I’m not sure why, but the way Derek’s fingers are roaming through my hair, down my neck and toward my waist, seems like something we’d both get in trouble for if Clarissa caught us.
But his fingertips leave a trail of fire where they touch, and after today, I’m not sure there’s anything else Clarissa can do to me.
That’s probably why, when Derek picks me up and carries me into the pantry, pressing his warm lips against my neck, I don’t think to tell him no.
CHAPTER 4
BLAISE
It’s not uncommon for me to dream of Derek, of the man who stole my childhood.
But it’s not like the dreams to stick so close to the truth. They usually like to stray, to warp Derek’s face into that of a monster. Sometimes he presses a knife to my throat.
In the dreams, I almost always scream.
I almost always fight back.
To dream of what actually happened, to feel the dread creeping into my belly as he undressed me, to remember biting back the whimpers, too desperate for his affection to tell him he was hurting me…
The truth is so much worse than the nightmares.
It’s the kind of feeling I would normally douse by making my way to Evander’s rooms, lounging in his chaise and teasing him incessantly, living for his unwavering attention.
The last time I dreamed of Derek was the night I fell asleep at the library. I’d been dreaming of Derek when I woke to Evander standing over me and the pile of books.
He’d swept me into his arms that night and carried me to bed. I could have melted into his chest, could have clung to that moment forever, but the feel of his warm embrace is beginning to fade around the edges, as it should.
He’s Ellie’s husband now, and I have no right to cling to the phantom of his touch like I do.
It’s a cruel sort of torture, being hopelessly in love with someone for the way their touch never wanders. For the way they carry you to bed and never think to join you in it.
I blame the male in the dank corner of this wretched dungeon for forcing me to relive that moment in clandestine clarity.
“What did you do to me?” I ask Farin.
The question strikes me as it forms at my cracked lips. It takes the form of a whisper in my ear, the hint of a memory that didn’t actually occur, but should have.
A question I should have asked Derek, but was too young to know to ask.
I don’t expect the fae male to answer. Perhaps that’s why I flinch when he does.
“Wraithseeker. It possesses a host of magical properties, but in this case, I was using it to locate the source of magic that dwells within your body.”
He doesn’t turn around, and all I can see of him in the dim lantern light is a tall dark silhouette, pouring an assortment of vials with pungent liquid into a glass container.
“And the other uses?” I ask.
He pauses, a single drop of venom-green liquid plopping from the edge of the vial in his hand, splattering on the table, leaving a hissing plume of steam in its wake.
“Torture, mostly,” he says, corking the vial and leaving it on the workbench as he turns to me. “Of the psychological sort.”
“I take it one of the ingredients is lychaen venom.”
He crosses his arms, arching a brow, and his deadly moonish eyes glimmer in the dim lantern light. They’re so bright, they almost shimmer on their own.
It’s eerie.
“You’ve studied lychaenthropy?”
My mouth is dry, and it hurts to talk, but that’s never really stopped me before. “For a while, I thought maybe that was why I was blacking out on full moons and waking up in ditches. Or with blood all over me.”
He shrugs, and when he does, a strand of black hair falls in his face. “Not a bad guess.” He turns back to the fizzling set of potions on the workbench.
“You know, I bet it would make concocting your evil, highly illegal potions easier if you cleaned that lantern.”
Indeed, it looks like someone smeared the glass with soot.
I wait for him to answer, and as soon as he does, I fidget with the restraints on my wrists.
“I hardly need much light to see.”
The restraints are metal, not rope, the problem being that, though the metal is much stronger, they aren’t fitted to the exact shape of my wrists.
Given the way they leave gaps between my wristband and the metal, I’d say they were made with fae prisoners in mind, not humans.
And I’m a tiny human.
“Right, because you’re fae, I guess?” The sound of my voice masks the noise of my thumbs tucking underneath my palms.
