Chapter 37
“Súile,” Reynnar said slowly, the syllables rolling off his tongue like a spell, each sound rich with his lilting accent.
“Soo-luh,” Elara echoed, trying to mimic the way his voice shaped the foreign word. His fingers—long and broad—reached through the bars, a featherlight touch that grazed the skin just beneath her eyes. Her cheeks flushed in response, heart stumbling over itself.
“Eyes,” she whispered, her own fingers following the trail he had traced moments before.
“Iyees,” he repeated, the syllables awkward on his tongue. His mouth curved into that familiar fanged grin, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. It softened the sharp lines of his shadowed face—and before she knew it, a laugh slipped from her too, unbidden but easy in his presence.
She’d never heard him laugh before. It was like nothing she expected—a rich, warm sound that broke through the lifeless air of the prison, a symphony cutting through the silence.
The kind of sound that made her want to wrap it up, keep it safe, hold onto it like something precious.
It was the only thing that felt real, and she ached to hear it again, to bask in its warmth, if only for a moment longer.
His eyes locked onto hers, burning with a fervor she could almost feel—a tenderness she’d never been on the receiving end of.
Reynnar’s lips parted, the beginnings of a word forming before the all too familiar noise of the approaching guards reverberated through the cavern.
But instead of the anticipated guard bearing the day's scant offering, it was the Hunter.
The door to her cell swung open with a clang, announcing his presence before he leaned against the frame as if he belonged there.
“Morning,” he grumbled, his voice scratchy with the grit of disuse, as though the act of speaking had just awoken along with him.
Elara pushed herself up from the floor, her eyes narrowing.
The memory of his announcement to Osin—that she was to be used as bait, what he had done to Dario—still burned fresh in her mind.
She could still taste the bitterness of it, even as the grudging reminder of what he had done for the Sidhe tried to temper it.
But she wouldn’t thank him. She’d kept her end of the deal. Now it was his turn to finish his.
“What, no jabbing remarks for me today? I'm almost disappointed.” He crossed the threshold into her cell but then stopped as Reynnar rose from the ground, standing tall beside her.
The Hunter's jaw twitched. “Still making friends on the wrong side of the bars, I see." His gaze flicked between Reynnar and her.
“I want to see Godfrey.”
“You will,” he said, and as the words left his mouth, the necklace against her chest began to warm, heat spreading like a promise.
"But not today," he continued, his eyes shifting toward the door, scanning the corridor beyond.
"He’s not here. Osin moved him to another location.
He should be back within the next few weeks. "
Elara’s temple throbbed, the steady pulse of frustration building behind her eyes. "Why was he moved?"
“Not here.”
Elara clenched her teeth, willing herself not to explode, even though the urge to rip into him was almost unbearable. She arched a brow. “What now? Come to take me away as bait on your little mission? Or are you here to apologize for what you did to Dario.”
The Hunter looked infuriatingly unbothered as ever. “Leveraging your friend was a strategic move. It distracts Osin, even if just temporarily. He won’t see any action. Not yet.”
“Oh, how considerate of you,” Elara shot back. “I’m sure Dario will be thrilled to hear his life’s been turned into a strategic move.”
His lips twitched, but he stayed silent, watching her with that unreadable expression that made her want to punch him. Or scream. Maybe both.
She pressed her lips together, biting back the questions that gnawed at her.
Why hadn’t he rifted into her cell after the riot?
Why hadn’t he sent a note? Done something?
Not that it mattered. Not that she cared.
And gods, the last thing she wanted was for him to think she thought he cared. Which, of course, he didn’t.
Elara cleared her throat, forcing herself to look anywhere but at him. “Why are you here, then?”
He stepped closer, close enough that she could catch the faint scent of clove clinging to him. Her spine stiffened, and she felt Reynnar shift slightly beside her.
“I’m taking you to my home,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. “There’s something you need to see. We’ve got a few days while Osin thinks we’re off running his errand.”
She blinked, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity.
“Your home?” A bitter laugh slipped from her lips as she shook her head.
There was a time when the idea of following the Hunter anywhere would’ve been laughable, unthinkable.
But now? Now the weight of his oath, the binding promise between them, pulsed against her chest like a silent contract.
