Chapter 18
Slowly, I weigh every step against the dry grass. I cling to Desmond’s voice like a will-o’-wisp guiding me forward. Is he meeting with Prince Eldon again?
“And how is Deitra faring?” Desmond asks.
I strain to hear the response of whomever he’s speaking to, but an owl’s throaty call covers it.
Then a mirthful laugh startles me. It’s as light as sunshine, as carefree as summer rain.
It’s the kind of laugh that’s only possible when you trust someone implicitly.
There is no way it was Desmond’s. Yet with humor making his voice breathy and weightless, he adds, “I was asking how she’s faring without her favorite captain. ”
A pause passes.
“Even if you could court her, you know that her affections lie elsewhere,” Desmond says, the humor gone. “Moving on is the only closure you will ever get.”
Who could he be talking to? It must be someone he knows intimately, because he never has that warm tone with me. For them to also know Deitra, it has to be another fae. Finnian? If not him, then who? I don’t know who the favorite captain could be, either.
Another pause, this one longer.
As I emerge between the trees to look at him, the forest falls silent.
And there’s no one there.
“Maybe I am crazy,” I mutter.
“Looking for someone?”
I flinch. Desmond chuckles as I whirl around to face him. “You’re lucky I’m unarmed,” I hiss. “I don’t like being snuck up on.”
Desmond strides toward me until he’s so close that his hazel eyes burn through the darkness. Moonlight brushes the bridge of his nose, trails down his sharp jawline, and pools in the gleaming white scar on his chin.
Then he shoves me, one hand clamping my shoulder and the other gripping my hip as he slams my back against a tree. My heartbeat quickens to a relentless pound. I reach for my knives, and my breath hitches as I feel the empty sheaths.
My blood runs cold. I forgot them in the clearing.
“Never,” Desmond whispers into my ear, “be caught unarmed.”
My pulse rages as I release a shaky breath. He could’ve stabbed me, or glamoured me, or stolen my mouth with his, and I would’ve been powerless to stop him.
The bark behind me grates against my back, rough like the calluses on his palms. I glare up at him, but my stomach drops as I realize just how close we are.
Swathed in the velvet dark of the forest, his touch feels too intimate, tantalizingly forbidden.
I shouldn’t stare at his full lips, drawn to the way they’re curled in vehement warning.
I shouldn’t remember the water trickling down his bare chest, nor feel a writhe of jealousy as I remember Auri tugging him into her room.
Yet I’m the one with him here, not her. I dare to let my gaze roam the tight stretch of his tunic across his chest, to his hands splayed possessively on me. “Who were you talking to?”
Desmond’s grip on my shoulder tightens. Wisps of heady, primal hunger whisper across our bond. A dangerous lurch in my core answers it, making my thighs clench and my breath catch. His nails dig into my hip, and I gasp at the little flutter of pain.
“That’s not for you to know,” he says, his expression calm. “It’s not wise to eavesdrop on others. Especially not the Prince of Death.”
I lift my chin, my heart thundering with the knowledge that I should be afraid of him.
But I’m not.
His eyes darken. His face tilts toward mine, and a soft curl brushes against my forehead. “Have you learned your lesson?” he murmurs so softly that I shiver.
“Clearly,” I retort, but my voice is ragged, almost a moan.
Desmond stiffens, as though he hadn’t expected that.
His reaction douses me like a cold bucket of water. Embarrassment stabs me, deep and ruthless. It snaps me out of whatever trance I was in, and I shove him away.
He lets me.
The ease of it makes me realize he never restrained my hands. The whole time, I could’ve gotten away from him.
I put several steps between us. It doesn’t feel like enough.
Desmond’s chest rises with a breath.
I’m too afraid of what he’ll say to let him go first. If he so much as mentions that sound I made, I’ll never look him in the eyes again. I have to distract him.
“I wasn’t spying on you,” I blurt out. Shit.
His open mouth closes into a smirk. “Of course you weren’t.”
That wasn’t the kind of distraction I was aiming for. We’re both silent. I can still hear my pulse pounding in my ears. What was I thinking? He wanted to prove how vulnerable I am unarmed, and all I’ve done is make a fool of myself. I can’t let him fluster me like this.
The mischief fades from his eyes. “Cynthia,” he says, his voice low. “What are you doing alone in the woods without a single blade? You’d better have a good reason.”
Despite it sounding like a threat, I sense genuine concern.
I sigh. “My knives are buried in a tree. I’m trying to use my Gift to fight, but my aim isn’t great. A fire-wielder would burn me alive before I hit them. Someone like me has no hope of surviving Olin’s tomb on their own.”
“So you’ll give up on your dream? Only because you think you’re too weak to follow it?” he asks, the disappointment in his voice cutting worse than a blade.
“You have no idea what my dream is,” I snap, my hands clenching into tight fists.
A scoff twists his lips. “It’s rather obvious, actually. You want to protect your family.”
I want to argue, but I don’t understand why at first. He isn’t wrong. But he’s not right, either.
He notices my hesitation, and his eyes narrow. “Then what is your dream?”
What a dangerous thing to tell a fae. But for some unfathomable reason, I’m desperate to say it, as if the words themselves are clawing out of me. Desperation to admit how selfish it is. Desperation to have someone understand.
