18. Chapter 18 #2
“The glider is waiting to take you home, miss.”
She looked up as the same short, stocky man from last night—the one who had dragged her from the carriage—stepped through the door.
“Where is Caelith?” She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.
“Lord Caelith has business to attend this morning.” The man sneered, then sighed as if this entire exchange was an inconvenience. “But he wanted to ensure your safe return home.”
“Oh.” A flush crawled up her neck as she realized she was still bare from the waist up, arms crossed over her chest. “Well, yes. That was certainly… kind of him.” She glanced around the room, scanning for her shirt.
“I don’t suppose you’ve seen—” She gestured vaguely at herself, pressing her arms more firmly against her skin in emphasis.
“No, miss.” The man’s gaze dipped, his mouth edging into a knowing grin.
The look sent a crawling sensation down her spine as the silence stretched between them.
Her stomach churned, but she pushed down the feeling, forcing herself to focus. This she could deal with—puffed-up servants, passive-aggressive little power plays. This was familiar ground.
She lifted her chin. “I hope you don’t expect me to traipse about the city in nothing but this skirt?”
The man held her stare, unmoved.
“I’m not going anywhere until you find me something to wear.” She raised a brow, daring him to challenge her.
His jaw flexed, the tendons in his neck going taut before he grumbled through clenched teeth. “Oh, very well.”
He stalked across the room toward a large armoire in the back corner, yanking open one of the drawers with more force than necessary. After a brief rummage, he pulled out a shirt and tossed it toward her.
“Here.”
She caught it, the fabric soft against her palms. Even before she unfolded it, she knew it wasn’t just any shirt. “This is… Caelith’s?”
“Yes.” The man’s tone was flat. “The shirt belongs to Lord Caelith.”
“Oh.” She hesitated, fingers clenching around the luxurious material.
“Well?” The man tapped his foot impatiently. “Put it on already. I don’t have all day.”
She narrowed her eyes, then pointedly gestured toward the door. “A little privacy?”
His lips pursed, and for a moment, she thought he might refuse. Then, with a long-suffering exhale, he turned on his heel, presenting her with his back.
“As if I haven’t already seen the whole show.” He barely bothered to keep the words quiet.
Her mouth fell open. Then she snapped it shut. She refused to give the little toad the satisfaction of a response.
Instead, she turned away, shaking out the oversized shirt before pulling it over her head, the scent of Caelith still clinging to it—spiced citrus, darkwood, and something richer underneath.
It made her stomach turn, but she shoved her arms through the sleeves and squared her shoulders before following the man toward the door.
The walk through the estate was a blur of polished floors, impossibly tall windows, and heavy drapery meant to impress. Emmaline barely registered any of it, her body sluggish, each step sending a dull throb ricocheting through her skull.
Dear Lyra, she felt like death. By the time she reached the glider and climbed in, she was nearly swaying on her feet. Without another word, the toad clicked the door shut behind her and soon the city was blurring past the windows.
“How do you know where I live?” She pressed her forehead against the glass, the cold helping.
The man didn’t look at her, just shrugged. “Lord Caelith makes it his business to know many things.”
A fresh wave of nausea curled in her stomach. She forced the bile down and didn’t ask anything else.
By the time they reached her neighborhood, she barely managed to step out of the carriage without staggering.
She had only just steadied herself when something small and heavy came flying toward her—a velvet bag, landing against her chest with a soft thud.
Her fingers closed around it, the unmistakable weight of coins pressing against her palm.
“What’s this for?” She looked up.
The servant leaned back against the glider’s frame, watching her with something unpleasant glinting in his eyes.
Dread sank in her belly.
“I hope he, um—Lord Caelith—didn’t think that… umm.” Her voice faltered. She squeezed the bag, her grip tightening as she fought against the sudden, burning sting behind her eyes.
The man didn’t answer right away. He just looked at her, as if savoring her discomfort, letting the quiet stretch too long before finally rolling his eyes.
“The Lord wanted to ensure you have a proper dress for the ball,” he said, voice heavy with disinterest. “One appropriate for the woman on his arm that night.”
“What?” Her brows furrowed. “He wants me to go with him to the Solstice Ball?”
“It appears that way.”
Was this it? Was Caelith finally going to announce that she was his mate? Had she actually been right all along? The plan she had laid out—the one her friends had rightfully called insane—was it actually working?
“I…” She started to speak, but the glider was already pulling away, leaving nothing but dust in its wake.
Sagging, she gripped the nearest railing as the weight of the last twenty-four hours slammed into her. She needed sleep. She needed water. Then—maybe—she could make sense of whatever had happened.
Her limbs felt like lead, every muscle aching with exhaustion, but it was nothing compared to the deep, pulsing pressure behind her eyes.
Everything from the morning sun filtering through the city’s enchanted lanterns to the distant sounds of street vendors calling out their wares felt too bright, too loud, too much.
And worst of all were the stairs. She looked up at the winding ascent through the massive Sentinel Tree that housed her apartment. The spiral of carved wooden steps stretched up toward the upper boughs where her home was nestled somewhere at the top.
She groaned. She could have picked an apartment with an automatic lift. But no. She’d romanticized the idea of climbing up through the old-growth, feeling the buzz of magic through the ancient bark, living among the treetop dwellings like her ancestors.
Right now, she wanted to strangle her past self.
Muttering a curse, she gritted her teeth and began the climb.
Every step sent another stab of pain through her temples, her muscles burning as she dragged herself up, one aching movement after another.
By the time she reached the top, she was breathing hard and cursing the Gods and every decision that had led to this moment.
She rounded the final corner, then stopped cold.
There was Deyric slumped outside her door, leaning against the frame. His head lolled to the side, dark hair falling over his brow, and his arms draped loosely over his knees. Asleep. And next to him was a small, brightly wrapped box.
The metallic pink paper gleamed in the soft morning light, unmistakable. It was a box from her favorite confectionary—fae-pastries, sugar-dusted and impossibly flaky. She already knew they’d be filled with her favorite flavors, spiced honey and rich berry preserves.
Emmaline’s breath stuttered and her heart clenched in a sharp, painful squeeze. She stared at him, at the pastries, at the exhausted way his chest rose and fell with each slow, steady breath.
She felt something crack inside her, and she wasn’t sure she could hold it together.
Then—
A slow inhale and a shift of muscle. Deyric stirred, blinking against the morning light. His emerald-green eyes met hers, still heavy with sleep, but steady.
“There you are.”