A Storm of Shadows (Fates and Fables #3)

40. Onora

Chapter 40

Onora

“ T hese should fit you well enough for now,” Maria said, handing Onora a stack of folded clothes. “I’m sure Dryston will order a custom wardrobe to be made for you soon enough.”

Onora frowned. “Why would he do that?”

Maria flushed, smiling and shaking her head. “No ... well, no reason, really.”

“Maria!” Kalen barked from the hallway. “Let her be.”

Maria shrugged, exiting the room and giving her a small wave as she did. Kalen was a bit prickly, which she couldn’t really speak against, as it was similar to her, but Maria had always put her at ease. Even if her words left her confused.

A lot was leaving her grasping for any sense.

Why would Dryston be ordering an entire wardrobe made just for her? How was that his business?

And why was it so odd for her to be in the room adjoining his? To be fair, at first she’d thought it would be an awkward arrangement, some small offshoot that would lead into his space. But it was entirely her own. It was an apartment, really. There was a bedroom, a sitting area, a small kitchen, and a bathing room. She’d barely had time to take it all in when she’d awoken, but now she saw the extravagance of it.

There was a door that could be opened wide enough that the two sitting rooms became almost like one. She hadn’t dared peek into his room or explore it, even if she wanted to.

Even if Maria seemed to think she would and that it would be an okay thing to do.

She had the horrible, sneaking suspicion that they all assumed she was his paramour.

Which was a horrifying thought that she hated.

Or should hate. There was a thrill that coursed through her at the idea of how possessive and protective he’d seemed of her earlier. Of how he’d taken care of everything. When he demanded she be put up in the room next to him, it had felt like he was staking a claim on her.

And she hated that—of course.

This thing between them was a dead-end—a fling.

She shook her head. There was no reasoning about it now. She was exhausted, and the bath was calling her name. Kalen had found a servant and already told them to bring her a spread of food and drinks and whatever else she needed. She wanted mostly to eat and rest, but she also really, really wanted to take a bath.

She went into her separate bathing room, and drew water, delighted that it was heated. There was a small glass bottle of liquid next to it, blue and enticing, and she poured a bit in, shocked when soapy bubbles burst up, filling the tub, smelling like lavender.

She sank below the water and came up, brushing her wet hair back. What was she going to do? Going back to Nemus wasn’t an option—she’d be killed if she ever stepped foot there again. Her chest tightened. She’d never see her squad again. She’d never traipse the foothills outside Elf Glen. She’d never wear that dusty blue cape with pride again.

Her eyes smarted, so she dunked back down below the water, coming up and scrubbing soap into her hair, watching with horror and fascination at the dirt and other debris coming out of her hair. Damn, she’d been filthier than she realized.

What could she do? She couldn’t stay here ... could she? Dryston had said she could, and said she’d be safe, but was she?

She couldn’t bet on it. She’d need to make a plan soon. Avenay was here—maybe she had connections in the realm of light, and she could find mercenary jobs there. She’d never been to Medeis before, though she’d looked over the maps many times. She could travel the continent, picking up odd jobs and exploring new realms.

While Dryston stayed here, ruling.

The thought gave her a pang that she pointedly ignored.

She finished cleaning and got out of the water, quickly dressing in the nightclothes Maria had given her. They accentuated every bit of her assets.

She heard Dryston’s door click on the other side, and she looked at herself in the mirror again.

The clothes clung to her curves, her peaked breasts, a cutout in the back and maybe, just maybe, she wanted him to see her like that. She so rarely wore anything like it, and she wanted to see his reaction. Even if part of her was afraid to. Even if part of her had spent so long protecting herself that even the thought of this small rejection made her heart race like crazy. Normally, men came to her, obsessed and ready to conquer, and she didn’t have to dance around the delicate land of feelings.

Now that there was something between them—maybe only one-sided—she had no clue what to do. The thought of kissing him or seducing him and being rejected made her want to flee. Yes, they’d had two glorious nights, but now they were back in his home. Would he entertain her as a lover? Would she even want that?

She stood in front of his door, trying to talk herself into it. But what did she need? Why would she be knocking on his door? There had to be some plausible excuse for her interrupting his evening. She shook her head. She should just head back to bed.

But then the handle turned, and the door opened. Dryston stood before her, a look of surprise on his face.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi,” she responded, stilted.

“Were you about to knock on my door?” The corners of his mouth hinted at a smirk and her old rage lit.

“Well, that’s the normal thing to do, instead of just barging in. Do you normally just fling the doors open to females’ bedrooms?”

“No,” he responded, “usually they open them with great excitement.”

She let out an exasperated huff. “Why are you trying to creep into my room?”

He chuckled. “You’re wound up. I thought you were gone.”

“So you were just going to come in and riffle through my things?”

Picking a fight with Dryston hadn’t been her plan, but somehow those were the only words that came out of her mouth.

“What things? The handful I gave you? Do you think I want to rob you?” He was full-blown grinning now, and she could hit him. “Okay, okay. Sorry. I wanted to make sure you had everything you needed—clean bedding, clothes, whatever. Now, fess up, why were you about to knock on my door?”

A smart retort rested on her tongue, but she bit it back with a swallow. “Do you have any tea?” That wasn’t why she’d been knocking, but saying “I wanted you to look at my ass in these clothes” felt stupid at the moment. And he would look at her ass, but then he’d send her along the way, and she’d be left alone dreaming of how good he looked right now in that tight shirt.

