Chapter 8
Elariya
“The Edge of Surrender”
His voice rumbled through my mind like thunder, yet it was poetic and velvety smooth, carrying an air of amusement and challenge.
I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't even think as I stared at him.
The world seemed to narrow until there was nothing left but this moment between us. This impossible moment where magical beings from the stories Grandmother told me stood before me as real as the moon in the sky.
But was he?
Was he real?
I still didn’t actually know.
His eyes locked with mine and his smile widened, becoming dangerously sinful.
Molten heat raced through my veins despite the night's chill, and my skin prickled with awareness, every nerve ending suddenly alive.
No. This couldn't be real. I was definitely hallucinating again, caught in some fever dream brought on by panic and the intense stress of the night.
After that damn conversation with Thayden earlier, who wouldn’t hallucinate?
The man before me was too perfect, too raw, too…everything, to be real. And he was like nothing I’d ever seen. So, he must have been a dream. A fantasy my mind wove together to stop me from losing myself.
“You don't think I'm real.” His voice was deep enough to rumble through my chest and smooth enough to haunt me later. It coiled through the air like smoke, sliding over my skin with the heat of a whispered sin.
There was something primal and enchanting in it. Something that didn’t belong in this world. The kind of sound you’d hear once and crave for the rest of your life.
And what he said… it wasn't a question. It was a statement. Like he'd plucked the thought straight from my mind, like an overripe berry falling into his palm.
Words failed me when he moved closer. His tall, foreboding frame seemed to take up all the space around us even though we were surrounded by acres of land and trees.
Each step he took was deliberate and controlled like a predator stalking its prey. He stopped mere paces away, the moonlight catching the savage elegance of his features and the scar across his cheek.
All I could manage was a shaky exhale that clouded the air between us. What was I supposed to say to a figment of my imagination that had somehow stepped from my mind into the corporeal world?
With a wolfish smirk, he waved his hand before my eyes. “Are you awake in there?”
“Yes.” My voice was a breathless whisper, barely there and fragile against the energy he exuded.
“So, she does speak.” A hint of a dimple revealed itself just above his beard, as if he wasn’t gorgeous enough as it was.
“Um…”
“I’m curious.” He tilted his head. “Why do you think you’re imagining me?”
“Because…” I swallowed hard and searched for an answer, although I still wasn’t sure my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me. “I’ve never seen the Fae in Stormfell.”
“Have you seen the Fae anywhere else?”
“No. I’ve never seen the Fae in real life before. Only paintings and drawings.”
He leaned closer and looked at me as if he found something amusing. “Have you ever seen anyone in these paintings and drawings that looked like me?”
“No.”
“Then how could you imagine something you’ve never seen before, Ziyka? Surely, you’d need to have some ideas to base your vision on.”
The question stumped me. But he was right. Sure, with the mild exception of the pointed ears and unusually vivid eye colors, the Fae weren’t that different from humans. Even so, I’d never seen a man who looked like him.
“And I doubt you would have seen many Fae in your paintings and drawings with this scar.” He tapped a long finger on his cheek, guiding my attention to the scar. “Have you?”
“No.”
He stared back at me for a moment, then his eyes brightened with the spark of an idea. “Touch me,” he commanded.
“What?” My nerves scattered, tingling with fire.
“Touch me if you want more proof I’m real. A mage can always tell if she’s hallucinating when she touches something. If I’m not real, I’ll glow blue.”
I’d never heard that before. But wait… he knew I was a mage—half mage. “You know about me?”
“I do.”
“How?”
“All magical beings have the innate ability to recognize each other. It’s like another sense.”
I couldn’t do that. Or maybe I could but I hadn’t been around enough magical beings to try it out. Aside from my mother and grandmother, this Fae male was the only other magical being I’d encountered. And the horrifying wraith, but it was obviously a demonic threat.
“Go on, touch me.” On seeing my hesitation, he took my hand into his, shocking me. His skin burned against mine, calloused yet somehow soft in his touch.
With his eyes fixed on me, he lifted my hand to the jagged scar that ran across his cheek and pressed my fingers against his skin.
I waited for the blue glow, but nothing happened. All I felt was the rough scar beneath my fingertips, real and tangible. And I was so close I could count the gold beads woven into the plaits of his dark beard.
I didn’t need the blue glow or anything else to prove to me he was real. I could feel him. Something deep inside me knew he was real, and my blood ran cold at the realization. He seemed to notice my shock.
