Page 107 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
An emotion flickered in her eyes and she banked it, but not before he felt it tug the bond, so hard he thought it would pull his heart from his chest. His lungs nearly collapsed.
Fear.
But not fear of him.
Fear of Oldrich.
What the fuck did his father do to her?
“I inflict pain, Atlas.” She huffed out a breath, shaking her head slightly. “Blessing or curse, it doesn’t matter. My power is one of pure agony, death even, and I can’t control it.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?” He stared down at her, but she ducked her head, refusing to meet his gaze. Her curtain of dark hair kept her face safely from view. “When was the last time you tried to use your magic without your emotions getting the best of you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice was barely a whisper between them.
“Yes, it does. You know what happens to a fae when they don’t use their magic. You know the power ends up consuming them, drives them into a state of madness.” Atlas tried again, gentler this time. “You cannot hide from that which is yours by blood.”
Another faint tremor of fear bled through the bond they shared.
Carefully, he slid two fingers beneath her chin, lifting her face. “I will not let you fall.”
Tears welled in her eyes, shimmering like diamonds. “My soul is broken.”
“I don’t care.” Atlas moved closer and let his lips lightly brush her temple. “I want your broken everything. Broken heart. Broken soul. I want your darkness. Your pain. Your nightmares and dreams. Just as much as I want your smiles. And your laughter. I want every piece of you, Ever. Always.”
“Skies above.” She sniffled, crossing her arms so her breasts nearly popped out of his shirt, and he forced himself to meet her glassy eyes. “Since when did you become so smooth and perfect with words?”
Atlas grinned and kissed her soundly on the mouth, enjoying the little noise of surprise she made, liking it even more when she arched into him.
“I’ve always been smooth and perfect with words, Wildheart,” he crooned against her mouth. “You just weren’t listening.”
Thirty-Three
Atlas walked the gardens alone.
Everinne wanted to stay in his room and soak in his tub, and he figured she could use some time alone because if he stayed a minute longer, he would’ve had her bent over the bed, the sink, or any fucking surface he could find until he was so deep inside of her, she forgot how to breathe.
He pushed a hand through the messy curls of his hair and loosed a harsh breath, the frigid air misting before him. Outside the palace, the world was covered in a fine layer of frost. It kissed the trees with their bare limbs, the petals of every winter-blooming flower, and even the lake was covered in crackling sheets of ice that spread like spider webs across its smooth surface. Had it been any other evening, Atlas likely would’ve thrown on an overcoat to ward off the chill, but his skin was on fire, set aflame for a fae with eyes that reminded him of ethereal crystalline waters.
The winter wind bit through the soft fibers of his navy sweater, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, his boots crunching lightly against the solid earth. He wandered closer to the pond, one of his favorite places to sit and be when the world was too much, when the politics of court and therumors surrounding his magic and reputation often got the best of him. Here on some large, misshapen stones where waves lapped against a shallow shore, he could silence the doubts, the questions, the disparaging remarks that tainted his soul and blemished his character.
But tonight, nothing could quiet the murmurs of the wicked wood.
Atlas’s gaze drifted beyond the stone wall border of Starysa, to where heavy gray clouds blotted out slices of rising moonlight and the trees of the Deszvila Forest shuddered and moaned. Their dense branches creaked, their evergreen points jutting up like daggers from beyond the border. Within the walls of Starysa’s reach, the trees were barren, their jewel-hued leaves had fallen with the arrival of winter’s first breath. They were dormant, lying in wait until the arrival of spring. But the woods beyond, they never rested. They breathed with the shifting of the wind, stealing over the landscape of Prava, beckoning the dark, archaic magic that thrived within the forest to life.
He dropped onto one of the oversized stones, resting his elbows upon his knees. Despite the onset of winter and the harrowing woods that seemed to watch with cunning restlessness, Atlas attempted to clear his mind.
Yet his thoughts would not settle.
He would have to go to the Marzena before any other immortals disappeared. Unfortunately, he had no idea what the fuck he was looking for, other than maybe some back-alley rumor, or the possibility that one of the tainted souls who dwelled beneath the city knew something. It would be impossible to go around and interrogate everyone who made the Marzena their home, but if the Mystic Obscura did in fact have an entrance to the Marzena below its menagerie, then that seemed like the best place to start. It didn’t escape Atlas’s notice that Khiran, the missing vampire from Valaina’s clan, was lastseen at the favored parlor, and with their increasing collection of blood samples it was all too coincidental for Reine to have direct access to the occult market of the Marzena.
And now, with Everinne ensnared in their clutches, he had to find a way to get her as far away from there as possible. If Reine or Jarek discovered Everinne’s magic, if they knew what she was capable of doing…
Reine was a witch, without a doubt she could find some nefarious use for Everinne. But Jarek…if a demon summoner got his hands on a fae who could inflict pain, suffering, and death—the possibilities were endless and grim.
Atlas pulled a pack of stigs from his pocket, slipping one between his lips, and flicked the lighter with his thumb. Fire sparked to life from the slim glass container filled with swirling magic. He inhaled, breathing in the floral, minty flavor. Blowing out a puff of smoke, he rolled his head back and stared up at the swath of thick clouds that stretched across the sky like a gray velvet blanket. A tiny scrap of white lace, a lone snowflake crafted from frost, cascaded down from the starless heavens, carrying with it the scent of worn leather, fresh earth, and ink-scrawled parchment.
“The first snowfall,” Veros mused, stepping from the path of patterned stone and closer to the pond’s edge. His hands were tucked in his pockets and his gaze was focused on the flakes that were slowly tumbling from the wintry sky. “They’ll light the bonfire tonight.”
