He’s gazing down at me once more. Except this time, his focus is along the pout of my lower lip. His tongue slides out and rolls along his own lips, and I’m so fucking broken, I think he just hypnotized me with that single gesture alone.
His hand lifts, and in a swift motion, he opens the door for me.
“Get some sleep, Cersia.” He nods to me.
Like a friend.
A good, good friend indeed.
Except... we don’t know how to be friends.
And judging by this strange turn in emotions, we’ll never know how to be anything more than what we are now to one another.
Which is absolutely nothing.
TWENTY
REJECTION
The moon is celebrated differently now.Creatchin says it should be celebrated nightly, not just when it is full. My sister—an enthusiastic wolf shifter—loves this idea.
No one questions that it might be because of the last little freak out our unsteady queen had during the full moon. No one says a Goddessdamn word about the last full moon at all.
And so, here we are sipping wine and dancing beneath a tiny sliver of light that our goddess gives us. It’s... not the same. Why does no one realize this is not the same?
Nyra sways to the drum beat. The queen’s daughter, Vanitee, sways near her and within seconds the two are smiling and having an annoyingly good time together.
Goddess. When did I turn into Zilo’s sour ass?
I shake my head at myself and try to let the beat of the drums calm my soul. I feel the music pulse within my chest, and it is nice.
This is . . . it’s . . . nice-ish.
Seelvie keeps looking over at me from her spot next to the other fae but aside from her watchful attention only one other person meets my gaze fully. Nyra peers at me from the fewyards that separate us, and she waves her hand energetically, invitingly:Red Rover, Red Rover, send Cersia right over.
Hell fae are going to clothesline my ass the moment I join them. But Nyra is my sister. I’ll do anything for her. Including walking directly into a social event when I’d rather hibernate beneath my blankets like an old bear exhausted from yelling at kids to get off his lawn all day.
The breath I push from my lungs doesn’t ease me as I stride into the vulture’s den. Several hell fae shift away from me but make sure they have me in their eyesight. The queen’s daughter doesn’t. She stays put, no longer dancing but judging entirely too hard for it to be polite. There’s a polite way to glare at someone, and she has not mastered it yet.
Nyra takes my hand and twirls me over the black cobblestone of the gardens. Cool wind catches my hair, and there’s a moment that I feel like we’re children again. It’s more than a smell or a feeling; it’s a memory etched into the beats of my heart. It’s a bittersweet sensation.
Especially when her hand releases mine, and my chest collides hard into another.
Those inky eyes are now cold and cutting when the hell fae looks down on me.
Whispers scuttle around us, and neither of us moves a single muscle.
“Vanitee, I’m so sorry. That’s my fault entirely,” Nyra says in a string of endless apologies.
She’s always apologizing. I hate it.
Not everything is her fault.
“I’m sorry, Vanitee.” I lift my chin with what I hope is respect and take a solid step back.
But the damage is done.
“She doesn’t belong here,” Seelvie says flatly, shoving her way forward to be seen. She doesn’t explain or even hold any emotion as she says it. Not even hate lines her heavy brow.
