Page 73 of Cursed Shadows 5

I shoulder the door aside to make space for my clumsy steps before I peer around the wall.

The lounge is dead.

Dusty chairs, unlit hearth, no glowjars in sight.

It’s the kitchen that lures in my gaze.

In my arms, Hedda’s stiff body suddenly relaxes, as though a ribbon of tension is lured out of her. A sigh warms my wrist before she rests her chin there—and she has apparently decided that the intruder into my dwelling is no threat.

The narrow-eyed look I toss at him isn’t so kind.

Perched on the edge of the bench, leather-wrapped legs swinging, the familiar hybrid picks too generously at that sweet bread that cost me half a silver piece from the bakery, the sort of sugared bread that goes best with honey and ham, the kind that melts on the tongue.

My face would contort into a snarling scowl—if it wasn’t so puffy. Instead, it’s only my mouth that turns with the frown.

Dare watches me as he sinks his pearly-white teeth into the soft bread. His eyes startle me; one a pot of melted gold, the other as pale as seafoam.

The scar that slashes down his face almost melts into his complexion, marble and smooth, but the scar is ridged enough to be noticeable.

Behind him, just four glowjars are peppered throughout the kitchen, from shelves to countertops, and wash over his shoulders with a cloudy white gleam.

Dare swallows the hunk of bread before he starts, “There are two sword-and-dagger-types out there in the shadows. They have an awful interest in watching your windows.”

Instinct has my chin tucking to my shoulder, and I cast a tired look at the double windows overlooking the street. I see no such folk. But I am not surprised either. Depending on the phase, I do sometimes see them. Litalf officials, watching me, waiting to ask me more about the Sacrament, waiting for their moment to approach and lure me to Licht for questioning.

Often, when I do see them, I throw a crude gesture and get on my way.

They don’t follow. They don’t approach.

“Don’t worry, little heartbreaker—my visit seems to have scared them off.”

My face twists before I shove out the doorway; my bare feet stomping on frosty-cold floorboards and my slitted gaze hooked onto Dare.

The closer I get to the kitchen, the better I can see around the hybrid sat on the centre bench.

Eamon peers around the side of the cupboard.

My shoulders relax; the release of a faint tension I hadn’t known was knitted through me until it left.

Sleep has Eamon’s eyes puffy and red, but it’s the annoyance of the intruder that has his arms folded over his naked chest.

I say nothing as I snatch the bread from Dare’s hand.

Cradled in my arm, Hedda growls at him.

Dare grins. “Miss me?”

“About as much as I miss the Sacrament,” I grumble and smack the bread down on the chopping board, out of Dare’s reach.

“We both know you can lie,” Dare tuts, “so I will take that as one. It can’t possibly be true.”

My words are wrapped in a huff, “What are you doing here, Alasdare?”

He arches his brow at me—and it silences me instantly. Words tangle in my throat and, slightly, my foot slides back until my heel knocks into the corner of the pantry cupboard, instinct drawing me closer to Eamon.

Dare notices my retreat but says nothing of it. He just keeps that gilded look fixed on me.

Eamon is the one who says, “He wants to know where Bee is.”

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