His brows shot up in surprise. “I do.”

He walked into the room, beckoning her to follow. A fire blazed in the hearth, casting glowing light in the room, creating a soft warmth against the cave chill. On his sofa was a blanket and a stack of papers on the table in front of it. He put on a kettle over the stove and leaned against the wall, facing her. His eyes trailed down the length of her, tracing every curve and line, snagging on the parts she’d wanted him to look at. The slow perusal left her breathless, heart picking up its pace.

“You have new clothes,” he commented, voice gravelly.

“Is that a compliment?” she quipped, wishing she hadn’t. She didn’t need to fish for compliments from him, even if she felt feverish for his attention.

“Oh no.” He shook his head. “Just an observation.”

She pursed her lips, ignoring the dip of disappointment in her stomach. What was she, a teenager?

“I’m afraid any compliment I can give to you in those clothes would be wildly inappropriate. Salacious, even.”

His eyes darkened, the shadows cast from the firelight making his intent gaze capture her like a predator to prey.

The kettle whistled, and he turned, pouring it over tea in two mugs, bringing it to her. Their hands brushed, and a sudden nervousness came over her. He was a flirt. He liked getting the upper hand. It was all a power play to him. She shouldn’t take his words to heart. He probably said it to a million males and females. What they had shared at the farmhouse had been nothing. He’d regretted it. She remembered his face far too well in the woods, and she didn’t need to encourage her own entangled feelings.

“Thank you,” she said, stepping back to leave.

“Sit with me,” he said, the tone like a command, his eyes holding a plea.

She followed him to the sofa. He sat on one end and she on the other, curling her legs up in front of her. It was silent for a moment, comfortable somehow, even if she felt the need to break the quiet with anything.

“The Darkened City is different than I imagined,” she said.

She’d never been known as a great conversationalist, and what was the point trying now?

“How did you imagine it?” He looked at her with genuine curiosity, maybe a bit of apprehension.

“I don’t know. I guess I imagined it more like what I’d experienced during the occupation.”

Revelry every night. Drinking and violence and abuse. Dryston wasn’t that way, but she had thought there’d be a bit more of an edge to the place. Not the gentle scenes of children running and laughing carefree.

“What was that like?” he asked, voice quiet.

She took a sip of the tea, unsure what to say. “Bad. Really, really, bad.”

He was suddenly next to her, his leg pressing against hers, a small contact, a simple touch, but it was enough. His gentle way of letting her know he was there and saw her pain. She took another swift drink to swallow the lump in her throat.

He saw her so clearly, so quickly. As if her every thought were on display for him. It should unsettle her. But somehow it was comforting.

She rarely spoke of her time under the occupation. If she did, it was to Jackson in quick, vague references they both understood. But Dryston drew her out. She wanted him to know. And she hated that she did. He was becoming someone she could lean on too much—more than she’d ever been able to lean on someone. The way he looked at her, as if his hands were open and ready to take all her fears and destroy them, to take all her anxiety and soothe it, it was too much. This couldn’t last, and she couldn’t get used to it.

But she tossed her normal caution to the wind for the small, faint hope that it would all work out. That this wouldn’t be something that broke her more.

“I had a chain around my neck for five years,” she said. “It felt weird when it came off. My neck was weak and got tired easily and sometimes I craved having it back.” She closed her eyes, remembering those first couple of years of freedom. It had been almost worse than the captivity. She could make her own decisions and she wasn’t watched constantly and sometimes she missed her chains. Sometimes she missed having the object of her anger always before her. Without it, that rage came out in other ways, on other people. Like Jackson, who didn’t deserve it.

Dryston’s hand found her neck, wrapping around the back of it in a gentle squeeze, and she wondered how he knew that would be comforting and not awful. She looked at him and startled at what she saw: his nostrils flared, fury coiling around him in angry shadows.

“I’m sorry,” he ground out. “I’m not upset at you.”

She nodded, knowing he wasn’t. His hand slipped down her back, his eyes finding her scars under the tattoos, and more shadows burst out around him, his jaw clenching.

“Who gave these to you?”

She rubbed her arms, looking down. “The demon who owned me.”

His wings flared out, twitching. “And where is this demon now?” His words were a threat.

“He’s dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

Onora only nodded.

“I hope it was painful.”

Her cheeks warmed at the intensity of his gaze, at the way his anger seemed to coil around her like a protective coat. “It was. I made sure of it.”

“Good girl.”

Her toes curled, and she held her breath as his hand rubbed her back.

“Was there anyone else?” he asked, a dangerous edge to his words.

She shook her head. “What would you do if there were?”

He drew in a deep, haggard breath. “I’d rip them limb from limb.”

His hand slipped up her shoulders, trailing a line that made her shiver, then he cupped her cheek. “Go rest, Onora. You’ve earned it. Tomorrow I want to show you my city.”

She nodded, standing and not saying anything, unable to form any words or thoughts after that encounter. She came to the door and turned to see him watching her with a tormented expression—as if her pain were his, even if he couldn’t know the depth of it. Having her pain seen and heard made her feel like crying. So she just ducked her head, closing the door behind her.

She slept well that night, no nightmares or waking to a pitch-black void. She slept safely, knowing Dryston was nearby.