49. WIllow
Chapter 49
WIllow
M orning light filters through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. I wake feeling more refreshed than I have in days, the weight of uncertainty lifted from my shoulders. As I dress for the day, I notice Legion’s stilted movements as he sits facing the window, rubbing his temples. The only part of his tailored suit he removed for sleep is the jacket. Dark shadows smudge beneath his long-lashed eyes.
Standing before the mirror, I run a crystal-handled brush through my hair, the silver strands slipping through my fingers.
“Didn’t you sleep?” I ask, catching Legion’s reflection turning my way. “Was it because you didn’t want to risk the spectacles falling off?”
He gives me a look that could melt stone, his obsidian eyes flashing. “You were naked, Willow,” he grinds out, straightening his collar.
“Next time, I’ll wrap myself in a sack.”
In three long strides, he’s beside me, taking the brush from my hand. “Excellent idea.”
I grin, playing along. “Maybe I should start wearing Bodin’s old socks. That ought to keep you at a distance.”
“Brilliant,” he deadpans. “And why stop there? A touch of the Wild Hunt’s breath in your hair would add a lovely aroma of sour meat and decay.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and for a moment, the playful atmosphere charges with something more intense. I turn to face him, suddenly aware of his closeness.
“You know,” I say softly, “all this talk of hunts and socks . . . it’s kind of hot.”
Legion’s eyes shutter, and he takes a deliberate step back. “We should focus on more practical matters.”
I nod, feeling the loss of his warmth like a physical ache. Helping him keep his vow will be more challenging than I first imagined. He tugs the brush through his long hair, then tosses it onto the rumpled bed with a glare that could wither flowers.
“Right. Practical matters . . . like how I’m going to survive a morning of diplomatic meetings without falling asleep.”
“I’d suggest pinching yourself, but you’d probably enjoy it too much,” he quips.
“You’re probably right.”
For a heartbeat, I think he might close the distance between us. Instead, he clears his throat and orders, “Put your boots on.”
I do as told while he shrugs on his jacket, the fabric whispering as it settles over his broad shoulders. The metamorphosis is immediate. I felt his powerful body against mine last night. It’s not the bulky power like Bodin, but athletic and subtly explosive . . . almost like a dancer. If dancers could punch into a chest cavity and rip out a still-beating heart without breaking a sweat.
“Let’s go,” he says, his voice clipped. “We’re late for breakfast.”
“Wait.” I get serious for a moment. “What’s really happening out there? I want to talk about it before we leave. Why did we go on this expedition?”
His hands slip into his pockets, and he gives me an intelligent, sharp look. “The House of Shadow can impose martial law if danger is imminent.”
“But we’ve seen no Nightmares.”
“And therein lies the rub.”
He yanks the door open with more force than necessary, muttering under his breath about having to “now eat mortal food and pretending to like it.”
Even in his grumpy state, he exudes a potent aura of power and grace. His walk—each step purposeful and controlled—is dangerous but breathtakingly beautiful to watch. Staff scuttle out of his way—some blush and bluster when they look at his face. I know how they feel.
A group of servants round the corner, arms laden with trays of delicate crystal goblets. One young server stumbles upon seeing Legion’s face. Legion pulls me tight against him, shielding me with his body as the servant careens past, barely avoiding a collision.
We’re pressed together for a heartbeat, maybe two. I feel the solid warmth of his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat betraying his calm exterior. His dark eyes lock with mine. This close, I see flecks of white gold in their depths, like stars in a midnight sky.
As quickly as it happened, he sets me back.
“Are you alright?” he asks, voice rougher than usual.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
Legion turns to the still-trembling servant.
“More care in the future,” he says, tone brooking no argument.
The servant nods frantically before hurrying away, leaving us alone in the quiet hallway. Legion continues walking, but now his posture holds tension.
“You know,” I whisper as we near the Great Hall, “I think I prefer you grumpy. It’s much safer than when you’re being charming.”
He raises a dubious eyebrow. “Perhaps I should practice scowling more often.”
