CHAPTER 13
Shaia had tried to be patient, as Hartt had asked, but it had been difficult. After securing a room at the front of the inn, she had passed most of her days sitting at the sash window of the small, grim room, watching the entrance of the guild.
All manner of people had come and gone in that time. Some had been easy to spot as either a client or an assassin, while others had left her guessing.
Not once had she seen Fuery.
Hartt had come and gone a few times, and each time she had seen him he had looked brighter, with more colour in his cheeks and light in his eyes, telling her that Fuery was recovering.
Males weren’t the only people to come and go from the imposing black building though.
She had seen females dressed in provocative clothing enter on several occasions, staying no more than an hour at most. When they left, they were looking in their coin purse, seeming satisfied with what they saw.
Shaia had tried not to think about Fuery with those females.
Tried and failed.
He had promised himself to her, but when he had looked at her, it had been as if he had seen a ghost, as if he didn’t know her.
What if he had been with other females in their time apart?
She didn’t want to entertain the idea, because it hurt, but she also refused to be foolish enough to think that he had been faithful to her, because it would only cause her deeper pain if she made herself believe that only to discover she had been wrong.
She sighed and looked back into her room, wriggling on the hard wooden window seat as she glanced around it. It was hardly luxurious. The double bed was worn and dipped badly in the centre of the mattress, as if some of the supports were broken, and the sheets and covers had been so frayed and filthy that she had teleported her own pale blue ones to her from her home in the elf kingdom. She had never been so thankful that her powers allowed her to teleport anything she owned regardless of distance.
The only other items of furniture were a dresser with woodworm that stood against the wall near the door opposite her, beyond the bed, and a small round table to her right, tucked into the corner there together with two wooden chairs.
Neither of which had seat cushions.
The fireplace smoked so badly she didn’t dare to light it to provide some illumination in the dark room, and the candles on the mantelpiece were so dusty she feared they might go up entirely if she brought a flame near them.
When the innkeeper, a round male of questionable fae origin, had shown her to the room, he had promised to get the fire working for her and had then offered to bring her meals.
Shaia had politely refused.
If the room was this bad, she didn’t want to see what the food was like.
She looked back out of the window.
Froze.
Fuery stood on the threshold of the guild, dressed in a black knee-length jacket, riding boots and trousers that were a poor echo of the ones he had worn as an officer in the legions. He looked brighter, the dark arcs beneath his eyes paler now and his face less gaunt, and infinitely less bloodstained.
When he spoke, she glanced at the person with him.
And saw red.
A beautiful female with burgundy hair dressed in a long deep gold robe that was secured at her waist with a tall band of gold filigree that cinched in her curves and accentuated them stood close to him, talking animatedly with him.
Had he come out with the female, or had he met her there?
Her heart pounded, stomach squirming as a hiss sounded in her ears and in her heart.
She didn’t look like a whore, wore far too much clothing compared with the others Shaia had seen, but looks could be deceiving.
The hiss grew louder, setting her blood aflame, when Fuery handed the female a small leather pouch that looked an awful lot like the coin purses the whores had touted on leaving the guild.
Shaia was out of the door before she could stop herself, her anger sweeping her down the hall and then the stairs, and straight past the innkeeper as he greeted her. She slammed the flat of her palm against the heavy wooden arched door and growled low in her throat as she stormed out onto the street.
The female was gone.
And so was Fuery.
She growled louder now and felt her pointed ears flaring as her anger burned hotter. No damned way he was going to escape her.
She crossed the distance to the guild in the blink of an eye as she teleported, and landed just on the other side of the tall arched doors.
Fuery’s shoulders tensed beneath his black tunic the second she appeared, his steps slowing as he walked towards the reception room.
“Who was that female?” she snapped, all the fires of Hell raging in her blood, driving her to confront him and not back down until she had an answer.
He slowly turned to face her, his eyes enormous and wild.
And very black.
Sorrow swept through her, washing away her anger in an instant, and she whispered, “Gods, Fuery… your eyes.”
They had looked bad when she had seen him just a few days ago, but she had fooled herself into seeing some violet in them, enough that it kept the hope alive in her heart, the dream that she could somehow redeem him.
