“You’re going to bargain with me to let you run into the arms of your new mate in exchange for which you’ll string me along. Am I correct?”
I release the mast and fold my arms. “I Shabbin.”
“You’re a shifter.”
“Not Crow.”
He turns more fully toward me, eclipsing everything and everyone. “Perhaps, but I’m a Crow, and Crows haveonemate, Daya. And they don’t share.”
“I no choose this new male.”
“But you can. You can choose him, or you can choose me.” Cathal, in that moment, resembles the craggy peaks of his mountain home, where few can thrive—least of all a serpent. “You cannot have us both.” He searches the face that isn’t mine for an answer that will be mine.
“What if Mahananda pick new mate for you, Cathal. What you do?”
His rough hand cups my cheek with the utmost tenderness. “Zendaya of Shabbe, you are and will always be my one and only.”
My chest heats. At first, I think it’s because I must’ve struck another bargain, but when the heat spreads, I realize it doesn’tstem from magic but from how powerfully my heart beats for Cathal.
I am a breath away from promising him that I will never venture toward the black beach when the air churns with smoke right beside us. Smoke that turns into the most beautiful girl in the world, wearing a gown made of violet stones that shimmer like the trapped bubbles in the Amkhuti.
Fallon glowers at the hand resting on my cheek. “What the fuck, Dádhi?”
My breath skips, and I take a step back, making his arm fall. Was she not informed I’d come? Was I not supposed to be here?
Cathal sighs, then in Crow, he murmurs something that widens Fallon’s mouth and softens her stare. When I catch the wordMádhi, I realize the reason for Fallon’s outburst: she thought her father was touching some stranger’s face.
She says something in Crow that makes the tough male crack a grin as lopsided as his nose. Cathal reminds me of my beloved moat—full of stone shelves, each one hiding a world of color and life amidst the shadow of another. He alsofeelslike the Amkhuti—like a haven, a place in which I can exist without fear and explore without haste.
“I so happy see you, Fallon.” I reach out to take her hands. “Miss you so much.”
Fallon gulps in a shaky breath. “I knew you’d learn to speak Shabbin fast, Daya.”
The sound of my given name on her lips shrivels my joy. “Mádhi. No Daya.”
“I…” She licks her lips. “All right.” She glances up at her father, but his eyes remain fastened to my face. I know what she’s seeking—whether I understand what that word means.
“Behati say history to me. I know I make you”—I meet Cathal’s eyes—“with mate.”
His chest lifts with a long, slow breath.
I know what I want. I want him. I want Fallon. I want my old life, not a new one.
I choose you. You and Fallon. I choose never to visit that black beach.
As I stare at him, his face dims and becomes another’s, as though my conscience isn’t pleased with my decision. I squeeze my eyes shut to chase away the image of my intended mate, but it clings to my lids like the Shabbin children had held on to their gold coins.
Go away.
Behati’s vision unspools in greater detail until I think I could pick the male out in a crowd: his nose is long, his lips almost as full as my own, his jaw, smooth, and his shorn hair…his shorn hair shines an odd shade of emerald.
“I feel like I’ve missed so much,” Fallon murmurs.
Though I take her in my arms and focus on her,hekeeps haunting me.
Go away, I repeat in my thoughts, clasping my lids as tightly as I clasp my daughter. This time, his image fades but the odd hue of his hair lingers. I decide it must be a trick of the moonlight, because as far as I’ve heard and seen, no one has hair the color of leaves.
Chapter 22