“See?” He grinned.
“Oh, Gods.”
“One of my dragons gave me this scar when we flew too close to the Eastern Isles. He didn't appreciate the lightning storms there.”
My lips trembled. “The Fae… fly dragons?” I muttered, torn between the fascination at what he was telling me and the shock that he was real.
“No.” His eyes brimmed with amusement and something darker. “I fly dragons.”
A spark of desire lanced through me, but I caught myself before allowing it to fuel my obvious attraction to him.
He released my hand and intensified his stare in that assessing manner he’d used last night. Then we just looked at each other, wordlessly.
My brain struggled as it reconfigured everything that had happened at the tavern, because now I knew that was real, too, seeing him and those silver threads.
Fear crawled beneath my skin. I had every reason to be afraid. He was at my home. He’d lured me to him with a spell, and now we were out here. Alone.
But now that I knew he was real, curiosity overrode my caution.
“Who are you?” I found my voice again.
“Wolfe Nightblade. And you, my Lady?” Although he asked the question in such a carefree, nonchalant manner, I had a feeling he already knew my name.
“Elariya Grayson.” I pulled in a slow breath. “What are you doing in Stormfell, Wolfe Nightblade?” I could admit I liked the sound of his name on my lips a little too much.
His mouth quirked into that dangerous grin again. “I'm a collector,” he said, circling me slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. “I'm here on a job.”
“I see, but… why are you here at my home? At my… engagement celebration?” I asked cautiously, feeling the heat of a blush sweep down my body.
“Because your cousin is right.” His voice dropped to a whisper.
I narrowed my eyes, not quite following what he meant. It also hadn’t escaped me that he knew Emabelle was my cousin. “What was she right about?”
“That you need someone to fuck you properly. Someone like me.”
Shock slammed into my ribs like a blade to the gut, sharp, hot, and merciless.
Gods. He’d overheard our conversation. He heard Emabelle’s crazy advice to hook up. And did he seriously say someone like him?
My face burned, not just from embarrassment and astonishment, but from the way his words struck somewhere deeper, darker inside me.
“My… cousin tends to get carried away and she was…” My voice trailed off into the ether, leaving me staring at him mindlessly.
“Right,” he filled in, straightening, “She was right. I decided that if you're going to hook up with someone before your wedding, it should be me.”
Every nerve in my body went up in flames. Then my heart stuttered hard, tripping over itself like it couldn’t decide whether to flee or fall.
He wanted to be with me…
Him.
I should’ve hated how easily my body betrayed me for this stranger. There was enough shit to worry about, and I’d only barely gotten myself out of trouble. Telling him no should’ve been instinctive and instant. But…
Damn me, my traitorous heart surrendered to temptation and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be with him.
To be claimed by him.
To be ruined by him.
That kind of trouble felt like the sweetest kind of destruction.
Shamefully, my mind drifted back to the tavern. To that look he gave me and the fantasy I’d spun in my mind.
Now he was standing here. Flesh and temptation made real, offering me a sin I already wanted to commit.
Wolfe looked at me as if he was already undressing me. One more second of his stare, and I’d melt right there.
It felt like I’d been waiting for this.
For him.
If I were Emabelle, I’d already be up against the wall. In fact, she wouldn’t have allowed him to leave the tavern.
“Don’t tell me you’re about to say your betrothed wouldn’t like the idea of me propositioning you,” Wolfe drawled with a wicked smirk, borrowing the words I’d used with James, then he waved a lazy hand toward the manor.
“Because that guy in there?” His gaze cut deeper into me. “He’s not your betrothed.”
“Isn’t he?” Of course, Thayden was nothing of the sort to me, but I wanted—no, needed—to hear Wolfe’s thoughts on the matter.
“No.” His answer was filled with steel, like a bolt holding me in place. “He’s not.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Betrothed to the Fae is a mate who is soul-marked to you, heart-vowed, promised, bound. You become one, breathe as one, live as one, love as one. So, no, he is not your betrothed. And he’s not what you need, either.”
His words and voice were so poetic and lulling, I didn’t realize he’d stepped closer until the scent of him curled around my lungs.
It was wild cedar, salt, and something darker I couldn’t name.
Something that made my stomach twist and heat gather low in my belly.
And lower, in that tender place I craved him most.