Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97188 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
None of that stops me from stepping to the line she’s drawn in the sand. “You feed from me exclusively. We share each other’s bed, and I don’t just mean for sleep.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for, my sweet little selkie.” Her smile is downright predatory. “Sharing my bed isn’t something everyone walks away from.”
“Evelyn did.”
Just like that, the spell being woven between us snaps. I hadn’t even realized Lizzie was lifting her hand to touch my face until the moment she drops it without making contact. She steps back. “Yes, I suppose she did.” She moves to the door and wrenches it open harder than necessary. “You’re a fool, Maeve. It seems you have a habit for chasing those who aren’t good for you. But I suppose I’m a fool, too, because I’m not going to tell you no.”
That isn’t a no, but it’s hardly an enthusiastic yes. My stomach chooses that moment to grumble and remind me that it’s been days since I’ve eaten and even longer since I’ve had a proper hot meal. That ends the conversation as thoroughly as my bringing up Evelyn did.
Lizzie narrows her eyes. “No more arguing. You need to eat.” She does one of those faster-than-the-eye-can-follow movements. One moment I’m standing there, considering whether it’s worth it to continue arguing, and the next she has her arm around my waist and moves us both into the hall, closing the door neatly behind us. She doesn’t give me a chance to argue here, either. She sweeps us down the stairs to the small common room that the inn offers.
It’s been weeks now since Bronagh took my skin. He may have stopped here to visit home, but he’s probably gone by now. If we can’t figure out where—and soon—then we might have to stay on Khollu and wait for him to return. If he doesn’t have my pelt, then we’ll have to force him to tell us who he sold it to and . . . The sheer task ahead of me makes me want to curl into a ball and sleep for ten years. Wasting any more time is a mistake, and yet . . . I just want a moment to pause and exist without having to search and fight and scramble.
There’s no way that Lizzie is aware of the exhaustion weighing down my bones, but she guides me to the little dining room off the entrance to the inn. It’s dim and quiet, only half of the handful of tables filled and the people present speaking in low voices. Each table has a little fey lantern, the magic giving off a soothing blue light. It’s nice.
She urges me into a chair in the corner with my back to the wall and strides away to find the innkeeper. Within a few minutes, she sets a steaming bowl of stew and a small loaf of dark bread in front of me. She glares. “Eat.”
She’s gone again before I can dredge up a response, whisking away quickly enough that if I didn’t know better, I would assume she’s waited tables at some point. But that’s impossible. She may have only given scant details about her family and upbringing, but every move she makes speaks of money and possibly even nobility. This woman was born into power and privilege; she wears it on her skin as her birthright. There may have been a cost for that privilege in the form of her monster of a mother, but performing manual labor? It’s an absurd thought.
I take a bite of the stew, and am delighted to find that it’s better than I expected. The spices are familiar to me, similar to what we have in Viedna, and the hearty root vegetables warm my stomach better than a raging fire.
I’m so focused on my meal that when someone sits down across from me, I just assume it’s Lizzie. “Are you sure you don’t want to try some of this?”
“My darling Maeve, always so willing to offer up that which you can’t afford to lose.”
My spoon drops from nerveless fingers. I know that voice. It used to fill my dreams with the possibility of a happy future and then became a specter that haunts my nightmares. I knew I’d have to face him again, but it’s too soon, too unexpected. Surely I’m imagining his charming voice, too close.
Except when I finally gather the courage to lift my head, it is him.
Bronagh looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him. So much has changed that it seems wrong that he hasn’t as well. He’s built like so many sailors, lean with a sinewy strength that I used to admire. His dark hair reaches his shoulders in a careless wave, and his skin is darkened by the countless hours in the sun. He looks good, and I hate him for it.