Chapter 37 Zadyn
ZADYN
Iwake early to Serena’s steady sighs, each exhale breezing over my bare chest. She’s sprawled out on her belly, half of her body draped over mine, an arm slung around my waist and a thigh hooked over my hip.
I’d find it amusing if I wasn’t so damn worried that with the slightest shift in movement, she might wake to find me hard, pressing against her leg.
I ease out of her grasp with glacial slowness, careful not to jostle her. Moving to the bathroom, I splash some cold water on my face, hoping it will cool me down enough to stop the thoughts that flood my mind every time I wake up with her body tangled around mine.
So completely inappropriate.
But as I grab a change of clothes, she rolls onto her back—dark hair fanning out over the pillow—and groans in her sleep. I have to bite my lip and clench my fists.
She’s so fucking perfect.
But if last night proved anything, it’s that she isn’t ready for this. She may never be. All I am to her is a friend. Her familiar.
I’m one hundred and ninety-eight years old. I’ve had almost two centuries of experience with females, and not one has given me the trouble this girl has. Not one has had me tongue tied at every turn. Not one has had me awestruck and so pathetically whipped.
I used to think I felt this way because I’m her familiar. But I’ve done my research on the subject, and what I feel for her is something else entirely.
Once I change, I scribble a note for Serena and head out.
Eaton is exactly where I expected to find him. Holed up in his sanctuary.
Despite being a fierce warrior prince and second in line to his father’s throne, Eaton is actually a skilled historian.
His family’s library is double the size of the one in Aegar, with family trees and records of magical objects dating back to the beginning of Solterre.
Even hungover, he’s seated beside the crackling fire, feet propped up with a heavy tome on his lap.
“Enjoy the rest of your night?” he mutters without looking up. I slip into the seat beside him.
“Subtle.”
“No one’s ever accused me of that before.” He snickers, sipping his tea.
“We need to finish our conversation from dinner last night.”
He glances up at me and sets the saucer down on the wooden side table. “All ears.”
Eaton listens as I explain our predicament.
“You need to tell your father to prepare.”
“I’ll write to him today. He’ll send troops to Aegar. Or he’ll send fleets straight to Vod to crush them on their own turf.”
I nod.
“As for the rest—” He stands and moves over to the nearest wall of records. “There has to be something in here to help with the portal.”
We spend the next two hours sifting through texts and translating the ones in Ancient Fae.
“This might be something,” he mutters, sliding the thick tome from the top shelf and passing it down the ladder to me.
“What is this?”
“It’s a grimoire, recovered from one of the first Blackbloods.”
The wrinkled spine looks ready to disintegrate at any given moment—its leather binding almost completely faded. I move to flip it open, but it refuses.
“It’s spelled. Never could get it to open.”
I glance at him. “This could have our answer.”
“Maybe your witch is the key.”
My fingers ghost over the surface, so thin and worn I’m afraid if I touch it, it might crumble. The grimoire is charged, like all magical objects. They teem with life, even in their ancient state.
Eaton sinks into a wooden chair, and I do the same, pushing my hair out of my face.
“You need a haircut.”
“Thanks.”
He kicks back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the table. After a moment, he says, “You know what she is, don’t you?”
I drag my eyes up to him. “How could I not?”
“Does she know?”
“No. And I don’t plan on telling her. Not right now, at least.”
“Gods, Zadyn. Any fool could read the writing on the wall. Why does she think you can peer into each other’s minds the way you can?”
“Because I’m her familiar. She thinks nothing of it. She’s not from here, she wouldn’t know the difference.”
Serena is too new to magic to understand our connection—the direct link we have to each other’s minds. I didn’t want to overwhelm her by letting her know that, unfettered, I can literally read her mind.
Not that I would. But sometimes her thoughts are so loud, I can hear them even when I don’t want to. Even when it feels like a knife to the gut.
“You’re more than her familiar, Zadyn. You’re her primary. Do you know how rare that is?”
I do, actually.
“It’s worse if you don’t tell her. She’s going to find out eventually, and then you’ll have to lie about knowing, and it will be a whole mess that could easily have been avoided if you’d just gazed into those pretty lavender eyes, and said, ‘Serena, darling, you’re my—’”
“Stop, Eaton. Just stop.”
“What are you afraid of? That she won’t accept it?”
“I’m not afraid of anything. And that has nothing to do with why we’re here. I’m not telling her.”
Eaton lifts his hands in surrender.
“Not telling who what?”
I turn as Serena breezes into the library, her dark hair still damp and clinging to her shoulders. I wave a hand and dry it for her. She smiles in thanks and plops into the seat beside me. Eaton appraises her with no attempt at discretion.
“Nothing,” I mutter.
Miraculously, she doesn’t press the question.
“What’s that?” She points to the grimoire on the table.
“This is a grimoire. It belonged to one of the original Blackblood witches.”
Eaton nudges it toward her, and she pours over it, transfixed. “We were hoping you might be able to help crack it.”
She glances between us. “How?”
He reaches out and takes her hand, laying her palm flat against the binding.
As soon as her skin meets the book, she gasps.