Chapter Eighteen
Dante
Like everything in this garden, the maze is alive in a way that plants back home simply aren’t. It’s been drawing my eye ever since we got here and when Lark’s uncle approached me, I was sorely tempted to sprint inside it and hope he couldn’t find me.
I didn’t do that. Obviously. I don’t need to make things harder for Lark. But it’s hard watching him and Ophelia together, even if I know they’re faking.
Aodhan didn’t help. Dickhead. Maybe he knows the truth like Oisin does, but it doesn’t matter much either way. He will not keep you. My nephew’s attention is only enraptured by pretty things.
I growl under my breath as I stomp into the maze. I know he was just trying to get under my skin, but intellectualising it doesn’t stop it from working. Mostly because it doesn’t matter whether Aodhan is right or not. Lark can’t keep me and I can’t keep him.
The walls of the maze shift around me, subtle twitches of leaves and branches, giving me a sense of eagerness and interest. I reach out a hand and stroke a finger over one of the yew leaves.
It flutters at my touch. I can’t hear the party from here, even though I’m not far away at all.
That’s fine. It’s nicer. No one is here to look at me, to judge me.
I don’t have to watch Lark and the others; even Ophelia seems to belong here more than I do.
I scoff and shake my head, walking further into the maze.
It’s hardly the best time to throw myself a pity party, but I’m not sure I can go back and watch Lark announce that Oisin will rule beside him either.
Forget what Grant insinuated to Zomo about me and Lark and Ophelia; she and Oisin are clearly wearing matching outfits.
They’ll all expect…
“It doesn’t matter,” I say aloud. The words are faint, ring hollow.
It matters to me, even if it shouldn’t, even if it’s a tiny blip in the grand scheme of what we’re supposed to be dealing with right now.
It hurts me. It’s not going to stop when I go home, either.
I want to come back. I want to spend time with Lark, now that it seems like he wants that too, whenever I can.
But I know the truth. How often would I come here? How welcome would I feel?
Leaves whisper behind me, and when I glance back, the way I just came is now blocked by branches. “Well, that’s just rude,” I mutter, and the walls around me shake like the maze is amused.
Oh, am I losing it? Maybe. But maybe not, because I’m fairly sure this maze is alive and I shouldn’t have walked in here, but I don’t feel any of the panic I expect at the idea I might be trapped.
Trapped in here means I don’t have to go back out there, so I keep walking.
It’s not long before I find what seems to be the centre of the maze.
Not long at all, so I run my fingers over one of the walls, hoping that the maze understands, if it can understand anything, that I’m grateful.
The ground here is covered in lush grass, foxgloves and bluebells quivering in a faint, cool breeze.
I wander into the centre of the space and sit down, careful not to crush any flowers, then, after a few seconds, stretch out on my back to stare up at the sky.
With the suns out and high, of course I can’t see how many stars there are. I can’t see if any more of them have gone out.
And that’s the crux of the matter, too. Lark is only here because of me, because the deal he struck with the witch means that helping me and Ophelia has him trapped wearing a crown, but it is important that he does it.
If this realm collapses, what would happen to the fae here?
What would happen to our realm, too? That much magic, held back only by a magical barrier anyway—
I shiver. It’s terrible to think about.
Blades of grass around me shake and I push up onto my elbows, blinking away the glare of the suns as a figure comes into view.
Lark. He emerges from another path, breathing hard, all his hair in disarray. I frown at him.
“Are you all right?” I ask. He looks like he’s been running. Why would he run?
“Me? Yes. I am fine. You—” The words are quick, short, and I don’t understand why.
“I’m fine,” I reply with a little shrug. “I like it in here.”
“You… like it?”
I huff and flop back down again. It’s easier to talk to Lark when I don’t have to look at his face. “Yes. It’s peaceful. No one is looking at me.”
He lets out a little growl. I don’t lift my head. Not even when his footsteps draw near, which I can’t hear, but the grass brushes against my skin and tells me he’s getting closer. The magic here is heady, even if it’s not for me.
“I can tell them not to look at you,” Lark says.
I open my eyes, not sure precisely when I closed them, and let out a bark of laughter. Lark is standing over me now and he purses his lips mulishly.
“You’re joking,” I say.
“I am not.”
“Lark…” I sigh. He’s been so forbidding for such a long time.
Even when he found Vasile and called me to come and help save him, he didn’t seem ruffled or panicked.
The memory makes me want to laugh, dark as it was.
