Chapter 29
Determination carries me through the rest of the torturous evening.
While we dine at Augustus’s country estate, I smile, talk, and laugh along with Leto and the other guests who, for once, deign to speak to me.
I compliment the food—rich, spiced, plated with deliberate excess—though I barely taste it.
When Anders asks about my research into my continent’s history, I tell him I haven’t learned much yet, but that I look forward to meeting with him again so I might learn about Mountain Fae.
I do not miss the way his blue eyes flare and dart to Rian.
Rather than wonder at the reaction, I turn to Hali and ask about her earth magic.
Anyone watching would believe I’m enjoying myself. That I’m content. Happy, even.
But inside, I seethe and plot.
Power coils within me, tight and restless, a serpent poised to strike.
I keep it leashed through dinner, through the endless clatter of plates and hollow laughter, and through the long carriage ride back to the mayor’s palace, where Leto finally drifts into sleep, worn down by a night of smiling and meaningless pleasantries. He could be a politician.
In the carriage, I sit in the moonlit dark, silent.
Every breath is measured, every thought disciplined, as I hold my power back. Because I know precisely when and where I intend to unleash it.
When we finally arrive at the palace, I step down from the carriage and murmur a goodnight to a drowsy Leto before it rattles away, carrying him home.
My sandals whisper against the stone as I climb the steps to the palace doors.
The marks along my arms tighten and stir beneath my flesh. They aren’t responding to the chill in the air, but to the storm I’m barely holding back.
Good.
I don’t know for certain whether the marks are linked to Rian, whether he can feel the anger burning through me, but I hope he does.
I hope it presses against him like a blade at his throat.
I hope he feels how deeply I regret ever doubting my initial thoughts about the Shadow Prince.
Rian is not my friend. Not even my ally.
He is an enemy who is using me while he carries out his own plans.
Now I need to free myself from him for good.
And I need Darius to do it.
I stalk down the palace corridor, ignoring the wary glances and hushed whispers that trail in my wake. Servants flatten themselves against the walls as I pass.
Heat seeps into my palms, light magic stirring, eager to be used. With every step closer to Darius’s room, the pressure inside me builds.
At this hour, I can’t think of anywhere else he’d be. But if he’s not here, I won’t stop searching. I will scour every corridor, every common room, until dawn if I must.
The carpet muffles my footsteps as I tread down the third floor. The bottom of my gown flows around my legs as I stop at the door across from mine.
No sound comes from within.
Jaw clenched, I knock once then push the door open.
Yes!
Darius lies sprawled across his bed, shirtless, tossing a stone into the air.
“Back so soon?” He catches the stone and throws it again, not bothering to look at the door. “Don’t tell me you’re tired of schmoozing with the mayor’s lovely daughter?”
I grind my teeth together and ignore the pang that strikes my chest. “Why are you avoiding me?”
“Mother!” Darius yelps, bolting upright.
The stone drops and clips the top of his head.
He winces, rubbing the spot. “Elara? What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” I close the door and lean against the solid wood, arms crossed, blocking his escape.
His gaze flits over me, then down at himself. He jerks, grabs a black tunic, and yanks it over his head.
The corner of my lip twitches. “Since when are you modest?”
His cheeks color, and he mutters, “Since I like my head attached to my neck.”
I frown.
“Why are you avoiding me?” I ask again.
He slides off the bed and straightens to his full height. “What makes you think I’m avoiding you?”
“Instinct.” I steel my nerves. “Is this about the other night? Because I was drunk, and I’m sorry that I—”
“Mother, no!” Now even the pointed tips of his ears are red. “That’s not it at all.”
My brows furrow. “Then what?”
He shakes his head and runs his hand through his messy hair. “I’ve been busy carrying out Rian’s business.”
“Oh, yes…” I look at his bed meaningfully. “You looked very busy just now.”
“It’s the middle of the night. I’m tired. I was resting.”
His words carry a ring of truth.
I push off the door and close the distance between us. My healer training takes over, and I scan his face. Note his posture. Observe his breathing.
He’s paler than normal. There’s a bluish tint to his lips. If my power flowed into his veins, I’m certain it would reveal that the curse has spread.
My shoulders sag. “You’re ill.”
“I’ve always been ill,” he quips.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What for? Your magic was recovering from your first attempt to heal me and your battle with the Pelagor.” He shrugs. “I saw no reason to burden you.”
“You’re not a burden, Darius.”
“Of course not.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Everyone knows I’m the glue that holds this band of ruffians together. The cadre would fall apart without my influence.”
