She blinked hard, and he was there, the man from the painting, closer than she expected, close enough for the light to catch on the fine silver threads woven through the dark of his coat. The pendant at his throat pulsed once in a muted violet, like the echo of a second heart. His face was all cool elegance and impossible symmetry, the kind of beauty that appears sculpted rather than born. His black hair, cut short on the sides and slightly longer on top, lay damp and lifted in the faintest curl at his temples. He stood with practiced confidence, as if every angle of his body had been rehearsed for centuries.
“You have lost someone,” he said, his voice smooth and resonant, the undertone of it making the air feel charged.
“My mother,” she said, unsure what had compelled her to answer. Her throat closed around the words.
“I am deeply sorry.” He stepped toward her, his gaze an icy emerald, a shade of green that would haunt her. With a touch that was entirely sure of itself, he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
Ella flinched before she could stop herself.
His smile sharpened, delighted by the reaction.
“You will see her again, Ellandria.”
The words should have sounded hollow; instead they sank into her like hope, and the tightness in her chest loosened enough for breath to move again. She should’ve felt fear fromthe way he used her name, like they were old friends, but the sincerity in his words had thrown her.
She let herself look at him fully then, as if only now daring to take measure. He was built with fervent grace, enough to both entice and intimidate. Ink wrapped his throat in intricate lines, black threaded with a faint silver shimmer, runes she didn’t recognize yet felt familiar nonetheless.
He smiled, almost to himself, as though he were glad she’d come. Like he’d been waiting. Then something shifted. He inhaled once, sharply. The smallest flare of his nostrils erased all warmth from his face, sincerity gone as if it had never lived there, and in its place, an intensity that was unnerving.
“Another man’s scent clings to you,” he said, velvet-dark, disdain threading through his tone like conviction. It left no room for protest or denial.
Her pulse stumbled in answer.
His mouth curved, not with kindness, but with accusation. “The last time I scented you marked with betrayal like this, you nearly cost lives, Ellandria. And in the Sacred Fae Garden, no less. Reckless little princess. Save that for someone who deserves you.”
Heat knifed up her throat, shame rising unbidden, yet a traitorous stir simmered low at the sound of his voice, like seduction wrapping around judgment; fury surged to drown it, but the betrayal of her own body made her want to bare her teeth.
He clicked his tongue once, the softesttsk, and stepped back as though the scent itself offended him.
“You were reckless then. Defiant now. Defy me again, and you will learn what it means to bleed for your choices.”
Ella swallowed, thoughts churning.
Fuck.
The ripple of wrath in the garden had been his. The creature that burst through the breach near the castle gate had been sent by him.
And now he dragged truth into the light from under her skin as if she were made of glass. Fury and humiliation warred behind her ribs, yet she forced herself not to react.
“Tell me your name,” she said, the demand out before she could pull it back. “If you know so much of me, I should at least know yours.”
His smile deepened and became a knife. “One day you will. One day my name will be all you think about. And you will earn the right to speak it.”
Her heart kicked hard. Heat crawled under her skin; sweat pricked her palms. She took a step back. “I do not know who you?—”
“You know enough,” he said, his jaw tightening, something like hurt flashing so quickly across his face she couldn’t be certain she’d seen it. “And yet you came to me. Again.”
She was about to say she hadn’t meant to, that she needed to leave. The thought had barely taken shape when his hand closed around her wrist. The speed stole her breath. No human moved like that, not even close, but she’d known from the first time she laid eyes on him that he wasn’t human.
His grip on her wrist was unyielding—not crushing at first, then tightening until pain lanced up her arm, a cry splitting from her throat before she could stop it. She tried to wrench her arm away, but he was impossibly strong.
“Please do not go,” he said, silk-smooth, his fingers biting deep enough to leave their claim behind.
She gasped, not only at the pressure but at the sudden flare of heat under her skin as her Orchid sigil roared to life; black lines changing to crimson and gold as she looked down in horror. Bright lines spilled down her shoulder, her markgrowing and climbing along her arm to the place where his hold bound her, the tattoo writhing like living fire and glowing against his pale hand.
She stared, and two truths landed at once. The last time she’d seen the full mark blaze like this was the night she Threadwalked for the first time, and second, she hadn’t spoken her intent to leave aloud, not even in a whisper.
Echobinder. The Fae was a fucking Echobinder.
