For half a second, I let myself sink into the mattress, the faint scent of detergent, starch, and regret clinging to the sheets. My brain has other plans. Images from last night creep in like smoke under a locked door, curling around my thoughts and refusing to be ignored.
Wild doesn’t even begin to cover it. Disjointed fragments come rushing back. Shadows stretched, his voice curling low in my ear, and the way he looked at me, like I’m the only thing in the world that matters, and he doesn’t know whether to end me or devour me. Whoa? Where did that come from? How do I know what the fuck he’s thinking?
And then there’s the rest. The part where he turned into a fucking horse with eyes like moonlight and a coat blacker than sin itself.
What the hell kind of dream is that? Except, it didn’t feel like a dream. Not really. Too vivid. Too…solid.
The memory of riding him does things to me. My fingers tangled in his mane, my thighs clamped tight against his frame as he galloped through the darkness. It was wild, raw, and more intimate than anything I’ve let myself experience in far too long. I didn’t just feel alive. I felt claimed.
My thighs ache at the thought. Heat flushes up my neck. I shove the pillow over my face again, as if that might smother the thoughts clawing through my brain.
Of course, it’s probably my subconscious being a pervy weirdo. Exhaustion, stress, and whatever magic-infused air this island is pumping into my lungs. That’s the logical explanation. I've been investigating a púca after all. It’s only natural I dreamed he became one.
But logic feels paper-thin when I think about the rest. The way he shifted back—smooth, inhumanly graceful—and all sharp edges and onyx eyes shot through with amber. Naked. Gloriously, maddeningly naked.
I can still feel the way his lips crushed against mine, demanding, consuming. His hands roamed like he had a map to places I didn’t even know I needed touched. For a moment, I gave in. Gave myself over.
And then I pushed him away.
Why? Hell if I know. Survival instinct? Fear? Stupidity? Take your pick.
Whatever the reason, I left him standing in that field—completely naked and more than a little pissed off. My cowardice nags at me.
But there’s no time to wallow, not with everything else. The dream—or whatever the hell it was—has tangled itself into the investigation. First fae sighting. First púca sighting. Jenna’s comment about a portal. It all feels connected, like a web tightening around me.
TheOther Crowd Guidebook for Mortalsis no help. Half of it reads like fairy tale nonsense and the rest? Shakespeare with a side of gossip. But then again, the thing has been weirdly accurate so far. And there’s a part of me—a part I don’t like admitting exists—that can feel it.
There’s something here. Something big.
I should’ve paid more attention to the stories my adopted mum—no, someone—told me about the Shadowborn bloodline, about witches tied to things that don’t belong in this world. Back then, I thought it was her way of keeping me from wandering off into the woods. Now? Not so much.
Outside, a sharp caw rips through my muddled thoughts. I groggily lift my head to see that stupid raven again, black as the secrets I’m chasing, perched on my windowsill. It’s looking at me like it knows every damn thing. It tilts its head, then taps the glass with its beak, like it’s come to deliver the morning paper.
“Well, aren’t you just the feathered embodiment of curiosity killed the cat?” I mutter, half-expecting it to answer.
Tap, tap, tap…
Squawk.
That bird. I’ve definitely seen it before. It showed up last night, staring at me like it had a personal beef with my existence.
I wince at the throb in my skull. Maybe I’m imagining things. I was a little…not entirely sober last night, but the bird doesn’t feel like a figment of my overactive brain. It feels like it’s waiting for me to do something. Open the window? What, and let it in for tea? Ridiculous.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The noise is so loud it jolts me upright, but before I can even gather my bearings, the door swings open. Cyn barrels in like a storm front. Her hair is a tangled disaster, like she got into a fight with the wind and lost. I glance back at the window. That bloody raven, the sneaky little menace, is gone.
-I think it’s time we talked.-I look up at Cyn, but…hang on. That’s not her voice. Did she actually say that? Or did I hear itin myhead?
ChapterTwo
NIALL O’LEARY
“The war between duty and desire is the fiercest battle any king will face. The legacy of our court does not rest solely on the might of our arms but on the courage to honour our duty, even when desire tempts us towards a different path.”
Fallon O’Leary, Advice to his Heir
Itoss back the whiskey and set the book aside with a little more force than necessary. I’m clutching at anything that might slow theAithreach Decline. My father doesn’t know I know, and he doesn’t need to. He’s drowning in his own mess, and the court is circling like crows, all silk and ceremony, ready to dress it up as a fresh start. A new wife. A clean slate. As if that’ll scrub the blood from Fallon’s hands.
