Page 145 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

Annoying.

When Darius fails to appear at dinner and none of the Shadow Fae bat an eye at his absence, unease settles in my gut.

By the time I lie in my bed that night, staring at the ceiling, my suspicion has hardened into certainty.

Darius is avoiding me.

Why?

I’m not certain.

Surely it’s not because of my drunken attempt to kiss him?

Or the fact that I connected with his mind?

Draven has mindspeak. And I’m pretty sure Rian has read my mind.

Darius can’t be disgruntled because I, too, possess an ability of the mind. He and the others know I’m part Fae.

Right?

Somehow, I manage to fall asleep despite the tumultuous questions spinning in my head.

But the morning brings no answers when I knock on Darius’s door and find it empty.

My power hums in dissatisfaction, itching to be of use. It doesn’t like sitting still any more than I do.

With a heavy sigh, I stomp down the corridor, off to search the palace for him.

Again.

Later that afternoon, my sandals slap against the tile lining the walkway around the palace’s center courtyard.

Despite my failure to find Darius, I walk with my head high, admiring the decorations the servants are hanging from the second story.

Bright flowers weave through vibrant-green garland, alternating between draping down to the floor and curving back up to form a half-circle along the rails. Delicate-looking strands of lanterns crisscross through the air.

I don’t know how the servants plan to light them. A tall ladder, perhaps?

I judge the height with pursed lips. Seems risky.

“There you are!” Thea rushes to my side and bobs into a quick curtsy when she reaches me. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Good afternoon, Thea,” I reply evenly, all too aware of the curious glances coming from all around me. “How can I⁠—”

“We must get you ready for this evening.” Her gown swishes as she takes my elbow and hurries me away. “You cannot be late.”

One of my sandals sticks against the tile. I stumble slightly. Feminine snickers rise from my left.

I don’t give the women the satisfaction of looking their way.

“What’s the rush?” I ask. “It’s barely past midday.”

I should have plenty of time to dress and prepare for dinner—to prepare to be stared at by the mayor’s guests while hardly anyone bothers to speak with me.

Anders is the only one who consistently makes the effort.

But after yesterday’s revelations, it was difficult to hold a conversation with him.