Page 30 of How to Claim A Shadow King

I—I force myself to stop looking at her, to stop wallowing in the knowledge that I have caused her pain and force myself to action instead. Before long, she's divested of her torn and bloodied slippers, and I've done the best I can possibly do to wash her feet and cleanse her wounds, and I'm sure she is as comfortable as she can be.

"I will watch over you," I tell her, a cat-like snore coming from her mouth as she rolls over.

I cast my gaze around, looking for something to cover her with since she is simply laying on top of the bed. She shivers in her sleep, and I have half a mind to go downstairs and request more blankets from the Fae innkeeper and his witch. But when she whimpers in her sleep, I decide that I don't need blankets at all, and I wrap my shadows around her until she stills, her breathing evening out.

I stay like that the entire night, watching her, making sure she's sleeping, comforting her when she whimpers.

And I loathe that I am the reason her sleep is anything but restful.

The weak autumn dawn finally cracks through the windowpanes of the inn, but the velvet shadows I wove around Aveline’s sleeping form are entirely stubborn, purring in protest as I try to call them back to my skin. She rolls over beneath the heavy quilt, letting out a soft, adorable snore that vibrates straight to the marrow of my bones.

The physical obsession is a literal fire beneath my ribs, a sharp, grinding friction that tightens with every single breath I take. For three hundred years, my existence was nothing but a relentless grey. I bided my time in a colorless void, entirely numb to the passage of centuries. But spending eight hours in the dark watching her sleep—tracking the frantic, shallow flutter of her pulse against the thin silk of her gown, watching the way her pale blonde hair tangles across the pillow—has completely dismantled me.

I want her. My shadow-magic is a boiling, predatory tide screaming to tear through the mattress, pin her beneath my weight, and mark every single inch of her pale skin until the world itself bends to my possession.

But the memory of her panic attack in the corridor… the image of her shaking while she pressed that pathetic brass letter opener against my bare chest; it keeps me entirely restrained.

Carefully, so as not to disturb the fragile peace of her rest, I slip out of the chamber and turn the iron lock silently behind me.

I need to clear my head. I stalk down the creaking wooden stairs of the inn, my dark aura inadvertently causing the dust motes in the stairwell to scatter in a panic. The common room below smells beautifully of woodsmoke, chicory, and the savory, heavy grease of pork fat sizzling in the back kitchen—a dome of domestic comfort that feels entirely foreign to my domain.

At the counter, Caelen is methodically polishing a glass goblet, his purple skin gleaming under the morning light, while Ga’Rek sits heavily on a reinforced stool, a mug of steaming brew swallowed entirely by his massive green fist. Nearby, that ridiculous, overweight, bug-eyed mutt Boner is snoring loudly under a bench, trailing a slow puddle of drool onto the floorboards.

Caelen stops mid-polish, his eyes snapping to me. He lets out a sharp, faux-offended gasp that echoes off the wooden rafters.

"Is that the same thing you wore last night, Malakai? It seems as if a localized tornado occurred in the lower half of your wardrobe," Caelen says, tossing his polishing rag onto the bar with immense, dramatic flair. "You are radiating a foul musk into my common room. It’s a sensory assault. A literal assault on my senses. An Eelder entity shouldn't look like he was dragged backward through a hedge by a drunken minotaur. It kills the ambiance."

Ga’Rek chuckles half-heartedly, and Caelan narrows his eyes at my lackluster response.

I drop heavily onto an empty stool, my shadows pooling miserably around my boots. "She called me a fool," I rumble, staring blankly into the dark liquid Caelen reluctantly pours for me. "And then she fell asleep face first on the mattress. I do not understand the mechanics of this... of this idea of courtship. In the older cycles, one simply declared a match and secured the perimeter."

"Secured the perimeter?" Caelen throws his hands in the air, his purple skin practically flushing with secondary irritation. "You absolute idiot. Courtship is not a localized military checkpoint! You don't conquer a woman; you construct a place she can be safe. You have to think about her brain, Malakai!"

Ga’Rek lets out a deep, chest-rumbling orc chuckle, his sharp tusks catching the lamplight as he reaches over to pat my shoulder with agonizingly sweet, genuine sincerity.

"Don't listen to him, Malakai," Ga’Rek says, his rumbling voice incredibly gentle as he offers me a reassuring smile. "Witches carry a lot of pressure, especially with everything that’s happening now. Piper works so hard at her bakery, and all I do is try to make her day easier. I carry the hundred-pound sacks of flour, I keep the ovens perfectly stoked, and when she's completely overwhelmed by the logistics, I fry up a massive plate of cheesy bacon potatoes and just let her vent until she feels safe. You just have to be kind to your woman. Show her your strength is a shield, not a sword at her neck."

The huge orc mimes cutting a throat, and I stare at him in horror.

Have I been a sword at her neck?!

"Exactly! Kindness, Malakai. It’s an actual concept," Caelen snaps, pointing a finger at me. "Take my Wren for example. She spends twelve hours straight squinting through a loupe, manually carving raw gemstones and sorting mineral fractures until her shoulders are locked in a knot and she is ready to castrate me with a polishing wheel. Do I corner her? Do I demand her compliance? Only if she wants me to act like that.”

Ga’Rek groans in distaste as I blink in confusion.

“Otherwise? No. You have to ask about… her. Figure out who she is beneath that fancy posture. Remember what she likes, and more importantly, remember what she absolutely despises. Bring her presents—high-quality presents, not whatever jagged obsidian rocks you dig up in your cave. You be there the exact millisecond she needs you, and you vanish into the shadows the moment she wants to be left alone. It's binary, Malakai. Presence and absence. Execute it."

“I don’t have a cave,” I tell him bemusedly.

An eight-foot orc warrior who moonlights as a bakery assistant and an Unseelie innkeeper are currently lecturing me on the romantic utility of flour sacks and gemstone management. Back in my home plane, my word is law. Here, I am being instructed to handle a mortal duchess with the delicate care of a glassblower. The absurdity of it is breathtaking—and the worst part? They are entirely correct.

"She has no experience with magic," I mutter, tracing a line through the condensation on my mug. "She looks at the keep as if it is a cage. Her family… they must have treated her like a political token."

Ga’Rek nods, his face full of genuine sympathy. "Then don't let her be a token, Malakai. You have to show her. Give her choices. Take her into the town square today. Let her pick out fabrics, let her buy things. Show you're just there to help her happiness… even if that means you have to fund it."

Caelan chuckles. “Take her to Wren’s if you really want to impress her. Women love jewelry, and Wren’s is the best.”

“Not all women love jewelry, Caelan.” Ga’Rek rolls his eyes.