Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 517(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“Rest easy, sir,” Leith said and left them.
Dar opened the door and ushered Elara in, shutting the night away behind them.
Warmth greeted them at once. A fire burned low in the hearth, the scent of woodsmoke familiar. Dar removed his cloak and set it aside, then turned to her.
Elara lingered near the door after shedding her cloak, her thoughts still tangled in the evening’s revelations.
“Perhaps…” she said slowly, testing the thought aloud, “perhaps the stranger who seeks Driochmor is the one the ethereal healer warned me of. The one who would change the tides of war.”
Dar exhaled, a sound caught somewhere between weariness and frustration. “It could be. Too many paths are crossing for it to be chance.” He stepped closer, lifting a hand to her waist, his touch warm and certain. “But I am tired of ghosts and whispers tonight of what may be and what might come.”
Before she could speak again, he drew her to him and kissed her.
It was not a fierce kiss, nor a demanding one. It was slow, deliberate, as if he sought comfort rather than conquest. His arm curved securely around her, anchoring her against him. The world narrowed to the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm, the familiarity she had come to crave.
She kissed him back, letting herself sink into it, into the simple truth of him. For a moment, the forest fell silent inside her. The road, the stranger, the talk of war—all of it faded.
But Amelia did not.
A flicker of blue light stirred behind her eyes. A whisper she could not unhear.
Elara’s breath caught. She eased her hands against his chest, not pushing him away, but asking for space.
He felt it at once and drew back, concern shadowing his expression. “What’s wrong?”
She could not meet his gaze at first. When she did, her eyes held an apology he did not yet understand.
“There is something I must confess,” she said softly.
He tensed. “You worry me when you speak so.”
She took a breath, fortifying herself. “I cannot keep this from you any longer.”
He waited, silent and attentive.
“I know for certain that the fae folk roam free,” she said. “Not hidden nor banished.”
He tensed, the muscles in his arms growing taut. “How do you know this?”
Her voice did not waver. “One has made herself known to me.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ancrum
The Cottage
* * *
Dar stepped away from her.
The sudden loss of his warmth struck sharper than any rebuke. He turned his back briefly, dragging a hand through his hair.
“How long?” he demanded.
She did not flinch. “Since before we reached Wedderlie.”
His head snapped around. “You let me question villagers. You let me order Hunts. You let me stand before men and speak of banishment and broken accords—while knowing the truth.”
“I did not lie,” she said quickly. “I held my tongue.”
“That is deceit enough when a king’s wrath waits at the end of it,” he shot back. “You know what Dravic would do if he learned the fae walk free.”
“They are not his to punish,” Elara said, heat rising in her chest. “The forest is their home. Older than Scotara. Older than Caerith. Older than any crown your kings wear.”
Dar’s voice hardened. “And yet crowns make law.”
“Not truth,” she countered. “Not justice. The fae did not turn on Scotara. They were blamed because grief demanded something to strike.”
“You speak as though you know the fae folk well,” he said sharply.
Her gaze held his. “I know the forest, why then wouldn’t I be familiar with the fae folk?”
He stared at her then, not as her husband, not even as a Hunter, but as a man suddenly unsure of the ground beneath his feet.
“You have placed yourself in terrible danger,” he said low. “If the king learns you hid this from me—from him—”
“He will see betrayal,” she finished.
Silence fell between them, thick and brittle.
“And yet,” she went on softly, “if I betray the fae, I betray the forest itself. And I cannot do that.”
Dar spoke slowly, as though restraining something fierce and instinctive. “You force me into an impossible position.”
“Nay,” she replied, just as quietly. “I am asking you to see beyond the hunt.”
“You think I do not see the danger?” he snapped. “You think I do not know what you risk by sheltering this truth?”
“I am not sheltering it,” Elara said. “I am weighing it. There is a difference.”
“A difference the king will not care to hear,” he shot back. “Dravic does not weigh. He commands. And if he learns that you hid this—hid them—he will not pause to consider your reasons.”
Her chin lifted. “Perhaps he should.”
Dar moved then—fast, decisive. He caught her arms, pulling her against him, not roughly but with a strength that left no room for retreat.
Her breath caught at the sudden closeness.
“Do you truly think I fear his anger?” he said, his voice low, fierce. “It is you I fear for.”