Never here, where the presence of the bed ensures an unsettling tension settles over the room.
“What did you want?” I can’t forget our earlier argument, or the way he stormed out. Nor can I forget the aftermath of what happened in the tower.
And neither does he, judging by the heated look in his eyes.
“I won’t apologize,” he says. “I have my people to think of. Every fae in this world will suffer if this leanabh an dàn isn’t found before Angharad can get her hands on him or her.”
I close the book with a sharp little snap. “And I won’t apologize for what I said either. I do think the life of one child, one soul, is worth more than a sacrifice. Surely there has to be some other way to prevent this.”
“Which is why I’m here,” he tells me. “I will give you two weeks to help me find this leanabh an dàn before I decide its fate—”
“Before you decide?” Incredible.
His eyes light with wicked fire. “Before we decide its fate. To do that, we need to know more about Angharad’s plans.”
“Your friend Cian can’t tell you?”
“He’s currently busy,” Thiago replies, “and I don’t want to risk his deception within the Unseelie court.”
Interesting. Cian must be highly placed in the Unseelie world if he’s close to Angharad.
Slinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I sit up. “Then how are we to discover her plans?”
“We’re going to Stormhaven,” he says.
Another slap in the face.
Prince Kyrian rules the Isle of Stormhaven. “Do you… think that’s wise?”
“Kyrian’s met you in the past. You were never friends, but he won’t harm you. Not unless he wants to face me.”
“But why Stormhaven?”
“Can I trust you not to share this information with your mother?”
“Right now,” I reply coldly, “the only things I want to share with my mother are my thoughts on this entire arrangement. Loudly. I’m not her little puppet anymore. I’m no one’s puppet”—this with a warning glare in his direction—"and she hasn’t bothered to contact me again.”
He leans back against the doors. “Kyrian is the Master of Storms. He has a device that can see and listen through any droplet of water in the realms. He can spy on Angharad for me.”
That’s a powerful weapon in the wrong hands, because, while I’ve heard of sorcerers being able to use mirrors for such a purpose, you can always ward them.
Water is everywhere.
“When do we leave?”
“At first light. I’ll wake you at dawn,” he promises, turning toward the door. “Be ready.”
He’s halfway through when I can’t bear it anymore. This odd sense of tension looms between us, and I don’t know how to break it.
“Wait.”
He pauses there, glancing back. “Yes?”
My heart starts racing. “I owe you a kiss.”
“I thought you needed time.”
I don’t think time’s going to make any difference to the mess of confusion in my head, but maybe this will.
I close the distance between us and, pressing a hand to his chest, stretch up on my toes. “Are you declining my offer?”
Thiago’s eyelids hood his eyes, his breath whispering over my mouth. “Never.”
“Thank you.” I whisper the words against his lips. “For listening to me about this leanabh an dàn.”
And then I lean into the kiss.
His mouth softens beneath mine, dangerously carnal in its allure.
It’s a different kiss than the one we shared when I nearly set the bed on fire. This one is soft with longing, and I can feel the anger in him softening, all his harsh edges easing as he leans into me.
The heat of his mouth is becoming familiar. More so when his hand slides down my spine and cups my ass aggressively. The action grinds me against him, and I break the kiss with a gasp.
It’s more than I expected.
And the look in his eyes says he’d like to throw me over his shoulder and slam me down on the bed if he could.
Or against a wall, where I could wrap my legs around his hips.
Or maybe those are just my thoughts, tempted by the solid heat of this male and the promise in his eyes. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.
This time, there’s a smile on his lips when he sees the effect he has on me.
“Sweet dreams, Princess,” he says, lifting my hand to his mouth and brushing a kiss there, his eyes shining with feral intensity.
He’s picturing it too.
I know it.
I curl my hand into a fist. Thalia suggested I simply enjoy what he’s offering, but some part of me can’t help feeling as though, if I make that decision, I’ll send the pair of us hurtling to a final, desperate conclusion.
25
The next day, Thiago leads me to the chambers that house the Hallow. It’s in the second-tallest tower of the palace, overlooking the sprawl of city below.
I peer through the arched windows, hungry for the sight of his city. Golden Ceres is known as the City of the Dawn, and with its rough-hewn sandstone, golden banners, and gleaming blue rooves, it looks it. The sea glistens in the distance, and gulls wheel through the air. It teems with life, a stark contrast to Valerian.
“This is the political center of Evernight,” the prince muses, resting a hand on the arch at my side, his body caging me in the open window. “Though I often feel more at home in Valerian despite the snows and the wraiths.”
“You feel like you belong in your City of the Dead?” It’s a strange confession to make.
He glances toward me, the sharp lines of his cheekbones giving him a feral sort of beauty. There’s an untamed wildness to his features that’s both alluring and unnerving. I can’t help feeling as though he’d shed this skin if he could, with all its courtly trappings, and reveal the real man beneath.
“Ceres was built by my queen,” Thiago says softly, turning his gaze back to the city. “Those golden banners aren’t mine. If you look closely, you’ll see the rising dawn emblem upon them.”
My gaze returns to them, understanding exactly what he’s not saying.
This city may belong to him, but some of the fae here will never accept him.
“Some of the city folk call me ‘abomination’ when they think I can’t hear them.” His voice drops to a soft croon. “Sometimes I walk the city in a cloak of illusions, and I hear them talk of the old days when the queen ruled. Of her legitimate sons. Prince Emyr was a monster, and Prince Arawn no warrior, but to hear the fae speak of it, both were heroes. They forget the day Emyr had forty craftsmen strung up for protesting the new taxes. They ignore the little girl he rode over when she didn’t move out of his way fast enough. Everywhere he went, he filled the ground with coffins and the streets with blood. His mother despaired of ever breaking him of his arrogance and cruelty, but she merely sent him to different posts in the hopes he’d stop. That’s the monster they call the True Heir.”
“History often softens the stark reality of the truth.”
“And I’m an impure bastard who murdered the rightful heirs and stole their mother’s throne.” This time, his smile holds edges. “When Emyr was a golden-haired warrior with a smile that could light up a room.”