Page 49 of Vines of the Underworld

Nervous shuffling and murmurs break the tense silence.

“As a representative of the High Elves of Thaer Vallhen, I stand by Celeste,” Diaphonus joins us, drawing a wave of exclamations.

“And so do I, the right hand of the Shifters’ King of Verdant,” Tarcyll smirks roguishly and gives me a wink.

My gaze seeks Cyrell, yet he is gone. The councilmembers debate heatedly in their melodious tongue, and chaos returns to the meeting.

“The Council has reached an agreement!” someone exclaims, and all attention shifts to the mysterious hooded silhouettes.

“We believe that only by working together can we purge the Siphons from all Faëheim. And, as we have few options so far and not much to lose, we will put our trust in the human’s abilities.”

Dairell walks with me to my room; his arm slung protectively around my waist. I guess he aims to discourage anyone who still has ideas of harvesting my magic via an Extractor or using me for selfish goals.

He spends minutes carefully searching my bedroom, looking in every corner, checking the locks of the stained windows overlooking the city, and even kneeling to see if someone is hiding under the massive four-poster bed.

He sighs with relief and prepares to leave.

“What comes next?” I ask. I am the driving force behind the plan, yet all the discussions for the rest of the meeting were in that strange language, and nobody bothered to enlighten me.

“All the kingdoms of Faëheim will align on a counterattack strategy in the coming days. We will be ready to strike back at the Siphons when the vines start spreading pure magic again.” He smirks and takes a step toward me yet keeps his distance, “You were so… convincing tonight,” he declares, and I ponder if this is a compliment or a mockery. “Good night, Celeste.”

The door clicks closed behind the twilight of his wings, and I sink into a chair next to the window, unable to grasp the emotions this male stirs inside me.

My eyes wander over the colorful lights of the subterranean elven metropolis—bustling with life, so different than the decaying, tragic beauty of Dairell’s realm.

The buzzing of unseen mechanisms is everywhere, so my mind has quickly adapted to ignore it. Yet I register a distinctive click, and the hairs on my nape stand on alert.

I know I am not alone in my room.

I scan my surroundings. Everything is the way it was—the inviting blankets strewn on the bed, the eerie painting of a metallic monstrosity hanging over the stove, the bag with my belongings thrown on the black, plush ottoman.

My jaw drops when I witness a dark square form and soundlessly sink into the wall opposite me. A hidden door? What the…

Broad shoulders and a white mane emerge from the darkness beyond. Cyrell wears a casual black tunic accentuating his warrior frame and tight-fitting leggings, his long hair tied up in a low knot at his nape.

“Celeste,” he calls me softly, his cat-like eyes burning. There is a flash of movement, and I feel his cool fingers on my face, brushing away the stray strands that escaped my messy ponytail. Not sure how to react, I retreat a step warily, yet my body craves his proximity, his touch. My hand absentmindedly feels the spot on my chest where he bit me. His slit pupils dilate as he registers my move, and I notice his broad chest rising.

“Seeing you scared of me breaks my heart, Celeste.” He murmurs, looming over me.

“You tried to kill me, Cyrell. More than once. What do you expect?”

“I didn’t know there is… another way, Celeste.” He cups my cheek, and I lean into his touch without realizing what I am doing. “And you cannot deny the moment we had.”

I remain silent, and he retreats to the gaping passage.

“Dairell is handling you like property, so I figured out the only way I can show you my city is by sneaking you out through this secret passage,” he grins and appears even more attractive. I have never seen him smile before.

I open my mouth to object, then reconsider. A dangerous desire to defy the prince and prove I still have my freedom rears its head.

“Cerberus awaits us outside,” he says over his shoulder, disappearing into the passage. And just like that, I follow.

He helps me mount the mechanical creature as we sneak out of the hidden door in the palace’s walls.

Cerberus navigates the maze of streets, and I’m grateful that we don’t see a soul. Low-hanging cables brush my hair, unseen cogs rattle, and valves hiss steam into our faces—as if the city is a living and breathing leviathan, machinery buzzing deep in its invisible depths.

Cyrell is unusually talkative, pointing at different gadgets; explaining the complex coexistence of magic and engineering that make the barren underground tunnels inhabitable.

I feel the rugged outline of his muscled chest, the vibration of his deep voice against my back, and heat floods my guts. I doubt he has sneaked me out just for sightseeing. Flashbacks of our brutal mating make me grind against Cerberus’ saddle. Cyrell’s grip on my waist tightens, and he takes a breath with a hiss. My arousal is evident to this male with senses sharpened by ages of warfare in the darkness.

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