That hope threatened to fade and die as she stared into them and saw the truth.
There was barely a glimmer of violet around his pupils.
He averted them and she felt his shame through their bond as it raked him.
She took one step towards him, and then another, drawn to him by her need to comfort him and tell him they would fix this, somehow. It didn’t matter that his eyes were more corrupted than she had thought, revealing just how fiercely the darkness that lived within all elves gripped him now.
They would fix this.
“Look at me, Fuery,” she murmured softly, hoping to encourage him, to coax him into looking at her and seeing that she would help him somehow. He kept his head bent, eyes hidden from her, and she risked another step towards him. “Fuery… look at me.”
Pity washed through her, sorrow that had her venturing another step closer, her eyebrows furrowing as she monitored the feelings going through him and felt the shame growing stronger.
She was about to ask him again to look at her when he lifted his head.
Revealing silver-blue eyes.
Tears lined hers, born of hurt that he would hide something from her, using a trick all elves could to blend into their environment, when they had always been open with each other.
His jaw tensed as black emerged around the edges of his irises and it disappeared again, driven out by him as he struggled to hold the silver-blue colour.
She shook her head, weathering the pain and the devastation that threatened to tear her apart as he continued his charade, pretending nothing was wrong with him, lying to her.
“Don’t hide from me,” she whispered, voice breaking as the hurt grew stronger, beating fiercely in her heart.
The black pushed again, together with a flicker of violet, and he growled as he looked away from her just as the silver-blue fled his irises, the pain in that snarl pulling at her because she knew it stemmed from his love for her—love that had him wanting to conceal the extent of his corruption from her because he couldn’t bear her seeing it.
“Fuery.” She held her hand out to him, desperate to comfort him.
He snapped his head up and hissed at her, his pointed ears flattening against the sides of his head as he bared long white daggers at her.
Shaia stopped dead, halted in her tracks by his show of aggression, and then withdrew a step when she felt the conflict in him, the fear colliding with fury. She didn’t want to push him, hadn’t meant to upset him. She had only wanted to comfort him.
The black in his eyes began to spread, devouring the remaining corona of violet, warning her that she was on the verge of losing him to the darkness.
“You had such beautiful eyes,” she murmured, unable to stop herself even when part of her was aware it would hurt him. “Flecked with pale lilac.”
He bared his fangs at her again as his face crumpled, his pain staggering as he stumbled backwards as if she had physically struck him. He slammed into the wall on the right of the broad corridor, his left shoulder striking the black stone hard and sagged against it.
“Do you not remember me?” She slowly stretched her hands out towards him, afraid of frightening him or driving him deeper into the hold the darkness had on him. “Is this your life now… killing and sleeping with other females?”
He snarled at her. “I do not kill females. Hartt said I did not kill the fae… it was the demons… and I killed them.”
Her heart bled for him. He had muddled her words. She opened her mouth to unravel them for him.
He spoke first.
“I am sorry I killed you.”
Shock struck her hard and fast, his pain blazing in her heart and stealing her breath as she stared at him and realised he believed what he was saying.
The things he had said when she had last seen him came rushing back, rocking her harder. He had said something similar then.
He thought he had killed her.
Shaia shook her head and risked a step towards him. “You never did such a thing, Fuery. I am not dead.”
Pain flitted across his handsome face and then he growled, shoved his fingers through his shoulder-length hair and tugged at it, pulling it free from the clasp that held it tied back. He tipped his head back, his lips peeling off his teeth in a grimace as he snarled again, the pain in it tearing at her, driving her to take another step forwards.
To comfort him.
He suddenly dropped his chin and stared at her, tears in his eyes as he clutched his head in both hands.
“I wish that was true,” he croaked, his black eyebrows furrowing.
Shaia crossed the span of black flagstones between them in a heartbeat and placed her hands on his arms, drawing his hands away from his head before he hurt himself.
He stared at her, his eyes growing wider, disbelief echoing in them as they dropped to his arms and her hands where she touched him.
His single whispered word tore at her.
“Impossible.”