“Not so much the stealing part as the riding part.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never ridden a horse before.”
“It seems like a bad thing to do for the first time when I can hardly see anything.”
Emlyn groans as he runs his hand down his face. “Ancients have mercy. I should leave you behind.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
He kicks up some gravel as he halts and turns, his face inches from mine. “I’d like to hear how you’ll stop me.”
Not this again.
I push past him. “Fuck you.”
“Oh good, that was my first choice.”
I freeze mid-stride.He can’t say that unless…
I spin on my heel, then shove him in the chest. Surprise flashes across his face, but that stupid grin returns almost instantly, as if my anger’s nothing more than a source of amusement.
“Back off! In case you haven’t noticed, this has been a bad day for me. Not just bad. Anightmare. My friends are in trouble, and I’m throwing away everything I’ve ever worked for by trusting thatyoucan help me save them. So can you give me a break and just make one thing easy?”
“I’m easy.”
Blood threatens to explode out my ears. “Well, I don’t want you to be!”
I storm off, adjusting my bag on my shoulder, then shove my hands in my pockets as curses rampage through my mind.
Breathe. Shit. Breathe.
The boiling slowly eases to a simmer.Breathe.I stop walking, tilt my head up, and stare at the sky. It takes a second for the stars to come into focus—dim specks of light in a vast nothingness.
Will they look the same in the fae realm?
Emlyn’s fingers come to rest against my elbow. “We can sleep at my place,” he says quietly. “You can have the sofa. I won’t leave without you.”
I nod, not looking at him. I can’t bring myself to. His hand moves to my back, and he nudges me forward. He doesn’t say another word until we get there.
Chapter 22
Caeo
“Wake up, my child,” a voice says. My mother’s. But it’s different. Lighter.
My eyes blink open.
Splotches of sunlight break through the leaves outside a large open window, and I’m lying on a bed that’s as soft as a cloud. I wipe the sleep from my eyes, then groan as I prop myself up on my elbows.
Wait a second.“Where am I?”
The walls of the oddly shaped room seem to be made of trees, with rich brown trunks of various thicknesses, from the width of my thigh to larger than I could wrap my arms around. Polished wood and globular, open-air windows fill the gaps between them, while vines hang from the domed ceiling. Plush animal furs cover the wooden floor.
“Home,” my mother says, sitting on the edge of the bed. She’s wearing an elaborate gown in a deep forest green, her dark hair somehow looking… bright?
It isn’t just her hair—her eyes sparkle, her cheeks are rosier, and her posture is straighter.
“I must be dreaming.” A painful knot twists in my throat, like it does whenever I say something that isn’t true.
