His gaze fell to the crimson and gold mark shifting along her arm and her hand. For the first time, his composure cracked. His eyes widened by the smallest measure, and what lived there was a grim, quiet triumph.
“Threadwalker,” he breathed, reverent and dangerous, like a word he’d waited centuries to name.
His grip didn’t loosen immediately; instead he leaned close enough that the cold of his breath stirred the air against her cheek, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There is more in you than even you understand, little Threadwalker, and one day you will beg me to be the one who shows you how deep it runs.”
Her pulse thundered. This man was volatile, and she had a feeling he wasn’t some low-bred Fae with a diluted bloodline, but older and darker, a thing wrought from a court that did not bend, elite and ancient and quite possibly the most powerful being she’d ever encountered.
Then, as suddenly as he’d taken her, he released her, the pain vanishing.
Her sigil dimmed and retreated along her arm until only her Orchid tattoo remained—black ink settling once more beneath her collarbone. She staggered and clutched her wrist, now marked by his hand; she was left with the echo of his strength and the memory of her magic answering his touch.
“You will understand in time,” he said, the smile returning, softer yet no less perilous. “The only question is if you will welcome it…or even survive it.”
His gaze lingered as if he meant to memorize the fear and fury etched there. His expression was cold, utterly unforgiving.
Then, the terrace and the stars fell away, an illusion shattering like glass. The smell of jasmine disappeared along with it, like smoke in the wind.
She woke with her cheek pressed to Jakobav’s chest and the steady drum of his heart beneath her ear.
That didn’t happen. It was just a dream. The Fae man isn’t real.
The words looped like an old charm that she didn’t believe. Despite repeating them in her mind, the smell of frost and jasmine still clung to her skin where no Orchid night would have left it. Her hair felt cool and slightly damp, as if the drizzle had followed her back. The red grip mark around her wrist was still warm under her fingers.
A cold, animalistic fear rippled through her. No dream leaves marks, no dream presses bruises into living flesh. That wrongness clung to her even as she turned toward the man who held her now. She shut her eyes and forced a breath in, then another, and another.
He’s not here. He can’t reach me here.
The terror ebbed by inches, trembling as her heartbeat steadied.
Her pulse spiked again when she remembered he’d known she was about to leave; he’d told her not to go before she even voiced it.
Echobinder.
A name she’d only ever heard whispered about with fear and disgust. She’d never seen one, and had never thought she would. Jakobav had said himself there were none in Dravaryn.That man was the first she’d ever encountered—both the first Echobinder and the first Fae, for that matter—terrifying and unpredictable, and yet he had made a crucial mistake. He showed her what he was. The knowledge of his true nature meant she carried a weapon of her own if their paths ever crossed again.
Ella tried to push all thoughts of him aside. Still, wrongness clung to her skin like frost that refused to melt, a reminder that the mark of him lingered, no matter how deeply she tried to bury it. But when she turned toward Jakobav, the comfort of their connection, and of his steady faith in her, anchored her in a way nothing else could. Jakobav was here, solid and warm at her side, and after all she’d been through in the past weeks, the night she’d spent with him was one of the best of her life.
She lifted her head and looked at his sleep-mussed hair and shadowed jaw. Her twisting insides had nothing to do with politics or fear. She bent and pressed her mouth to his, as if kissing him would banish all thoughts of that Fae.
His eyes opened, slow and alert at once, and before she could pull away, his hands slid to her hips as he rolled her over him with effortless ease, kissing her deep enough to pull an unguarded sound from her throat. She kissed him back harder.
“Careful,” he murmured against her lips. “Keep that up, and I’ll forget we have a road to ride.”
She smiled, already half tempted to find out how serious he was, but he broke the kiss and glanced at the light spilling across their bedroll. “As much as I’d love a repeat of last night, the sun is already hunting us. We have ground to cover, and we’re one day from your castle.”
“We really have to go?” Her voice dropped, soft but daring. “Because I can think of at least one very persuasive reason to stay.” She was only half joking.
“Your kingdom waits. And I doubt they’ll welcome their lost princess showing up with the future King of Dravaryn as her sole protector. But, the sooner we ride, the sooner we face it. Together.”
39
THE CROWN OF ASHES
They broke camp before the first birds found their courage. Jakobav moved with quiet efficiency, every gesture controlled and unmistakably his.
Ella crouched to tighten the laces on her boots, fingers working through the knots. When she glanced up, Jakobav was already standing over her—hand extended to her, palm up, as though he’d done this a hundred times before. She pretended not to notice the subtle lift at his mouth when she placed her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet.
Her wrist still ached from the Fae holding her in place on the rainy terrace, his strength bruising, furious at the scent of Jakobav on her. She remembered his mocking disdain, the way his anger had branded her.