At the time, I couldn’t work out why Lark would ring me.
Drew was working at the café by then and Ophelia has always been our healer, even when she and Sam and I weren’t officially a coven.
Why would he ask for me?
I study him through narrowed eyes. Maybe he wanted some comfort too. Maybe he wanted to be sure I was safe.
“We will make the announcement soon,” he says, and my mood deflates. It wasn’t particularly good to begin with. I make no move to get up and Lark’s fingers twitch.
He’s impatient. I’ve seen that before. Not in everything. He was very patient when he was training Drew to work in the café. But he’s impatient when he wants to close up for the night, except when it comes to ushering me and Ophelia out of there.
I hold out my hand. He reaches for it, obviously expecting to help me to my feet, and that’s what gives me the advantage. I pull hard, and Lark falls to his knees beside me.
Even unintentionally, the movement is graceful.
“Dante.”
“Lark.”
He sighs. “I told Oisin I would be back in time.”
“Go then.” He won’t. A strange feeling rises in me, and I feel a little sick but also my heart is beating too fast and I don’t want it to stop. He’s barely looked at me all afternoon. That’s the issue. One day of his eyes on me, and I don’t want anything else.
I’m spoiled. That’s the other issue. The dark little secret I keep to myself because truthfully, I kind of hate that I am, that I’m prone to jealousy and fits of pique, even if they’re only inside my own head. But I’ve been spoiled my whole life and one day of Lark’s attention has made it worse.
“I cannot leave you in here alone.”
“Will the plants eat me, do you think?”
“No.” Lark’s eyes dart about, and his magic butts up against me when he frowns. His next no is more confident.
“I don’t need to be there for the announcement, do I? No one will expect me to be. It’s pretty clear what they think of me.”
“They know nothing about you.”
“I know. That’s fine.” It’s not. And yet, it kind of is. I know, really, it doesn’t matter what the fae think of me. It’s better, even, if they underestimate me. That’s how Grant seems to get everything done.
Well, that and all his magic. And being a vampire.
“Dante.” My name is an exhale, and Lark leans over me like he did after our nap yesterday afternoon. I didn’t want him to kiss me then. I couldn’t bear it.
If he doesn’t do it now, I think I might die.
He hovers just above me. He braided his hair this morning, the first time I’ve ever seen him do it, and the plait hangs over his shoulder, threaded through with tiny beads that catch the light.
He’s still on his knees, resting by my hip, but one hand is planted next to my head and he’s not quite close enough…
“I will not do something you will later regret.”
“And you won’t regret it?” I ask.
“Fae deal in indulgences, not regrets,” Lark replies. His expression softens, almost a smile. “I could never regret a moment spent in your company. I never have.”
My breath catches. Never? We haven’t spent that much time alone at all, but I’ve spent countless hours in the café, with or without other members of the pack, but Lark’s always been there, one true constant and I—
I grab the front of his tunic, not caring at all that I’m wrinkling the fabric, and drag him down until our lips meet.
Lark doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t freeze when I press my mouth to his.
No. He fucking melts into it, curving his body down over mine and making a faint, desperate noise that for one second I think is a sob.
It’s not. I pull back just enough to check, but Lark chases my mouth, and our lips catch again and again until I slide a hand over his shoulder and his tongue snakes into my mouth.
Oh, God. Heat rises under my skin. Lark’s magic brushes against mine with every kiss, and I do what I can to drag him closer, parting my legs so he can push one knee between them, tugging on his tunic until his lithe body is pressed against mine.
Self-consciousness strikes me quickly, and I jerk back with a gasp. Lark has my face in his hands and kisses just next to my mouth.
“What is it?” he murmurs. He’s otherworldly without his glamour, but even more so now that his lips are slick and swollen and his cheeks are faintly flushed.
“I—Sorry. Nothing.”
“Dante.” That tone is a warning.
“I don’t think we have time to go through all of it,” I say, aiming for some kind of sarcastic, airy tone and missing by a country mile. Lark sighs and kisses my chin.
“I am not good at guesswork,” he admits, “which should be clear by now. Please. Tell me.”
I squirm. He hasn’t stopped touching me, which is a good sign, and he doesn’t seem inclined to move away, either.
“It’s silly,” I say.
Lark kisses my jaw. My breath shudders out of me. “Go on.”
“You’re… You know what you look like.”
“Yes?”
“No, I mean, you’re just so fucking hot, you know, and I don’t—I’m not—”