Page 135 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
“Mates,” he scoffs after a while. “Another pretty lie to chain us.”
His steps become less sure, his resolve wavering. He keeps throwing glances my way, each one lingering longer than the last. At one point, he stumbles, and I reach out to steady him. My fingers latch around his wrist—above the glove. Skin-to-skin contact. A jolt of electricity passes between us.
He jerks away as if burned, but not before I see the naked desire in his eyes—and the agony.
“Don’t,” he growls, but it sounds more like a plea than a command.
“Emrys—”
He backs away, shaking his head. “This isn’t real. It can’t be. You’re in my head, influencing me like the others.”
The pain in his voice is palpable, and I realize how deep his wounds go. This is trauma, like my fear of water. Something happened to him, and it won’t be easy to heal. After Rory died, I had five years supported by a loving family. What did he have?
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “The pheromones are always more intense among mates, especially when I’m in heat.”
For a long moment, he stares at me, conflicted. Then, with a sound that’s half growl, half groan, he surges forward, pinning me against the moss-covered wall. The scent reminds me of Fox, and my heart breaks.
“Prove it,” Emrys clips, his lips a breath away from mine. “Prove this isn’t just another trick.”
The challenge hangs between us, charged with tension and unknowns. I look into his eyes and see a man teetering on the edge, desperately wanting to believe but terrified of being hurt again.
“I thought I was proving it,” I whisper.
“You’ve proven nothing.” He rolls to the side, revealing a door. We’re at the end of the tunnel.
He leans back, appraising me down his nose, waiting for something. He is the picture of predatory nonchalance, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Fox joked about the gods making me specifically for them. I never believed it. But as I stand here, raging inside over Emrys’s behavior and somehow still fighting my urge to rip his clothes off and lick him all over, I think Fox is right. What if we have no power in our fate?
“Where are we?” I ask. “Where does it lead?”
“The Clock Tower.”
Whispers of conversation filter through the door, coaxing me closer. I press a tentative hand against the surface. A tornado of magic burns against my skin. I gasp and pull back, stung.
Curious, brave, or perhaps foolish, I press my ear to the door. The voices whizz by, but the harder I concentrate, the easier it is to identify individual sounds: Bodin’s deep rumble, Legion’s velvety confidence, Emrys’s rasp, and more. The whirling magic steals them away again. Then I hear something that chills me to the bone.
Me. My voice when I’m younger.
I round on Emrys, and puzzle pieces start clicking into place. He never seems to have memory slips, even though he spends so much time at the palace. His seething hatred of me is because I’m yet another queen in a very long line of them. And back at the stables, when his hand dipped between my legs—unlike Bodin, he knew how to pleasure me. He knew so well that he sensed when I was close to climax and pulled away to hurt me most.
“You have your memories,” I accuse him, looking at the door. “You found them in there.”
His lips twist into a knowing smile.
Fury pumps my fever to new heights. I launch at him, slam my palms beside his head, and snarl, “How can you betray your brothers like this?”
His humor dies, replaced by something agonized. Sweat glistens on his skin, sparkling under the torchlight, but hungry desperation is on the verge of snapping in his gaze. His broad chest heaves. The black tattoos on his neck seem to writhe, to ripple in response to his inner struggle. When I glance down the length of his body, I see the evidence of his arousal bulging his breeches. I wish seeing him didn’t affect me, but I am powerless against my attraction, my need, and this close, our breaths mingle. My mouth goes dry.
I can’t tell if I want to kiss him or kill him. My hands slide down the dirty wall, and I step back.
“Through the tower is the only way out of here,” he says, voice rough.
“Why haven’t you shared this information with the rest of your hive?”
“Why do you think?”
I think about Legion’s vow, their Seventh’s death, and Bodin’s overprotective tendencies and shame over those feathers. Fox truly believed I was to be their salvation, their freedom. According to him, they all thought that. Varen sacrificed his sanity for it.
“They wanted me from day one. But you didn’t.” I glance down. “Because you think I want to control you?”
