My wolf whines inside me, pacing restlessly against the cage of my ribs. He doesn’t understand why our mate won’t wake, why she won’t respond to our calls, our scent, our presence. He only knows she needs us, and we’re failing her in some fundamental way.
Hours pass like years. The rain continues its assault on the windows, drumming against the glass with a rhythm that should be soothing but only serves to remind me of all the dangers still hunting us. I drift in and out of consciousness, never fully sleeping but never fully awake either, caught in that liminal space between rest and vigilance. Every time I stir, I check Esme, her pulse, her breathing, her temperature, like a ritual that might keep her tethered to this world.
Sometime deep in the night, when the storm has quieted to a gentle patter, she begins to warm. Her skin no longer feels like death given form, and her heart beats a little stronger against my chest. Hope flares in my chest like a candle lit in absolute darkness.
“That’s it, Angel,” I murmur, pressing my lips to her temple. “Come back to me. To us.”
I think of Locke, out there somewhere in the storm, hopefully alive and whole. Fighting for her too, in his own way, drawing danger away from us with his own body as bait. The thought should make me jealous, territorial, possessive in the way of my kind, but all I feel is a strange kinship with him. We’re both bound to this extraordinary woman, both willing to die for her, both changed by her in ways we’re probably only beginning to understand.
As dawn breaks, spilling weak gray light through the curtains, Esme stirs. Just a small movement, her fingers twitching against my chest, but it’s enough to have me bolt upright, suddenly wide awake.
“Esme?”
Her eyelids flutter but don’t open. A soft sound escapes her lips, not words, just a sigh, a whisper of consciousness returning to a body that’s been empty too long.
“Angel, I’m here. You’re safe.” I cradle her face in my hands, studying her features for any sign of awareness. “We made it to Briar Row. To the Dog & Dagger. Locke led the soldiers away from us.”
At Locke’s name, her brow furrows slightly, the first real expression I’ve seen cross her face since she fell. Another good sign she can hear me, she’s processing what I’m saying.
“He’s not here yet, but he’ll come. I know he will.” The certainty in my voice surprises me, but I do believe it. I believe Locke will find us, that he survived whatever hell he charged into to keep us safe. “Just rest now. Heal. I’ve got you, and I’m not letting go.”
I settle back down beside her, pulling her close again. This time, she curls into me slightly, her body recognizing mineeven if her mind is still floating somewhere between here and wherever she went during those trials.
Outside the room, I hear movement, Lucky, probably, starting her day, preparing for whatever customers might brave the weather. The tavern will open soon, life going on around us while we’re suspended in this fragile moment between life and death, between hope and despair.
I press my lips to Esme’s forehead and close my eyes, finally allowing myself to rest.
“I love you,” I whisper against her skin. “And I’ll wait as long as it takes for you to come back to us.”
We’re fighting on two fronts now and time is not on our sides.
CHAPTER TWENTY
RUE
The thing about being underestimated is that it’s addictive. The thrill is like the taste of a fine wine that grows more intoxicating with each sip.
Let them think I’m just a snide little whisper with a penchant for fashion and flamboyance. Let them giggle behind their jeweled fans and call me the general’s charity case, the pretty orphan boy who dresses too well and speaks too loudly. Let them ignore the way I vanish without sound, slip between cracks in the veil like water through silk, and return with secrets I shouldn’t know. Secrets that could topple kingdoms if whispered in the right ears.
Because when I wear this smile, paint my words in honey and venom, flutter my lashes and speak in theatrical sighs, no one sees the blade behind my back. No one remembers the nights I’ve spent in the shadows, learning the art of death from masters who taught me that survival often depends on being dismissed as harmless.
No one remembers I am the King’s Shadow.
Not even the king himself, sometimes. I love that the most. The way his eyes widen when I materialize behind him, theway his hand flies to his chest as if his ancient fae heart might actually stop. Nothing like scaring the most powerful fae in the realm from time to time. A fae has to get his kicks where he can get them, after all.
I wasn’t born a shadow. After my parents were killed, General Erron took me in, not out of affection, but obligation, maybe guilt. Locke and I were raised under the same roof, though never quite as equals. He was the heir to a legacy. I was the boy who lingered on the edges, sharp-eyed and silent. The king noticed though, he saw me, saw the way I could listen without being seen. Disappear when it mattered. While Locke trained with blades, I learned how to become invisible. We were both forged for war, just in different ways. He became the sword, I became the whisper.
It wasn’t kindness that made the king claim me. It was utility. I’ve never needed love. Only purpose, and secrets give me that in spades.
I leave my horse in the mossy brush outside the village, tied near an old inn that smells like boiled root vegetables and ale gone sour. The weathered building sags under the weight of years, its timber walls stained dark with moisture and neglect. The road into Castle Noire bristles with soldiers in full Night Court regalia, sigils gleaming like stars against black armor, blades polished to mirror brightness, postures rigid as iron rods. They’re out in full force, standing at attention every few yards along the cobblestone path, their eyes scanning the horizon with predatory focus.
The question is why.
Something’s wrong. Ole daddy Sylviane would never parade his soldiers like this without reason, without cause. The general is many things, ambitious, ruthless, calculating, but he’s not wasteful. Every move he makes serves a purpose, and thisdisplay reeks of desperation disguised as strength. So, I do what I do best. I listen.
The market square buzzes with nervous energy as vendors hawking their wares with forced cheer while their eyes dart toward the armed patrols. I pass a group of farmers whispering near a stall of overripe grapes, their voices low but not low enough to escape fae hearing.
“They say the princess is missing,” one says, lifting a heavy barrel over his head with arms that speak of decades of hard labor. His weathered face creases with worry.
