Page 70 of Unseen Eye
“Someone who didn’t care as much,” I say, barely above a whisper, too busy staring into his blue eyes again.
“And is that a good or a bad thing?” he challenges softly.
“It’s... dangerous,” I answer. “Your turn.”
He looks away for a moment, as though choosing his words carefully. “I’m thinking,” he begins, his gaze returning to mine, “you’d be very easy to fall for.”
My heart skips, and my breath catches, the world narrowing to the small space between us. “So, what’s stopping you?” I ask, bolder than I feel as I take a tiny step closer until we’re only inches apart.
“Darling,” he says softly, the term slipping out and earning a half-hearted glare from me, “you deserve someone much better than me.”
I feel my chest tighten, the alcohol giving me the courage to push back. “What happened to letting me choose my own destiny?”
He exhales, his expression caught somewhere between longing and restraint. “Trust me, I’m trying to do both of us a favor here.” He opens my bedroom door, and I step inside, lingering near him, unwilling to end the moment.
“Stay,” I ask, the word hanging in the air between us, an invitation, a silent plea.
His eyes darken, and for a moment, I think he might agree. But then he says, “You’re drunk.”
“So what? I’m still capable of knowing what I want.”
“Perhaps so, but this is me using my manners and telling you that you need to sleep.”
“Rejected,” I mutter, trying to joke though the sadness is evident in my eyes.
That’s the thing about falling for someone—they never tell you how much it’ll hurt when they don’t feel the same.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” he says softly, the tension thick, suffocating.
“You and your manners,” I reply, rolling my eyes, desperately trying to downplay how much his rejection stings. What am I thinking? He’s a prince, and this game we’re playing can only end one way—with me hurt. Maybe he’s right. It’s better this way. Sighing, I say, “Good night, Your Majesty,” with more sarcasm than I intended, hoping it shields some of the rawness I feel.
“Good night, Eva,” he replies. He leans forward as if to kiss me but must think better of it and stops. As he nears the staircase, he says over his shoulder, “At least we learned one thing today—you think I’m beautiful.” He winks.
Using the lightning-fast reflexes Theo’s been training me on, I whip off my shoe and throw it at his head. He barely ducks before the second one hits its mark.
“Such an evil little thing,” he says and chuckles, then disappears down the staircase, leaving me standing there, breathless and shoeless.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning, Ingrid’s coffee is hot and strong, but it barely dents the fog clouding my brain. My skull feels like it’s wrapped in a vise, every heartbeat throbbing through my temples, and even the smallest sound scrapes through my head like metal on stone. I try to sip my coffee, but my mouth feels like I’ve swallowed dust, dry and raw, Damn alcohol. And damn Cal—I mean Callon. What he said wasn’t wrong, exactly. We were both drunk, but I hate myself more for what I let slip. After hearing Leigh’s stories and the way Garet talked about him, I didn’t know what to expect from Callon. But somehow, it wasn’t this.
I shove those thoughts aside and focus on his words from last night. You would be very easy to fall for. Eight words that looped through my mind all night, haunting my dreams.
“Good morning, sunshine!” Theo’s voice cuts through my haze, his tone far too cheerful as I approach him and the others on the training grounds.
I recognize the familiar faces of Theo’s squad, who’ve become regulars in our training sessions. There’s Troy, towering with his lean frame and a mane of long auburn hair that rivals mine. At first glance, he’s easy to overlook, blending into the background with an unassuming air. But when he’s at your side, his sharp eyes and precise movements demand attention, revealing exactly why he’s their go-to archer. Axel, red-haired and wielding an axe, reminds me of Emmet, though his wit is a little sharper and his patience significantly thinner. Dacia, the lone female among them, wears her hair in a braided crown that matches her regal bearing. She’s a warrior who could have taken on ambassador duties, given her father’s role as an adviser to Drystan, but she chose this path instead.
I give a half-hearted wave, blinking and squinting against the sharp morning light.
“Someone clearly drank too much last night,” Theo says with a smirk, eyeing me as I clutch my coffee like a lifeline.
“How are you so awake? You drank twice as much as I did,” I grumble, wondering how he looks so annoyingly refreshed.
“Secret of the trade,” he says with a wink. “Anyway, thought we’d switch it up. Troy offered to work with you on archery. From what I recall, you could use a little help hitting something other than air.”
“Finally,” I mumble, relieved I won’t be knocked to the ground this morning.
“Don’t celebrate yet.” Theo chuckles. “We’ll keep it short. Izzy wants you to meet her behind the training grounds later.”
