pulled closer to his imposing presence, led by an invisible tether that only felt half like a marriage vow.
I tiptoed past my already-snoring sister, pushing open the door without knocking. Was he as agonizingly aware of my presence as I was his? Could he feel me moving closer even before he heard the click of the latch?
He must have been able to because he was already standing when I walked inside, his mana potent but contained. His chest was bare once more, the angry crimson scar on his shoulder standing out in contrast against the unblemished perfection of his moonlit skin.
I shut the door behind me, realizing all at once that I hadn’t been at all prepared for this. I had steeled myself against his rage, not the stillness of his proximity or the way it finally steadied the thundering of my heart.
His eyes glinted deeper green in the glowing light of the auroras that shone through his windows, dancing across theangular lines of his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder. The other half of him was lost to the darkness, concealed by the shadows that seemed nearly as alive as the night sky.
He swept his gaze over me, the movement slower than it should have been, like he was assessing me for injuries instead of his usual glance of disdain.
“What is it?”
Why had I come here? To avoid my nightmares? To get answers?
Those reasons felt flimsy under the weight of his expectant stare, but I stood as straight as I could manage.
“I need to know if you killed him.”
Draven’s features hardened, his shoulders pulling taut. “I have already told you that I did. His life was forfeit the moment he entered my kingdom and kidnapped my wife.”
I blinked, making sense of his words too late. Alaric. He was talking about Alaric.
“No.” The word escaped me in a single breath. “Not him. Kyros.”
Draven’s brow furrowed, and I swallowed, forcing myself to ask what I needed to know.
“Did you kill the male who hurt me?”
Ice spread across the floor, a slow siphoning of the mana that had just swelled with the intensity of my husband’s fury. Because I asked? Because I mentioned one of the many things we refused to address?
“Not slowly enough, but yes. He is very much dead.”
A breath escaped me, unvarnished relief that made me question every virtue I had ever pretended to cling to.
Kyros was dead. He would never come for me again.
Draven tilted his head, stepping closer to me. He shifted just enough that his entire body was visible in the lights of the winter sky, preternaturally beautiful and no less dangerous for it.
He lifted his hand to my chin, tilting it up until I was forced to meet his eyes. The metal of his frostcarved ring was a cool contrast to the skin that blazed against mine.
The relief that had coursed through me mere seconds ago felt flimsy and diaphanous in the tidal wave of emotion that flooded over me when his skin finally made contact with mine.
“Does that make you happy, Morta Mea?” His breath ghosted along my lips. “Or is it just another sin for you to hurl at my feet so I can be the monster you need me to be?”
The air crackled between us.
“Both,” I whispered.
I hated it, the way every part of me craved the protection he offered.
“Did you get what you needed then?” he growled.