“Perfect,” I smile. “And I’ll work on my impression of dragon bait. Between the two of us, we’ll be the least appealing pair in all of Avorlorna.”
The Great Hall’s grandeur immediately strikes me. The vast circular space is carved directly from the mountain, its walls adorned with intricate geode formations that catch and reflect the light streaming in from high windows. Crystal chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, their facets casting rainbow prisms across the polished stone floor. At the center of the room stands a massive circular table. The Radiants are seated there, their faces animated as they converse, the clink of fine silverware punctuating their discussions. To the side, the Shadows occupy a smaller, less adorned table.
Legion’s hand, a comforting presence on my lower back, falls away. He drops seamlessly into his persona of the Knight Commander, his handsome face an impassive mask. With a curt gesture towards the smaller table, he says nothing and moves to join the “grown-ups.”
A staff member collects my bag and guides me to the only free chair. Unfortunately, it’s beside Alfie, but not even his sour look can dampen my mood.
“You’re in a good mood this morning,” he sneers.
Sitting on Alfie’s other side, Dahlia gives me a knowing smirk. “I wonder what put that blush on your face.”
“You would know,” Alfie shoots back at her darkly.
I ignore their continued bickering and help myself to food. The spread is a feast for both the eyes and the nose. Platters of glistening fruits are arranged like jewels, their colors vibrant against the pale stone dishes. Freshly baked breads release tendrils of steam, their yeasty aroma mingling with the sharp scent of aged cheese.
As I load my plate, I sneak glances at the Radiants, my eyes inevitably drawn to Legion. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders and the way his jaw clenches as he listens to whatever the Earl is saying.
I tune my shifter senses, hoping to catch snippets of conversation. Ignarius taunts Larkspur about the suspicious lack of Nightmares. Someone asks a pointed question about falsified reports. But before I can hear more, Alfie leans in, blocking my attention.
“There’s only one reason why a Shadow shares a room with their Radiant,” he says, voice low and accusatory.
I sigh, setting my fork down with a soft clink. “It’s none of your business, Alfie.”
His face flushes an angry red. “We’re engaged,” he hisses. “Or have you forgotten that?”
I pray to the Well for patience and look him dead in the eyes. “I know we’re in the House of Stone, but have you grown rocks in your head? We’re not engaged. We haven’t been for years. Move on.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize the table has gone silent. All eyes are on me, and I feel my cheeks heat. I replay what I just said in my head, hoping I haven’t revealed secrets. Alfie’s breathing grows heavier and more labored with each passing second, his anger palpable between us.
He’s going to be a problem. Part of me thought he’d lose interest, but attention is becoming an obsession. I’m not his biggest fan anymore, but I don’t want him killed by one of my six possessive mates.
The Earl stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. He declares loudly his intention to challenge Puck to a duel when they return to the Nexus, the winner to receive custody of the Baleful Hunt once and for all. Then, to my surprise, he gestures to Legion, announcing that the Knight Commander will be his second.
A frown pulls at my brows. What does this mean? Legion stares stonily ahead, giving a slight nod of confirmation, but his eyes betray nothing. The Earl sits, and the Radiants’ conversation becomes more trivial—the next scheduled revelry on the Gentle Interlude’s program—something about a new challenge for the leaderboard.
I roll my eyes and turn back to our table. Most Shadows discuss the duel’s implications in hushed, excited tones. Alfie has gone quiet, his thoughts turned inward. At least it’s not me he’s focused on anymore. He’s tapping a chaser charm on his thigh, a rhythmic pattern that sends a telltale tingle of magic brushing against my skin.
“What are you doing?” I ask, suspicion coloring my voice.
He drops the stone like it’s hot. “Nothing,” he replies too quickly. “It’s none of your business.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, deciding to let it go for now. At this point, engaging in conversation with him is more trouble than it’s worth. I turn my attention to wrapping a few more delicious-looking cakes and treats from the table in crisp linen serviettes. Maybe I can sneak more into my bag. The troop will love them.