I purse my lips. “Then you will let me heal you?”
“By all means.” He strides over to one of the chairs situated in front of the roaring fireplace and drops into it with a lazy wave of his hand. “Do your worst.”
I take Darius in. Really take him in.
Aside from physical fatigue, there’s a hollowness in his eyes. A dimness that has nothing to do with a curse.
He’s drained.
It could be as he says. He could’ve been busy with Rian’s tasks—tasks to help the Shadow Fae accomplish whatever goal took us away from Astloria’s shores in the first place.
But my gut tells me otherwise.
Sometimes, physical injuries can damage our minds. Our will. And those injuries are much more difficult to treat.
I sit in the chair opposite him, perched on the edge of the cushion. I chew the inside of my cheek and debate whether to ask the question burning the tip of my tongue.
“Well?” he prompts.
I release the breath I’d been holding. “Tell me about Petra.”
It is as if every speck of light drains out of Darius’s being.
His easy smile vanishes, his jaw tightening.
“No,” he clips out.
His voice is low with a hint of danger.
I press on anyway. “You said I connected with your mind when I healed you.”
His lips twist into a scowl. “I was mistaken.”
“Don’t lie to me.” I frown. “I’m trying to help you.”
His eyes flash. “Help me?”
“Yes.”
“You invaded my mind!” He jumps to his feet. “You read my memories.”
“Not on purpose.” I stand, unwilling to allow him to hover over me with his superior height: I won’t cower. “The vision overcame me when I attempted to heal you. It…it felt like an attack from the curse dwelling within you.”
His eyes continue to flash, his anger unabated by my words. “I don’t care. We will not discuss it or her. Not now. Not ever.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“But it’s clearly important.” I throw my hands in the air. “She gave you poison!”
“She had no choice!” Darius yells.
His breathing stutters, and his gaze unfocuses, looking as if he’s trapped in the snares of a haunting memory.
A memory I need to understand.
“Petra worked for the king,” I say softly.
His handsome face twists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.
“She gave you poison,” I continue. “On his orders. But she matters to you. It’s obvious you care for her.”
“Cared.”
I blink. “Sorry?”
His eyelids part, and the emptiness within them makes my stomach clench.
“Cared,” he repeats. “I cared for her.”
I search his gaze. “What happened?”
He huffs and looks away, staring at the roaring flames in the hearth. “Petra is dead.”
The words strike me as surely as a knife to the heart, twisting deep when fresh agony ripples over Darius’s face.
“I’m sorry.”
He dips his chin, continuing to stare into the flames.
I should stop.
I should move along and do what I came here to do and try to heal him.
But the defeated set of his shoulders and lack of a smile are so unlike the charming, boisterous male I’ve come to know. It’s impossible not to worry—to not want to know more.
Darius has masked his emotions with smiles and a quick wit. With jokes and winks.
But despite his protests, this is something he needs to talk about. He won’t heal if he doesn’t.
So, with no inflection, no judgment, I ask, “What was in the vial Petra gave you?”
He blinks slowly.
Then his eyes shift and meet mine; anguish burns in their depths. “Surely you have an idea. Seeing as you brought it up.”
“I’d prefer not to guess.”
A sigh blows past his lips.
He drops back down into the chair behind him. “The contents in the vial initiated my curse.”
My pulse thrums in my ears.
I sit back onto my own chair. “Is that why Petra is dead?”
“No.” The crackle and sizzle of firewood punctures the air. “The vial had nothing to do with Petra’s death.”
“Then what happened?”
Darius stares at his fisted hands. “It’s no secret among Shadow Fae that Petra worked for King Marek. Many suspected he took her as his lover. Only those closest to me knew that would never happen.”
Darius’s dark eyes swirl.
I wait patiently, giving him time to find the words to explain.
Seconds pass.
I contemplate changing the subject, moving on to my attempt to heal him, when he reveals—
“Petra was my mate.”
A shocked gasp escapes my throat before I can stop it. “What?”
His lips curl into a small, somewhat sincere grin. “Congratulations, Elara. You’re now one of six living souls to know of my greatest treasure and tragedy.”
My heart is at risk of crumbling under the force of the pain and hurt radiating from the formidable Fae in front of me.
“Darius…” I don’t know what to say.
My knowledge of Fae mates is limited, but I understand they are rare. And valued.
For Darius to have found his and then lost her…and in the middle of all that, he also endured her betrayal…
“Why would your mate work for King Marek?" I ask.
“She didn’t.” Heavy eyes rise to meet mine. “She worked for Rian.”
“What?”