CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EMMERY
Only streaks of sights and sensations coloured Emmery’s mind as Destonne carried her back to Blackdawn—her cheek against a wet shirt, hard chest, a sticky hand in her hair, a wound splitting, blood spilling, a soothing voice when she woke and all she could do was whimper.
Each time a needle threaded into the deep gash in her arm, she jolted awake and her flames roared to life and came to her aid. The moment a draught tasting of buttered tarts and salt touched her tongue, she tumbled into the barrage of nightmares she’d run from all this time in Asaella.
Vesper’s bloodless face, a pool of crimson engulfing him.
Bodies burning in golden flame. Children shrieking.
Buildings crumbling around them.
That knife searing into Maela’s skin, hissing, replicating the very marks that haunted Emmery.
She woke once with a dry mouth, aching limbs, and heavy eyelids as she fumbled for the bottle she’d left at her bedside. Anything to drown the dreams, desperate to keep them away. But when she sipped the liquid, Emmery winced. It was too hot and bitter and minty.
“That’s not yours,” a voice said.
Destonne.
Her head lolled and her eyes wouldn’t focus. A glass of water replaced the mug and though she clutched it, water sloshed over her trembling fingers. A warm touch helped the glass to her lips. As she gulped the water, it spilled down her front, but she didn’t care. Then she faded into sleep again.
By some miracle, she found herself in the Divide for the first time after arriving in Asaella, since the nightmares had kept her locked in their clutches and Shade hadn’t returned to save her.
Emmery pressed her fingers to her lips recalling their kiss, how her heart had soared like he’d breathed life back into her.
But maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he simply didn’t want to come back to her.
Alone, she slogged through the empty darkness.
Maybe it was the draught or she was truly desperate, but an idea popped into her head.
If she could replicate the night of their kiss, maybe Shade would come back to her.
Each time she blinked, another star appeared in the vast inky black until she’d painted the sky in golden flecks of light. Then she stood and waited.
Waited and waited and waited.
Just when she had given up hope, she felt a presence, his presence, like a chilled night breeze on the nape of her neck.
She froze, her limbs taut with both joy and fear.
Because what could she say? That she missed him more than life itself?
That she was lost without him? That her heart ached without him near? Gods, how pathetic.
Slowly she turned and blinked as if she couldn’t believe her own eyes.
Because there he was: a familiar cloud of black mist with the most stunning green eyes she’d ever seen. And he was here. He’d come back for her.
“Shade,” she exhaled his name in a sob, a plea, a beckoning for him to hold her.
He crossed the distance and she fell into him. His arms cocooned her, and she allowed herself to feel safe in this dying world and endless darkness. Only when she was with him.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he whispered into her hair.
Not willing to waste a single moment in this volatile place, Emmery stretched onto her toes and her lips found his face, his neck, anything she could reach, and she clung to him like an autumn leaf about to sever and float away from the only home it ever knew.
When she finally pulled away, she looked him over and really took him in.
His eyes she knew like the back of her hand, yet something was …
off. He smelled like cold dark magic, and now that she was unravelling it, he didn’t feel the same either.
In her gut, she knew. “You—you’re not Shade,” she whispered.
She stumbled back a step, but he gripped her shoulders. Emmery tried to struggle out of his hold but his fingers dug into her soft flesh. Her heart banged against her chest, each thud a cry to run far and fast. His smile, the haunting grin without a shred of joy—
It wasn’t Shade’s. And in the briefest flash, a single second, flicker of a moment, Shade’s eyes changed.
The green vanished.
Shifted to red. Not just any red, but the scarlet of gore, death, and blood.
Emmery screamed.
She lunged back into her body and sucked air as she sprang up from the bed.
Her hand flew to her chest and found a thick, woven bandage with a substance crusted around the edges.
The bandage swaddled her like an embalmed creature, from her wrists, halfway up her neck, down her torso, almost to the waistband of her sleeping shorts.
She traced a finger along the jagged slice down her forearm, which was now stitched and left uncovered to breathe.
Emmery frowned at the shorts Talia must have dressed her in.
At Emmery’s side, Aera’s amber eyes flicked up to meet hers, I told you so, written all over that gaze. Then the fox fell back into a sound sleep accompanied by shockingly loud snoring for such a small creature.
