Page 71 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Magic. Faint. Subtle. But close. Too close.
I rose slowly to my feet, eyes darting to every corner of the yard. My breath shallowed. Whatever it was, it wasn’t friendly. And it wasn’t human.
The presence slipped away before I could trace it. Like a ripple in water fading back to stillness.
But it had been there.
And it had seen everything.
Chapter Eighteen
The walk back to the castle felt longer than it should have.
The sun had set completely by the time I passed through the gates, the torchlight flickered along the stone path like watchful eyes. My hood stayed up, hiding me from the guards’ curious glances. No one questioned me—likely because no one cared—but my heart was still pounding, not from fear, but from the shadow that had followed me back.
Or maybe it had never left.
The magic I’d felt behind the ruined cottage still clung to my skin like a second cloak. It wasn’t Fae magic—not like mine. It had been colder. Older. Something that knew how to watch without being seen. No matter how many times I shook the thought, it wouldn’t leave. Someone had been there. Watching me. Watching us.
And they didn’t want me to know who they were.
By the time I reached my chambers, my legs ached, and my mind buzzed with too many questions. I just wanted to sleep. Just one hour where I wasn’t unraveling inside.
I bit into the peach I stole from the kitchen, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.
And stopped.
My breath caught, and my peach fell on the floor with athud.
Zayn stood in the center of the room—dripping wet, barefoot, and wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. His back was to me at first, his sculpted shoulders slick with water. His broad muscles shifted beneath inked skin like armor forged from shadow and fire.
Gods help me, I couldn’t stop staring.
It wasn’t just a tattoo. It was a marking, sprawling across his entire back, etched in deep black ink. Dark, fluiddesigns—bold swirls and jagged curves that looked like they’d been carved by wind and storm. The lines started wide at his shoulders, strong and clean, wrapping inward, spiraling across muscle and spine. The designs weren’t delicate. They were heavy, purposeful—bold lines made for a man who didn’t bend.
Zayn turned. Some of the inked swirls stretched down along his sides, disappearing beneath the band of his towel, while others rose up the column of his neck in thick, angular arcs.
It was raw. Fierce. Masculine.
Like him.
“Fuuuuuck me.”
My jaw nearly hit the floor.
One brow raised, he asked, “What was that, Peach?” His voice was low and deep as a cruel smile twisted on his perfect face. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
I cleared my throat, “Oh, um… nothing. That was supposed to be in my head.”
Gods, what is wrong with you?!I mentally slapped myself. I can’t believe I just said that out loud.
“Thought you’d be with the prince.Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.” He said casually, as if he wasn’t half-naked and gleaming like a damn sculpture.
His damp, silver hair was pushed back, a single drop sliding down the line of his neck, trailing over his chest before disappearing beneath the towel. His abs flexed slightly as he shifted his stance, and the corner of his mouth lifted in amusement.
“I would’ve dressed,” he said with a smirk, “but I wasn’t expecting company.”