“I’m guessing this is less of an invitation and more of a ‘do as I say or else’ kind of deal? ”
His eyes glinted. “You really do catch on quick, don’t you?”
Elara shot him a glare before turning to Reynnar, her heart squeezing painfully as her eyes met his through the iron bars.
Everything—every fear, every unspoken thought—seemed to hang in the air between them.
“I’m okay,” she murmured, though her voice wavered.
“And I’m coming back.” The words felt too thin, too fragile, like they could break apart before they even reached him.
But gods, she needed him to feel it—to understand that she meant it, even if she wasn’t sure herself.
Her hand slipped between the bars, her fingers brushing against his. Warm, steady. Grounding. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze but when she moved to pull away, Reynnar’s grip tightened, his fingers curling around hers, keeping her in place.
“Seachain tú féin air siúd. Ní nochtaíonn an daonnaí sin a rún ach rud éigin géar a bheith sa lámh aige.31”
“Are we nearly there?” Elara’s voice carried through the wind, her fingers curled into fists at her sides, not just from the cold, but from the irritation of shouting into the howling air, knowing full well she wouldn’t get an answer. Not even a glance over his shoulder.
She gritted her teeth, squaring her shoulders against both the biting wind and the maddening figure ahead of her. Each step felt like a battle, but something inside her refused to back down. Stubbornness, or maybe pure spite, drove her to match his pace.
He’d rifted them into this frozen wasteland, muttering something about how his wards required anyone entering his land to walk the rest of the way.
Sure, it made sense in a strategic, paranoid kind of way.
But after what felt like miles of trekking through ice-covered woods, she couldn't help but wonder if this was some sort of punishment. Though she wasn’t sure what she’d done to deserve it.
From the moment they’d left her cell, he’d changed. He’d been easygoing before—teasing, even—a concept she still couldn’t fully wrap her mind around. Then, without warning, he’d drawn back into himself, shutting her out.
She wasn't sure what to make of it.
"You know, a little conversation might make this torture marginally more bearable. Unless you're trying to freeze me into submission."
Still nothing.
She huffed, her breath forming a cloud in the air. And just when she thought the cold might finally break her—numbing her fingers, her toes, and every bit of her resolve—the forest thinned, the trees pulling back to reveal something entirely unexpected.
There, rising out of the vast wilderness like some forgotten relic, sat a manor. Dark, imposing, and completely at odds with the untamed landscape, it stood there like a rose in a field of thorns. Eerie and beautiful all at once.
Elara’s gaze drifted over the dark stone spires, reaching up toward the heavens, clawing at the gray sky.
Thick, gnarled vines wove through the cracks in the windows—inching toward the chimneys like they were determined to reclaim every inch of the place.
The tall, arched windows, caked in dust, offered no warmth, only a reflection of the frozen world outside.
As they approached a wrought iron gate, rusted and twisted, groaned with every gust of wind, as if to say, turn back now, if you have any sense.
This was his home?
She couldn't imagine anyone calling this place home, though, considering her own situation—a cell—maybe she wasn’t in any position to judge.
Elara shot him a sidelong glance as they passed through the iron gates, the crunch of the dirt path under her boots the only sound between them. Had this been his family home? Had he really managed to keep it after all this time?
The moment she crossed the threshold into the manor, the biting wind ceased, but the air inside offered no warmth in its place. It was stifling, thick with the scent of age and neglect. Inside, the manor felt like it had been plucked from another time—once grand and imposing, now slowly rotting.
The ceilings still soared high above, but the chandeliers hung dim, their crystals muted and blanketed in webs.
Beneath her boots, the wooden floors creaked, worn and uneven.
The burgundy velvet chairs, arranged in a too-perfect circle around a baroque fireplace, had long since lost their luster, their fabric faded and threadbare.
Despite the suggestion of warmth, the whole place exuded a stillness—an unsettling, creeping quiet that clung to the air like a bad memory.
The Hunter cleared his throat, breaking the silence, and Elara’s gaze snapped to him. He looked tense, more so than usual. “The library’s this way,” he muttered, nodding toward a shadowy hallway before striding ahead.