Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 140462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 702(@200wpm)___ 562(@250wpm)___ 468(@300wpm)
I press my forehead to his and close my eyes as he carries me through the stormy waves of dancing bodies. His heartbeat pulses against my ear, his shadow is practically a part of me now. When I dip my fingers into the shadowild in the crevice between our bodies, the sense of absolute contentment it offers makes me fantasize about curating my own pocket dimension, just for me and Hawk. Anything is possible with a shadow like his.
Just as I kiss him to yet more hooting and clapping, the main door bursts open, kicked in by a heavy boot. I look over Hawk’s shoulder, dazed, only to meet the amber gaze of no one other than my damn cousin.
Prince Tristan Bloodweed. Tall, dashing, with long hair like waterfalls of red wine, and leather boots made to emphasize his muscular thighs.
Otherwise known as Thorn In My Side.
I’m too drunk to think straight, overwhelmed by the avalanche of problems I imagine this will cause. But my mind is so thoroughly soaked in cherin I struggle to come up with a plan.
My heart sinks when something glistens at me from his chest and I finally recognize the crest of the Nightcloaks—a gate wrapped in thorns. They’re the wardens of the realm and deal with the safety of its borders.
Which means he’s here for me.
Chapter 26
Hawk
Sylvan is almost too drunk to stand on his own feet, so I’m in the middle of carrying him to our wedding suite when the music comes to an abrupt stop and all the elves go so quiet their silence rings in my ears like a scream. Danger crawls up my back, a scorpion about to attack whether I pay attention to it or not. I know this feeling way too well.
I look back, narrowing my eyes when a cool breeze combs back my hair. It brings the scent of forest and steel, and by the time I zero in on two soaring figures standing at the entrance to the tavern, one of the men, a broad-shouldered yet lanky elf with long golden tresses speaks up in a clear baritone.
“Sir Lorsen Gloombane, captain of the Nightcloaks. Prince Tristan Bloodweed, my second,” he adds, gesturing at a muscular elven man standing to his right. “We’re here to investigate the disappearance of an exile. Cooperate, and you will soon be able to return to your present activities.”
A raid can’t… be good. Especially as I’m holding an exile in my arms.
I do a one-eighty and head for the stairs in the hope that we can slip out the window and disappear in the dark, but then the blond elf calls out a familiar name, and a whole chain of quiet curse words drops from my lips.
“The Grimsmith, Tassarion, is missing. He is an elf with ears mutilated to look like a human’s.”
Relief floods my muscles when I realize it’s not us they’re looking for, but then Prince Tristan calls out for my new husband, and Sylvan jerks in my arms, demanding that I let him go. If he wanted to be discreet about it, that did not work out, since the thud of his boots hitting the wooden floor is loud like a fire alarm in the night.
Tristan shouts his name again, but Sylvan’s already grabbing my hand and dragging me toward the stairs, as if he thinks we can walk out without a confrontation. I don’t fight him, since that would only result in more commotion, but the loud creak erupting behind us tells me I better look for a weapon, and fast.
We’re halfway up the stairs when the red-haired elf in shiny dark armor appears on the landing, staring at us as if we were two children caught stealing fruit from the neighbor’s garden. I’m confused to see him there, because he was behind us moments ago, but then I realize that the broad, elongated shadows extending from his back aren’t a trick of the light.
This man has wings and is hovering two inches above the floor.
Despite having an obsidian-like sheen, they appear light as wisps of smoke, and I’m left staring, because what else do I not know about this world?
“Can… you do that?” I ask Sylvan.
He whips his head around and scowls. “Whose side are you on?”
Behind us, the voice of the golden-haired elf comes from way too close for my liking, and I squeeze Sylvan’s fingers before glancing over my shoulder to spot Sir Lorsen Gloombane at the bottom of the stairs, cutting our only way out of this mess.
“Sylvan? Sylvan Goldweed? Your cousin, whom Lord Kyran banished merely two months ago?”
Cousin?
I don’t see any familial resemblance between my pocket-sized elf and Tristan, who’s built like a wildcat in its prime, but I only care about their connection if it can help us wiggle out of this mess. My hopes are dispersed the moment the redhead speaks.