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“Hey.”
Farin grasps my shoulder, and I recoil, except there’s nowhere to go, so I just end up slamming the back of my head against the stone dais.
“Don’t touch me,” I bark, and Farin jerks away, holding his pale palms up, his blue eyes wide.
He’s as still as ever, and when he speaks, there’s no kindness in his voice, but there’s no cruelty either. “It’s a week’s journey from Othian by coach. The queen would have spoken with it, with the parasite that’s using you as a host. I can’t imagine the conversation went the way she intended it to, otherwise she wouldn’t have tasked me with extracting it.”
My mind is spinning, and I can hardly grasp onto his words as I fight for breath. But the male keeps talking, and something about the steady cadence of his voice keeps me tethered to this room.
“Before she left, she had me concoct a sedative. She would have given it to you as soon as she realized your magic wasn’t cooperating. She made the trek herself, with only her most trusted guard. Corinth is rough around the edges, but he’s protective of young women. His daughter was taken by a band of Avelean traffickers when she was a child. They got her back, but she was never the same.”
“Why are you telling me this?” It’s barely a wheeze, my voice, but I manage to get the words out.
He inhales, his chest bulging underneath his black robes. “No one would have touched you. Corinth wouldn’t have let it happen.”
Slowly, painfully, my breaths lengthen, deepen.
No one would have touched you.
No one would have touched you.
I hate this fae male, not only for the torture he’s put me through, but that somehow heknows.
I’m fully clothed, but I don’t feel it. I feel bared. Naked. Vulnerable before him.
Still. I cling to his words like they’re the only thing keeping me from plummeting through the ice, plunging into a frozen river.
No one would have touched you.
“Except for you, you mean.” I’m relieved when the words come out even, with only the slightest tremor.
He knows what I’m referring to. I can see it in the way his blue eyes trace my jaw, where he applied the wraithseeker yesterday. Today? A week ago?
Time is an elusive thing these days.
He blinks, his expression utterly devoid of regret. “I won’t pretend what I did—what I’m going to do to you—isn’t extremely invasive. But as long as you’re in my care, no one will touch you likethat.”
A wry smirk tugs at my lips; it’s not intended to be friendly. Fates forbid he finds me placated.
“Is that how you soothe yourself to sleep at night, Farin? You tell yourself the innocent people you torture should be grateful to you for not molesting them?”
Farin goes rigid, and his long, pale fingers grope at the air. He swallows, and for a moment, I think I’ve gotten to him, but then his lips curve into a grin, and he winks at me. “Last I heard, you aren’t exactly innocent, now are you?”
I bristle and open my mouth to retort, but what is there to say? It’s not as if I ended up in the King of Dwellen’s dungeons due to a clerical error.
“You can call me Nox,” Farin says as he leans against the workbench and crosses his arms. His sleeves are rolled up from when he was mixing whatever elixir he was concocting earlier, exposing the muscles of his forearm. They’re pale, like they haven’t seen sunlight in years, but they’re not exactly flabby either—not at all what I’d expect from a genius recluse.
“I’d rather not call you anything.”
He lets out an agitated sigh, and it fogs the cool dungeon air. “That’s fine, as long as you don’t call me Farin.”
“What? You don’t like your given name? You named after a creepy uncle or something?”
He lets out a huff that’s reminiscent of a sneer, but I’m used to people not knowing what to do with my crassness. “Farin’s not my name. It never has been.” He shuffles uncomfortably, and as much as part of me would oh so thoroughly enjoy exploring the source of his discomfort, I stop myself before the taunts form on my lips.
The queen was the one who called him Farin earlier, and if Farin isn’t his birth name… My gaze darts back toward his pale skin, the shadows lurking underneath his eyes. He’s fae, so it’s unlikely that he’s as unhealthy as he looks, but still. Between the name that is not his name and the lack of sunlight evident on his skin, I can’t help but wonder what else of his the queen controls.
So I drop it. Farin—Nox, I mean—pulls up a chair next to my prison table and perches on it backwards, his long, sturdy legs splaying around the backrest. “You know, it would make it a whole lot easier on both of us if you would just tell me what you know about the parasite who takes up residence in here.” He points toward my forehead, and for a moment, I think he’s going to brush a strand of sweaty, matted hair from it, but he must think better of it, because he crosses his arms instead.