“I want to see the world.” It rushes out of me so quickly that I catch my breath.
Then guilt immediately follows, my gut wrenching.
I know how uncaring that wish makes me sound.
A farmgirl leaving her family to fend for themselves so she can run off and play adventurer.
It tastes as bitter and ridiculous as it sounds.
It feels like I’ve bared myself before him, trusting him with my greatest desire. I expect him to rebuke me, when he undoubtedly can’t imagine a dream so trivial with an entire fallen kingdom on his shoulders.
Yet Desmond doesn’t scoff again. He’s staring at me with wide, open eyes, like he’s never seen me before. I’m no longer the stubborn, gluttonous human, but someone else entirely. Someone who’s rendered him speechless.
“The world?” he finally chokes out, not mocking or bemused, but reflective, as if he can’t believe his ears.
“What of it? Is it so hard to imagine that I’m unhappy with my life?” As if defending myself, I blurt out, “You don’t seem so happy with your own.”
“I’m not.” Desmond is still staring at me, his brows pinched like he’s caught in a trance.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” I murmur. Even if he doesn’t look affronted, I still feel like an ass. Of course he isn’t happy with his life, haunted by nightmares, feared by the world, and carrying the crushing weight of his people being enslaved by my own.
He shrugs, a startling human dismissal. “Why haven’t you done it?”
It takes me a second to realize he’s circling back to my dream. “What kind of daughter would I be if I left my family?”
“Thus the tomb raiding,” he says, sounding as though he already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it from me.
The anger slips away, leaving only self-doubt behind. I look away. “My Gift isn’t strong enough to join the adventurers’ guild. At least, so I’ve been told. I don’t know why I’m trying to explain it to you.”
He watches me, silent at first. Then he sighs. His shoulders drop as if he’s released a burdening mass of tension. “I know what it’s like to have foolish dreams,” he says. “I also know what it’s like to doubt your Gift.”
Minutes ago, I would’ve accused him of belittling me. But the indifference he wears like armor has cracked, and through our bond I sense genuine empathy, a shared understanding.
Searching his eyes for more answers, I ask, “What’s your foolish dream?”
He holds my gaze with such quiet intensity that I shiver. “I’ve given up on it.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have.” I pause, waiting for him to say something. “I vow I won’t tell anyone.”
Three heartbeats of silence pass. Then I feel his resignation, so similar to mine that my pulse stutters.
“To be free,” Desmond says slowly, as if every word were a burden.
I breathe in to tell him I hope there’s a day when his kingdom will be.
Yet he reaches out, shushing me by pressing a finger to my lips. “To walk every step of the world, to leave the war and court politics far behind. What wish more foolish could a prince dream of?”
He lets his hand fall. Looking at him is like gazing into a mirror, and I wonder if he feels the same. I never thought a prince and a pauper could hope for a fate so similar.
“I’m glad you told me.”
“I didn’t want you to feel alone.” Then his mask clicks back into place, cold and unreadable.
“I should keep looking for my knives,” I tell him, glad the darkness hides the flush in my cheeks. As I step away, I slide my hands into my pants pockets and feel several small, cold objects.
I pull out five silver marks. He must’ve slipped them in when he pinned me. I suck in a tight breath. “You remembered. I didn’t know if you really—”
Zing!
Desmond lunges, tackling me to the ground. A throwing knife glints, striking the tree right where my head was mere seconds ago. Our elevated pulses echo through our chests, and he gazes into my eyes for half a second—just long enough to make sure I’m alright—before he pushes off me.
“Stay behind me.” He unsheathes his sword.
I’m about to protest when I remember I’m unarmed. At least our attacker gifted us a blade. I shove the coins into my pocket, pull the knife from the tree, then follow Desmond. The knife hovers behind my shoulder, levitated by my Gift. My fists are raised like he taught me.
The hairs on my neck stand on end. A prickle along my skin has me shift my weight to my left foot.
“Move left!” Desmond shouts.
Another knife sings through the darkness, passing mere inches to the right of me. In the tree ahead of us, I sense the heaviness of chainmail in the shadows, the rustle of clothing. My magic knows someone is hiding there.
The tree limb that our attacker is balanced on sways as they aim with another knife. I pull on their armor until I see them lose their balance and fall.
Desmond charges.
The attacker is a man. He rolls back onto his feet and parries Desmond’s first strike.
I recognize the gray cloth covering his face, the tall stature that looks down on even Desmond.
He stopped me outside the market, showing me the wanted poster with Desmond on it. Then he spied on us as we left Mythos.
Now, he’s dressed for battle.
Their swords slash and block quicker than my eyes can keep track of in the dark.
“I am Gashil, but you will remember me as your reaper in your final breaths,” a male’s deep baritone rumbles within my mind. Every word is pronounced with immaculate precision, an eerie voice that could belong to the gods. “If you are wise, you will surrender now.”
Another masked assassin approaches from the shadows. This one is female, slighter than Gashil. Her sword is drawn against a woman’s neck.
“Please,” the captive begs. “Let me go!”
Every bit of warmth drains from my body. Terror claws through me as I sink to my knees and raise my hands over my head. The knife I was levitating clatters to the dirt.
These bastards have kidnapped Evie.