Page 74 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
I wasn’t. I was piss-drunk, talking out loud to myself like some crazy drunkard. Guess I fit right in with the others here.
I was unsure where I stood with Fintan. I slept with Landen. I was living in a castle where the King wanted me to dead. I haven’t freed my father. And I haven’t figured out who—more so what—had been talking to me in my mind.
I wanted to cry. So I cried.
My life was a mess.
I was a mess.
I needed Mother.
I sat in my pity—crying, swirling the last of the wine, trying not to think about the fire, or my mother, or the glowing magic under my skin I could barely control.
And then he walked in.
Zayn.
“Ugggghhhh,” I groaned dramatically from the back of my throat.
He ducked under the low doorframe, tall and commanding as ever, his silver hair was pulled half way up, the rest falling past his shoulders. He scanned the pub once. His eyes found me immediately—sharp, green, impossibly bright even in the dim candlelight.
He walked straight to me.
I didn’t even try to pretend I wasn’t happy to see him.
“Gods,” I muttered. “Do you live in my shadow?”
He didn’t sit. Just stood there, arms crossed, looking like some unholy mix of nobility and thunderclouds.
I hiccupped and then wiped away my drunken tears with my sleeve.
“Drunk on your own tears,” he said flatly. “Snap the fuck out of it and accept what you did. Stop being a baby and own it. We all make mistakes.”
The words cut. Fast. Clean.
I stood too quickly, wobbled, but then stood tall, the chair scraped across the floor. “Y—you think I don—don’t know that?” My voice shook with drunken fury. “My mistake was H—HUGE! Monumentalllll,” I stuttered drunkenly. “You th—think I don’t own it? Trust me, I own it. I—I feel it every time I breathe. I killed her.”
Zayn’s jaw flexed, but his voice stayed cold. “Then stop running from it like a child. You play strong, but the moment it hurts, you crawl into a bottle and hope someone else fixes it for you.”
“Fuck you,” I hissed, the air crackling faintly around me. I pressed my chest against his—well, I tried—since he towered over me. The lights above the hearth flickered. A cold wind rushed through the room, even though the door had remained shut.
Zayn’s expression sharpened. He took a step closer. “That mouth’s going to look even prettier wrapped around me… and when it does, I won’t let anyone else have it.”
My jaw damn near hit the floor.
Gods, he was confusing. Infuriatingly handsome and maddening all at once. I blinked up at him, my alcohol-hazed brain short-circuiting. Did he really just—?
He reached out, closing my mouth with two fingers, and the touch sent a jolt racing through me—magic, lust, something dangerous. It made my knees weak… and also made me want to punch him square in his perfect face.
“Be careful,” he warned, eyes sweeping over me in a way that made my stomach flip. “Your magic’s starting tobleed out… and sweetheart, if you’re not careful, someone might mistake it for desperation.”
My lips pursed together. Gods, he was impossible—one minute dripping with charm, the next slapping me with that arrogant bite. Was he flirting with me or insulting me? I couldn’t tell, and that pissed me off even more.
“Go to Hel,” I whispered.
He chuckled softly behind me. “Already there, Peach. You just keep making it warmer.”
I shoved past him before I did something reckless, the pub’s door slamming behind me with a sharp crack. I didn’t stop walking, didn’t care how loud my boots were as they struck the cobbled road back to the castle.
