Heat rises into my face. “Yes, because of dessert. It was sordid. It was the single most deranged thing I’ve ever had the displeasure of seeing.”
He chokes on a laugh. “Well,Ienjoyed it. But we only have dessert with dinner. Daytime sex usually happens out in the?—”
“Stop!” I fling a hand up, the sting in my cheeks intensifying. “Just stop. Talking. Please. I don’t care where everyone’s having”—I gulp past the dryness in my throat, my voice dropping to a whisper—“sex. I don’t want to see it. Or think about it. And I definitely don’t want to participate.”
His head tilts. “Shadows below, you can barely talk about it, can you? I knew Aethrolia was religious, but little one, I think you might berepressed.”
I splutter. What would he know about repression? When he’s so indiscriminate he’s willing to have…dessert…with whoever happens to be sitting next to him? “I prefer the term ‘disciplined,’” I snap.
He shrugs. “Call it whatever you want. It doesn’t change the fact that you have no idea how to actually enjoy yourself.”
I open my mouth and click it shut again, too livid to even argue. “You’re rude. And awful. And I don’t think I like you at all.”
He laughs. “Noted. Now come on. I’ll take you to the kitchens. We can go the back way, so you won’t have to see anyone fucking, down in the hall.”
His casual profanity heats my blood a degree, and I lock my lips to keep from screaming. No doubt that’s what Calen wants, because he shoots me oblique glances in the hallway, not bothering to conceal his smirk.
“Just let me know if you change your mind,” he says. “We can always take a detour. Maybe you could learn something.”
I walk with my gaze fixed straight ahead, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ache. “I couldn’t possibly be less interested.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
We wind through corridors that twist and climb, then descend again. True to his word, Calen sticks to back passages—narrow halls where the walls pulse with faint, organic light. We pass no one. Hear nothing but the mossy squish of our own footsteps.
Eventually, we reach a door that leads to a sprawling kitchen, where sunlight filters through the leafy ceiling, dappling everything in gold. Fae move through the space with practicedefficiency, attending to gigantic pots that steam and sizzle. Flames crackle in the bellies of robust ovens while unfamiliar scents hang thick in the air—spices and roasting meats and something savory that makes my stomach clench with hunger.
A fae woman with intricate braids and coppery skin glances up from a cutting board. Her eyes widen when she sees me, but Calen remains casual.
“Just passing through, Rhialla,” he says. “The human needs to eat.”
Rhialla’s mouth quirks, not unkindly. “Mmm-hmm. And does thehumanhave a name?”
“Sariah,” I say, my voice smaller than I would like.
She nods. “Well, Sariah. It’s nice to meet you. Would you like to eat in here? Or take some lunch to go?”
I gnaw at my lip. Aside from the leaves rustling overhead and the glowing moss everywhere, this kitchen hardly looks different from the one in Aethrolia. It’s a hive of activity, with people chopping, stirring, tasting. But after last night, I don’t pretend to understand the fae’s strange ways, and I don’t trust an orgy not to break out at any moment.
“To go,” I say hoarsely. “Please.”
She nods and sets about piling various unidentified foodstuffs into a sack. Calen takes advantage of the interlude by examining his reflection in one of the burnished ovens. He smooths down his embroidered shirt, then loops a stray loc into a half-bun with a few others.
I look away, faintly annoyed by how well the style suits him.
Rhialla returns to press a bulging bag into my hands—gently, as if I might bolt. “Here you go. I hope it’s enough. Come back any time.”
Something about her simple kindness makes my throat sting, and I murmur my thanks before following Calen out. Rhialla watches me go with something like pity in her eyes.
We climb a staircase. Then another. Only when the steps begin a steep spiral upward do I realize I’m about to come face-to-face with Amriel, despite telling the Shadow I wouldn’t.
Admittedly, that seems ridiculous, now. I know I have no choice. I know I need to face the fae king so I can go into the Wildwood and go home.
But my entire being shrinks at the prospect, dark energy sizzling inmy marrow. I detest Amriel, his intrusion into my life. And now, as every footfall brings me closer, I can’t stop thinking about how his hand felt last night, collared around my throat. How he touched me so casually, so possessively. As if he owned me.
An angry flush heats my body at the memory.
Calen continues upward. We climb until my legs quiver, but he doesn’t slow. He just persists with the easy grace of someone who makes this journey often.
