Page 34 of Cursed Shadows 1

I don’t know if he’s eyeing them all up the way that I am, with caution like I’m sizing up potential threats, or if he’s searching for ones like him. Ones that enjoy the company of other males.

It'll be harder here for him that way. I don’t know if it’s just not something that happens with the dark fae to enjoy those of the same sex, and it only happens with the litalves—or if there are ones like him, but in their suffocating culture, they can’t ever admit to being who they are.

It’s a sad thought, one I tuck away and—as if to comfort Eamon—rest my temple on his side.

I flick my gaze up at him.

The white lights above dance down his golden skin and wash him out somewhat. Those smooth curls of his that fall down one side of his sharp, cutting face are braided into fine plaits, about two dozen of them, and there are tender golden threads weaved through them. It’s a nice compliment to his litalf armour, a declaration he makes to which side he stands with. He’s hereto visit his cousins, Daxeel and Caius, but he’ll spectate for the litalves, because it’s Licht he belongs to.

Once flickering over the courtyard faster than my own gaze could, Eamon’s golden eyes have stopped—and homed in on something ahead.

I trace his stare to a redheaded noble. A light fae male, whose fine silver tunic is stuck to his slender muscles like a second skin, ceremonial daggers glinting from the belt on his hip, and thin lips that are twisted into a grimace.

I recognize the unease this noble wears on his face, because I feel it in my bones.

Too many dark fae. But Eamon has other thoughts on his mind as he studies the noble.

“How can you tell?” I ask, my voice small and near-devoured by the shouts of the crowd as they all wait around for the announcement to kick off the ceremony.

Eamon doesn’t need to look down at me with a frowned question on his face. As always—or at least since we met when I was just sixteen, and I stole him away from my sister—he reads me as easily as he can read the sun’s position in the sky.

“I smell it,” he says after a beat. His lips curve with a wicked grin that reveal fangs at the back of his mouth, teeth sharper than those of the litalves, but he has two less than the dokkalves do.

I study the silver boots of the noble, the slight waves of his hair that’s cropped to about the length of my pinkie finger. His emerald eyes shift around the courtyard, and whenever his attention lands on small threads of fae who mingle, light and dark ones, his nose scrunches.

Racist or uneasy? I don’t know.

If he’s racist, then why would Eamon have any interest in him? After all, he is a hybrid.

“Is he the only one?” I ask, then let my attention drift back to the thick crowd of contenders. I feel small and quiet around them, I feel like Ishouldbe small and quiet around them.

The way they shout and laugh and smack each other on the backs, or in some small throngs of folk, the way they size each other up, or curl their lips with silent snarls—it’s like they’ve started early on the ale and wine and fruits and tavarak and rolled stalks. Those festivities aren’t meant to start until after the entertainment. But apparently rules be damned because you can’t convince me they are all sober.

“There are more,” Eamon says and finally cuts his gaze away from the nervous, hateful noble. He seems to either have decided he’s unworthy, or maybe to work his seductive charm on him later. “Not many,” he adds, “but certainly enough to entertain me for two months.”

“Lies,” I sneer at him. He blinks a question at me. “A whole harem of pretty males wouldn’t entertain you for longer than a week, one might say.”

A grin splits his face and as always, it’s dazzling.

I see his charm, his magic that he works on the males he woes into his bed. But I can also see the heartbreak that comes later when Eamon tells them it’s over and he’s found another already, all spoken from those same lush lips that delivered such a beautiful smile and, I’m sure, lovely kisses.

“Unfortunate for me, but I learned of a harem nearby,” Eamon tells me. I arch my brow in question, so he adds, “It’s unfortunate that the harem is full of females.”

My nose scrunches. “Oh, however will you survive without a whore or two?”

To say I’m not a great advocate for harems is an understatement. Many of the light princes have them, even some of the dark princes. It’s only considered acceptable if the prince is unmarried, so the single ones—like Prince Ocean—keepa lotof females.

Males of both kinds must be faithful to their wives once married. A shared culture, but divided. Licht keeps to it out of worship of females as divine incarnations of the gods. Dorcha sticks to it out of stifled tradition. But when unmarried, the males of Licht and Dorcha alike can enjoy harems, lovers and brothels as much as they please.

My lip curls in distaste.

Does Daxeel use the harem?

My face crumbles into a scowl.

I’m under no falsehoods that he’s been faithful to me all these years. He owes me no such loyalty, and I haven’t been exactly innocent myself, but still… the thought of him with another female,a whore, floods me with hot anger.

In a huff, I fold my arms over my chest and scowl down at my bare feet. For the ceremonial dance, we wear no shoes, so I had my toenails buffed and a clear gloss painted over them. But I look down at them as though they have offended me.

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