Chapter 44
Piper’s silent study makes me shift in my seat.
The smile that slowly spreads over his face reminds me of dawnlight. A bright new beginning.
He comes over and sets my plate in front of me. It’s practically heaving, a monstrous assortment of food that covers every inch.
Emboldened, I slip out of my own chair, getting to my feet. He watches curiously as I squeeze past him, our bodies almost touching but not quite. He makes the quietest noise in the back of his throat as we lock eyes, and then I turn for the table.
With this bubbling feeling in my veins, I drift to his side and pick up his plate. He raises a brow but says nothing as I start looking over the platters, choosing things for him to eat just as he did for me.
He wrinkles his nose at a gray paste I spread over a slice of bread. “You sure you want to add that?”
My lips twitch, and I do a double slather. “Yep.”
I choose several other things, realizing with every selection I add, I’m enjoying myself even more. Especially when he huffs at a rather green-colored egg. Once I place the overfilled plate at his place setting, I’m practically giddy.
He moves back to his chair, looking from the plate to me as I sit back down across from him. “You know, for a fiend who smells so sweet, that was quite nasty.”
It takes great effort to hold in my laugh. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say innocently. “You filled my plate, so I thought I would fill yours.”
He sits down and points at the shells filled with milky clams that are rimmed in an unfortunate gunk. “That one’s not even cooked.”
“Hmm. I’m sure there’s something on there you’ll like,” I reply breezily as I pick up my fork.
He shoves aside the platter of roasted pig between us so we can see each other better. “Can you tell me which of my deeds has earned such a spectacular array on my dinner plate? And don’t say kidnapping. That one has run its course.”
“Fine. Chasing me down in the forest, telling me to heel like a pet, forcing me to sleep in your tent, on your bedroll—”
“I was keeping you warm.”
I continue without reaction. “Making me ride your horse.”
“Of course. How horrible of me to make sure you didn’t have to walk for miles on end with your injuries.”
My eyes narrow. “While tied to the saddle— and jerking your horse over so that I was assaulted by tree branches. And that was after you threatened to let me drag.”
He winces. “Okay, it can be that. I wouldn’t have actually done it, but that wasn’t my best moment.”
“You think?”
“To explain, I’d just had a sleepless night in a tent with a fiend who’d been pressed up against me for hours.”
A blush spreads up my neck. “I was not pressed against you.”
Amusement sparkles in his eyes. “You were.”
Fates, was I?
I yank up my fork and start stabbing things on my plate.
“Even if I was, I was unconscious, so I didn’t deserve your foul temper. You should manage your emotions better.”
“You’re right.”
I glance across at him, surprised.
“What?” he says with a shrug. “I can admit when I’m wrong.”
“Hmm. Maybe your ego isn’t as bulging as I thought.”
His expression turns wicked. “Always so concerned with my bulges.”
I nearly topple over. Instead, I take a bite of the jellied slice that looks the unpleasant color of tongue. But my eyes widen when the fruity flavors burst in my mouth, the texture surprisingly smooth. “This is delicious.”
He nods. “I thought you might enjoy that. I had a feeling you’d have a sweet tooth.”
“Why?” I ask before popping in another mouthful.
“Because your blood smells like spun sugar.”
I pause.
“Of course, that was after we flushed the infection out of you. Before that, your blood smelled positively rancid.”
I tsk. “You almost went an entire conversation without saying I reeked. You were quite close, Piper.”
His eyes flicker. “Call me Varrik.”
My teeth clutch on to my bottom lip before I release it to speak his name softly. “Varrik.”
An expression flashes on his face. Something I can’t name.
To call him Varrik instead of Piper feels monumental. Like I’ve gone past the notorious Core fae to finally face the man beneath.
“I like the sound of my name on your lips,” he murmurs, and I pause, staring at him and unable to blink. Then, much to my surprise, he adds, “I didn’t like the powder covering your freckles.”
My fingers lift to swipe at the spots, even though he already wiped it off. “Oh, I—”
“I like seeing you.”
Within my chest, my heart flips. Stumbles on unsteady ground.
I swallow hard. “But I’m a fiend,” I say carefully.
His gaze flicks up to my horns that are ringed in silver crowns. “Yes. I know.”
“That’s not a problem for you? Because you acted before as if it was.”
“No. It’s not.”
He answers with such definitive ease that I falter.
Fates, this is far more than a dinner. Those consequences I worried about seem to be piling up faster than I expected. One wrong move and they could tumble. I could drift too far out in his sea, unable to pull myself back to shore.
