Dancers crowd the street, completely inebriated with honeyed wine, and several are naked. Fair enough. If I had the silvery, gleaming skin of a goddess, too, then I wouldn’t want to be concealed by my clothes, either.
Yet, I start to find my own clothes awfully constricting, and I’m sweating beneath my heavy cloak.
Why hide? Especially as the music pulses through me like a heartbeat, turning my thoughts wanton.
I stop myself in time, gasping for air, and to my relief, no one pays me attention. Everyone is having too much of a good time to notice the human in their midst.
It looks as if they’re celebrating the unveiling of a statue, and I creep closer, forgetting all about the music and the dancers. I only want to see the sculpture now. The statue is made of shining onyx, and at first, it resembles a cloaked human male with shoulder-length hair.
I can’t stop looking at his face. A slightly hooked but very human nose, but his ears are pointed, and his eyes…they shine like quicksilver.
I knowthoseeyes…
Staring at me from the branch of a skeletal tree, assessing whether I am worthy enough to kill. That hadn’t been an ordinary raven. Not with eyes that silver.
No. That ominous black bird had beenFae, and not just any Fae, too, but my mortal enemy. King Corvis regards me with the same cutting gaze, and I clench my fists, grinding my teeth. It all makes sense. Why he is so abhorrent.
King Corvis isFae.
But it makes no difference to me. He is still going to die at my hand one day. And my first act of revenge? To ruin his facsimile and the festivities of the creatures who revere him.
He’s a monster.
They all are.
But before I take another step towards the statue, a large, callused hand wraps around my mouth, and then I’m dragged away into the crowd.
I never take my gaze off the statue. His eyes gleam back at me, and I send him a silent promise.
I am going to kill you one day…
27
Tegwyn
“I’msosorry…”
I tear my eyes away from the flickering fireplace, gazing at the occupant of the mammoth-sized chair opposite me.
Bannog. Such a far cry from his surly, foul-mouthed cousin, Stannog. He truly is more than meets the eye.
Enviable culinary skills, elegant dress sense, and a cultivated manner—it’s as if the ogre is telling the world that he’s more than a monster. That he isn’t as brutish as his kind are often believed to be, and it resonates with something deep inside me.
I can relate. The world thinks that I’m some kind of monster, too—we have that in common. Except Bannog has far more manners, and that’s where our similarities end.
A heavy breath escapes me. I hadn’t realised how much air I’d been holding in. I massage my temples, hoping it might knock the sense back into me. I even unsheathe my claws to help with blood flow—anything to channel my thoughts in another direction. How am I going to tell her?
“Were these people dear to you?”
I regard the dressmaker on his wingback chair, the one with the rolled-up arms and the upholstered seat of red velvet, and I don’t even know where to begin.
“No,” I reply, “but they were to a friend of mine.”
The ogre nods his head knowingly, and his powdered wig moves with the action. “Ah, of course. The human girl you brought to the tavern. Stannog may have mentioned her.”
He gives a clandestine sip of his porcelain cup, and I rise to my feet, slamming my hands down onto the table.
A growl vibrates in my chest. “What did he tell you?”
