Page 75 of How to Claim A Shadow King

Massive drifts of dense, heavy powder block the lower doors and windows, sealing Shadow Keep from the rest of the world.

But this isn't normal snow. The drifts hum with a faint, sickly purple light, the same color of the magic Vesperia used on me, now keeping us prisoners within our own walls.

Worse than the weather, however, is the behavior of the keep itself.

The sentient house, apparently, has decided my boundary-setting last night was an error. As I make my way downstairs, the stone corridors actively conspire against me. A heavy oak door swings shut unbidden, blocking my path to the library. A grand tapestry slides across a hallway, forcing me to redirect my steps until, through sheer exhaustion, I find myself funneled directly into the massive, vaulted castle kitchen.

"Fine," I tell the empty air, glaring at a copper pot that swings from a ceiling hook. "If you refuse to let me read, I will just as easily be useful."

Denied my preferred method of passing time, I am determined to do something practical. I manage to find the bone-colored parchment Lila slipped into my cloak before we left the tea house—the recipe for her spicy venison pie—with only having to have a few one-sided arguments with the house.

But there I stand, recipe in hand, ingredients gathered, and completely overwhelmed.

I have never held a kitchen knife in my life. But as I look at the raw flour, the heavy iron pans, and the cold cuts of meat the castle has suspiciously laid out on the central wooden island, my purely stubborn pride takes over.

I roll up my sleeves, tie my hair back in a severe knot, and lift a dangerously sharp, surprisingly heavy chopping blade.

"How difficult can it be?" I mutter to Ter, who is watching me from the top of a spice rack with immense, silent skepticism. I’m not sure when the raven decided to join me today, but he’s been uncharacteristically quiet.

I don’t think it’s a good sign.

Still, I’m doing my level best to ignore him.

The house immediately begins its mischief.

The moment I attempt to lift a sack of flour, the wooden stool beneath my feet slides three inches to the left, trying to unbalance me. When I reach for a wooden spoon, the drawer sticks, refusing to budge until a shadow flickers near the threshold—a clear sign that the keep is trying to force me to call for its master.

"I am not calling him," I snap at a row of copper ladles, slamming my palm against the stubborn drawer. "I will chop these carrots myself, one way or another."

“Why can’t you be like this about magic?” Ter finally mutters.

I glare at him, and resume my negotiations with the sentient house.

And my poor attempts at carrot cutting.

29

MALAKAI

Knowing she is sleeping in the opposite wing, knowing her perfect, soft skin is resting beneath my roof while she deliberately keeps me at bay, is an exquisite brand of torture.

I am entirely undone by my love for her.

It is not merely the ancient, fated memory of her soul that I worship; it is this version of her.

I love the sharp, defensive tilt of her chin.

I love the arrogant posture she uses to shield her vulnerability.

I love the ridiculous, breathtaking snark she hurls at me when she is terrified.

I love the way she loves horses, her delight in new things, the way she chews her damned food.

My shadows ripple violently beneath my skin, a black, boiling tide that wants to tear through the stone walls, locate her bedroom, and simply hold her against my chest until this Eldritch winter thaws.

And maybe then through spring.

And summer.