Page 48 of How to Claim A Shadow King

"My apologies, Duchess," I say, guiding her through the heavy oak double doors and up the grand curved staircase of the foyer. The house is on its best behavior, illuminating our path with the soft, ambient gold glow.

We reach her bedchamber, the handle on her door gleaming in the dim light. An unbearable, charged awkwardness settles into the space between us, the proximity turning the air thick and heavy.

I know what I want to do.

I know that I want her to invite me in, to seal the bond between us once and for all, to make her mine.

To make her scream out my name in pleasure.

I lick my lips, watching the curve of her hips as she turns around.

Aveline pauses, her small hand resting on the door handle as she turns to look up at me, her blue eyes dark with a raw, breathless curiosity that tests every single ounce of my control.

"Thank you," she says softly, her voice dropping into a quiet whisper. "For the clothes, and the boots. And... for the horse. It was an incredibly kind gesture. I had a really lovely day. You were excellent company… for an overbearing sort of Elder God."

A ragged chuckle escapes my throat. A visible shiver ripples down her body, and I have to take a moment to compose myself. "I am merely attempting to court you as you deserve, Aveline.”

“You’ve learned a lot about courtship in a day’s time, I must say.”

“Caelen and Ga’Rek informed me that kindness and high-quality presents are the requisite to wooing a witch."

"Did they?" Her lips twitch into a lazy, roguish smirk. "And what else did they advise?"

"They suggested I learn your inner thoughts," I step a single inch closer, my shadows licking at the hem of her skirts. "To memorize exactly what you love, and what you absolutely despise. To be there the exact moment you need me, and to vanish into the dark the moment you require space."

Aveline swallows hard, her gaze flicking down to my lips for a fraction of a second before she darts it away, her pulse thrumming visibly against her throat. "A very practical philosophy. And what category does your current presence fall under, Malakai?"

"An exercise in extreme torment," I murmur, my voice dropping into a low, velvety rasp. "Goodnight, Aveline. Sleep well."

She offers a tight, entirely pleased little smile, her eyes lingering on mine before she slips across the threshold. "Goodnight, Malakai."

The heavy oak door clicks shut, the iron lock sliding into place with a definitive snap that leaves me entirely locked out in the dark.

And all too pleased with myself.

18

AVELINE

I'm running through the forest in my dreams, laughing to myself. Something hunts me in the shadows, but in my dream, I know that it can't hurt me. My feet are bare, and leaves stick to my toes and the soles of my feet. Mud speckles my ankles and shins, and I hold my dress up in one hand, laughing loudly as the shadow of a wolf lunges out from behind a tree, snapping at me but missing.

A dart of light explodes from my palm, pinning the wolf in place. I laugh louder, longer, running faster, red hair tangled around my waist as I run, a thick braid flopping over one shoulder. I run faster and faster—faster than I even knew I could run—until I reach a clearing and flop down stomach-first next to a babbling brook. Thirsty from all the exertion, I dip my hand in the cool, clear water and drink deeply. It tastes fresh, cold, and clean. I finally stop, my thirst quenched, and catch a reflection of myself rippling through the water. My breath catches. The woman with red hair who stares back at me isn't me at all.

I bolt upright in bed.

My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, my breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps. For a long second, I think I feel the damp earth beneath my fingers and the chill of the forest breeze on my skin. I instinctively glance down at my hands, half-expecting them to be coated in mud, but there is nothing. Just the soft, clean sheets clutched tightly in my fists.

The room is dark, save for the faint smudge of moonlight filtering through the windowpanes.

I reach up, my trembling fingers brushing against my hair, tracking down the length of it. It’s light blonde.

My hair.

Soft, fine, and entirely distinct from the fiery red mane of the woman in the water.

Who was she?

The laughter from the dream still echoes faintly in my ears, vibrant and fearless, a stark contrast to the cold dread settling deep in my stomach. The way she wielded that light—the way she ran without a hint of fear toward the very shadows that have kept me on edge ever since I arrived in the Wild Oak Woods.