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But still…
A lantern sparks on the table before him. In its radiance, I don’t miss the way his gaze sweeps over me. Where he once looked at me with adoration, only coldness remains. Coldness and…
Is that confusion?
“Nothing your mind conjures.” His frown deepens, and he swipes one hand across his eyes.
My breath catches. His hands are dark red, almost black in the candlelight. The color rises up his forearms in jagged lines, like leafless branches.
A wave of nausea slams into me.
I’m not autumn fey. I don’t know everything about how their magic works. But I know enough. And it sends me reeling back a step.
“H-How many people did you…” I can’t say the word.
He stills, then jerks his hand away from his face and tucks both against his chest. “I simply want to talk.”
The room falls silent. So quiet I can nearly hear the flame hissing inside the lantern.
I dare to take a few steps closer. “About what?”
Those gold eyes lock on mine. Even though his gaze remains hard, something deeper seems to crumble. His brow furrows, and he takes a breath.
This time, when he speaks, though still a murmur, it’s rougher. Shaky. Desperate in ways I can’t grasp.
“About us.”
ChapterSeven
KIRRAN
About us.
Even as the answer leaves my tongue, Alia stiffens.
I stay motionless. But tension constricts my body, wrenching against the words. Because there is nousand hasn’t been for years. If there ever truly was for her. And because I don’t want to talk about it. Don’t want to think about. Definitely don’t want to see her in little more than undergarments, in my room, in the middle of the night.
Then again, I’m the one who summoned her from her bed.
She takes a step to the side and lowers her gaze. “What about us?”
I set my jaw and jab my hip harder against my desk’s edge. “When did you speak to my father?”
Her eyes snap back to mine, and she frowns. “Mere minutes before I spoke with you. Or tried to speak with you.”
“No,” I grind out. “When.”
“Before the ball.”
“Tonight?” I press a finger to my temple and drill in. Could that be the disconnect? My father not specifying which ball? Or me not specifying? They’d both made it sound like it was the ball years ago, before she left. BeforeIleft. But perhaps there is a misunderstanding in there somehow.
She presses her lips together. Her brows knot even more. “No — the ball where…” Her voice cracks, and she sighs.
“Alia.” I tighten my arms over my chest and stare her down. “Which ball?”
“The one you invited me to. For your birthday.” Once more, her eyes meet mine. This time, something sparks in them. Not anger — pain. “The one you tricked me into coming to so you and your friends could mock me in front of everyone about how stupid —”
“Stop. Just stop.” I relax one arm enough to wipe my hand over my face.