I dunk a piece of pastry into the accompanying drizzle of syrup, just to try to find my footing again. After a few more minutes, I’ve eaten every single morsel of that, plus a couple other choices, and I feel a bit bad for loading him up with the more . . . unappetizing-looking things.
“Sorry about your plate,” I tell him. “Mine was delicious.”
“Are you truly sorry?” he asks around a smirk.
I wrinkle my nose at the clam sludge leaking over his plate. “A bit.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “You can make it up to me next time.”
Next time. As in, he wants to do this again. My belly warms.
“Has anyone else’s magic latched to someone in your group?” I ask.
“Yes. Garren.”
My eyebrows lift in surprise. “Really?”
He nods, frowning around a bit of diced-up meat. “To a fae woman who lives here in the city.”
“And are they . . .?” My words drift off.
“Are they what?”
I shrug and glance down at my plate, taking the last bite of fluffy potatoes. “Are they together . . . romantically?”
“Yes,” he says simply, before choosing one of the cups in front of him and taking a gulp of red wine. “Like I said, attraction comes first. Every latched pair I know of is together.”
I gnaw on my lip before reaching out for one of my own cups.
“Try the blue one,” he suggests.
Moving my hand, I grab the bubbly blue wine and take a tentative sip. Sweet fizziness explodes on my tongue, and I hum appreciatively around a gulp before I set the cup down and look at him. “Can I ask you something?”
He tips his head, giving me his undivided attention, the firelight from the torches casting him in a warm glow.
“After the earth cracked. What happened to you?”
Something extinguishes in his eyes. “That’s not a pretty story.”
“I know,” I say, guilt climbing up my throat. “But I’d like to learn more about you.”
He lets out a sigh and sits back. “Everyone else died where I was, including my younger brother.”
My memory flashes to the sketch. “I saw a drawing in your bedroom drawer,” I admit. “Was that him?”
He nods. “Trigg.” His jaw works, like he’s grinding down his emotions. “He didn’t make it. No one from my training base did.”
It makes sense that he was a soldier. Seeing him wield that sword back in the desert, plus the strength of his body alone, makes me picture it easily.
But beneath the strength, there’s a grief behind his eyes that makes my throat tighten. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
“Mine isn’t much different from the stories of every other Core fae. We all experienced death that day.”
I swallow hard. “And the Banes?”
His shoulders visibly tense. “What about them?”
“You had to fight them?”
“I did. Alongside many other Core. But it’s not something I’d like to go into tonight.”
I glance down. “I understand.”
“I’d rather not speak of dark things.” He picks up his fork and knife and starts to cut through a thick sausage. “What about you?” he asks. “Tell me about your life in Hamelyn.”
And he said he didn’t want to speak of dark things . . .
I shrug. “We’ve had our fair share of Plagues.
None as devastating as what happened that night with the Rats, of course, but I guess that was inevitable, since our Govern isn’t very .
. . proactive. City patrol is harsh with their punishments, and I’ve dealt with plenty of fae thinking I’m the scourge of Brekon’s sickness.
A lot of rebukes have been tossed my way over the years. ”
His jaw tightens. “They shouldn’t do that. Your Govern is to blame.”
I don’t doubt that.
“But I grew up with my mother and aunt, and they’re wonderful. I’ve always lived with love, which is more than most fiends can say, so I know I’m blessed by the Fates.”
“There’s that faith again,” he notes. “Most fae have abandoned it or become complete zealots—that’s what leads to their condemnation of you. It isn’t logical, I hope you know that.”
It fills me with lightness to hear him try to reassure me.
“What do you think?” I ask curiously. “About the Fates.”
“I think that we’re on our own.”
For some reason, his answer saddens me. The way he says it, not with apathy, but with . . . hurt. It makes me think of a newborn fiend being left behind on a doorstep at an abandonment house.
I shake my head. “I don’t believe that.”
“Even though others rebuke you just for existing?”
“Even then.” When he watches me carefully, I add quietly, “My mother. She’s always prayed.”
“You’re very close with her.”
I nod, trying to fight back the swell of emotions at how badly I miss her.
When I reach for my wine to take another drink, his eyes drift down. “Blue.”
I pull the cup from my lips. “What?”
His head tilts toward where I grip my drink. “Your fingernails turn blue when you’re sad,” he says, making me go still. “Purple when you’re afraid or worried, I think. And when I first found you on that punishment post, they were pitch-black.” He watches me intently. “It’s not from paper dye.”
Setting the cup back down on the table, I swallow hard. He’s far too perceptive.
“You pay a lot of attention,” I mutter.
“I do when it comes to you.”
I can’t even begin to explain how that makes me feel.