Emmery’s scabs flexed and pulled along with those deep stitches as she groaned and pressed her palms against her eyelids.
The memories trickled back. Briar had come to tell her she was heading to Ellynne for a few weeks. And Brennen. He’d been here too.
Emmery clutched the silk sheet and yanked it up to her chin. The sheets smelled familiar, like soap and mint and—
Gods. This wasn’t her bed.
Weren’t her sheets. Hers were white. Not black.
That wasn’t her nightstand, either. All this furniture was dark wood.
Compared to the castle’s lifeless decor and sterility, this room was the opposite. It was messy. Or messier. Lived-in.
Blankets and clothing had been strewn about. To her right lay a spectacular view of the skyline. Night air crept through the open window on a gentle breeze laced with promises of spring flowers and rain. Before the window, a half dozen mugs cluttered the surface of a bistro table with two chairs.
And there was colour—deep burgundy walls, mishmashed shades in the zigzag-patterned rug, and gold accents adorned the knobs, the black iron bed frame, and ties that bound the black velvety curtains.
To her left was a strange ornamental door with fancy carvings of lace and flowers, and between the bathing chamber and a closet, was a black armchair.
And in that chair sat none other than the King himself, casually flipping through a book.
Emmery opened her mouth to speak but no words came.
She was half naked. In Destonne’s bed. What the fuck was happening?
“Why—” she started, then gave her eyes another harsh rub to ensure she wasn’t dreaming. “Why am I here?”
Destonne didn’t look up from his book. “In my room or my bed?”
“Both.” She nearly choked at his nonchalance.
She’d never been allowed anywhere near his chambers before, not even when she’d been left in that blasted sitting room with that awful clock.
One day she’d even stalked down the hall to give him a piece of her mind, but the door had been locked, and gods only knew what he was doing in there.
Her lip curled in disgust as she glanced down at the sheets wrapped around her legs.
Likely noting her expression, he said, “Those are clean, other than your dirt. Someone had to keep an eye on you while your sheets were being laundered.”
“And you were forced to be that someone?” Emmery snorted. “Don’t you have healers for that? Or Brennen or … anyone?”
He glanced up from the book, licked his finger, and flicked to the next page. “I volunteered.”
Was this another move of control, or did he feel bad for what happened? If that was even possible. Still covered in the silken sheets, Emmery tucked her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them, though the movement aggravated her wounds.
Destonne set the book on his knee, and leaned forward with his hands steepled. “I need to apologize for being late. Had I been there, you wouldn’t have tried to kill yourself.”
“That’s not what happened,” she snapped. “I was tired of waiting and you were late. Again, I may add.”
“Did you have somewhere else to be? Some appointment you didn’t inform me of?” He lifted a brow.
Emmery glared at him from across the room and met his challenging stare.
“Keeping anyone waiting is rude. And I—” She stopped herself before she said too much.
He wouldn’t care about the clock and the horrific things happening in her mind.
How each tick embedded into her brain like a burrowing insect.
“I’m sorry I was late, but I also know you won’t admit when something bothers you. What is it about that sitting room? You hate it. I can tell.” He cocked his head to the side. “Tell me, and I can fix it. Don’t tell me, and I can’t. It’s that simple.”
“You can’t fix this,” she muttered. She wanted to yank that sheet over her head and hide from the King in his own bed. There was no fixing her.
“Try me,” he challenged, his eyes blazing. “Do we need to bring the game back? I’m happy to play with you.” His tone insinuated dark promises.
“Why don’t you explain why you can’t possibly be on time? And I’ll consider telling you why I hate the sitting room.”
Unease churned her stomach as he tapped his steepled forefingers in contemplation.
“What did you think I was doing?” he asked, his voice cautious.
Emmery narrowed her eyes on the King and noticed he didn’t have his chest slathered in ointment, and he’d suffered similar injuries.
Worse, actually. In fact, that V of skin he always had exposed was healed.
Was that part of the curse? That the thorns couldn’t kill him?
She shook the questions loose. “I don’t have any idea what you were doing and, honestly, I don’t want to know about your sex parties.
” The last two words came out in a breathless uncertainty, and the moment she said it, regret flooded her.
Destonne stared at her for a long moment, blinked maybe in shock or awe or something in between, then he threw his head back and laughed.