Page 47 of King of Immortal Tithe (Darkmourn Universe 2)

“I regret it.” I slammed my hands down upon the wood, shaking the glass of water Faenir had tentatively poured for me. “Is that what you wish to hear? I regret getting out of bed and throwing myself at you. I should have forced myself back to sleep. If I could go back and change my choices, I fucking would have.”

Faenir looked over the parchment of cream paper that he gripped in both hands. It was likely a report from the inquisition into my attack. They had arrived every morning from Evelina’s council, every single one lacking real information.

“Is that truly how you feel?” he asked, eyes swirling with interest. Faenir hid the lower part of his face with the parchment, making it harder for me to read him, although I was certain he was grinning behind it.

“Well,” I huffed. “That is why you have been practically ignoring me, is it not? Have you finally realised that taking me was a mistake?”

“You,” he replied, voice cut with seriousness, “are not a mistake. And we are talking now, are we not? Humans, your kind are strange. If you were so in need of conversation, why did you not start it?”

That stumped me. I swallowed the excuse I was preparing to throw back at him and picked another root. “You ignored me.”

“I apologise if that made you feel uncomfortable.”

It felt ridiculous to accept his apology, but rude not to acknowledge it. “So you admit it.”

“Perhaps my silence has suggested that I do not care for your company, but rest assured you have been on my mind this entire time.”

“Well…” I stumbled over my words. “Don’t!”

He lowered the parchment so it no longer concealed part of his face. “Care to elaborate?” Faenir’s frown deepened, his pruned brows furrowing like daggers above his eyes.

“Think about me. I have not given you that right.”

“That is a fine shame. But with or without it, you have burrowed far too deeply that I do not believe I could pry you out.”

My throat dried. I almost choked on the pure seriousness of his expression. I plucked the glass of water and downed its contents in hopes it would calm the rising scarlet in my cheeks.

Faenir grinned and raised the parchment back across his smug, knowing face.

“Usually, the letter is thrown into the fire by now,” I said again, not wishing for the silence to return so soon. “Has the council provided more clarity into what happened with Gale and why he attacked me?”

“No,” Faenir replied. “Their investigation has not uncovered anything substantial since yesterday’s mention of the knife they had found in the corridor. It is still to be determined why Gale chose to strangle you when he could have stabbed you instead…”

“Don’t act coy with me, Faenir,” I added.

“Ah, that is right. The knife was yours, wasn’t it? Or mine to be precise, you just took it from me.”

The way his eyes gleamed hinted that he had already known that. Perhaps he too noticed the dwindling supply of knives as the days passed. If only he looked beneath the bed and he would find them.

“And do you blame me? In a world where I am destined for death, it would be foolish for me not to be protected.”

“I protect you.”

I looked back to the now empty glass of water and wished for it to be filled. Those three words had the heat in my cheeks flooding back in abundance. I felt its hungry presence spread down my neck and constrict around my chest.

Nothing else needed to be said about the knife. Faenir knew I had taken it and did not scorn me further.

“This parchment is not an update from the council.” Faenir pushed back his chair, letting it squeak terribly across the floor. Then he walked to me, footsteps heavy, his deep burgundy cloak sweeping behind him. “It… is an invitation.”

“Not another one.”

Faenir lowered the parchment over my shoulder and held it before me. It took a moment for me to focus on the swirling words upon it as I was too distracted by his closeness.

“Read it to me,” he whispered, cool breath tickling my ear. “Hearing it aloud might help me make sense of it.”

I stiffened at his nearness. Each blink reminded me of his hesitant touch when I had straddled him upon the chair he still used as a bed.

“Go on…” he encouraged. “I am waiting.”

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