16. Shadow Kissed

Ispin around in time to see a gigantic spider crawl upside down through the opened door, its hairy legs topped with blueish claws. Globulous eyes shine under the electrical lights, its upside-down face at eye level with mine.

Venom drips from its fangs and splashes the carpet in front of us. Tiny flares of smoke rise from the floor as the spider's saliva burns through the fabric. I dart behind One as the dark knight draws his bow to the mother of all monsters.

The thing hisses and scurries closer. It uses one of its legs to cleave the bow in two and slashes the front side of One's shoulder and chest in one sweep.

"Get down," One commands.

The spider strikes again, and I feel a breeze near my face as I fall to my knees. If not for the power boost from the tiny spider, my head would have been split down the middle.

"Stay on the ground and play dead. It relies on movement to attack."

Blood pours out of the gash in his shoulder as he slowly inches his arms behind his back, so slowly in fact that I can barely see him move. My gaze darts from the lethal creature to him—back and forth.

The spider snaps its fangs and screeches, the noises all wet and disgusting, like a hunter's knife cutting through flesh. Each sound is followed by another spill of venom. A droplet splashes my knee, and I clench my jaw. The liquid quickly melts the fabric of my pants, sending a painful throb up my leg.

And that was merely a drop!

I hold my breath as the creature shifts to the right, expecting its next goop of drool to careen directly for my hip.

A long, dark cloud condenses into a spear at One's back, and he squints at the nightmare. "By the spindle…" he cocks his head to the side, "I know you," he adds a little louder. "Asabikeshiinh!" That last word riles the spider up quite a bit, and it springs forward, its claws scratching along the ceiling.

One transfers the spear to his uninjured arm and throws it at the monster. It buries deep below its eyes, and the spider drops to the floor next to me with a thunderous thump. Its legs convulse for a moment before it bursts into smoke, but instead of heading toward One, it crumbles nefariously in the air.

Flakes of darkness float about the room as I croak, "What did you say to it?"

"I said its name." He kneels next to me and huddles close. The heat of his body dissipates the fear in my belly, but he doesn't look quite as relieved as I am. "Show me where the venom landed."

I sit up and hike up my pants past the kink of my knee, and One inspects the venom burn with his bottom lip tucked between his teeth. The tips of his fingers graze the sensitive skin under my knee as he wraps his hand around my lower thigh to pull the small burn under the glow of electric lights.

He examines it from all sides like it matters more than the gigantic cut running down his shoulder to his chest. "You're good. It didn't sink past the first layer of skin."

I raise a tentative hand to his shoulder. "What about you? You're covered in blood."

A warm chuckle pops out of his mouth. "I'm used to it. And there's no venom in mine." One stands and shrugs off his jacket, the fabric shredded to bits, his black undershirt sticky with clots. "That spider was a special breed of monster that shouldn't exist. It's a nightmare, but not one that grew naturally in the Dreaming. It was weaved by an enemy."

I swallow the throng of questions swirling in my brain. Blood trickles down his arm on our way back to the kitchen, peppering the floor, and One pulls open the lid of a vertical metallic casket.

Light shines into a variety of receptacles, and I catch a glimpse of a plump tomato, so it must be a food storage unit.

He grips the hilt of an amber-tinted bottle and uncorks the top, tilting his head back to gulp down its content. "Want a beer—ale, I mean?" he offers.

I shake my head. "Let me see your wound."

With a low grunt, he tears what's left of his shirt off and inspects the damage. A nasty cut runs from the side of his left arm to the middle of his torso, and he skims the mangled flesh with the tips of his fingers. "What a mess."

Sweat and blood stick to his skin, the grooves and ridges of his muscles new and fascinating. I've only glimpsed at these shapes in paintings, and a hot thrill suffocates me.

Biting my bottom lip, I inch closer. "I could try to heal you…"

His brows pull together. "Have you done that before?"

"Yes. Can I?" I gesture to the cut running diagonally across his pectoral muscle.

He gives me a small, almost imperceptible, nod. "Only if you want to."

Mustering a confidence I didn't know I had, I lay my palm flat over his wound. "Why wouldn't I want to?"

"You look terrified, kitten. Your heart's beating way too fast…"

Magic electrifies the air as the wound slowly heals, and warmth radiates in my chest. The boost of magic I'd received when I killed the small spider melts inside One's injury.

"I thought I had to return the magic to the Hawthorn?" I ask, sad to relinquish the euphoria and strength that came with the power boost, but happy to put it to good use.

One grips the counter at his back, holding his breath. "In theory."

Once the healing is complete, I caress the fresh patch of skin on the guise of inspecting it, and my gut twists up in knots.

"Nicely done. I haven't been able to heal myself since—I wasn't sure your powers would work on me," One says.

"Why not?"

"Our magic is powerful, but sometimes I feel like it has forsaken me."

Our magic…

Something about the way he breathes the words sets my teeth on edge, and a wild hypothesis forms in my brain. "Were you a seed once?"

With a dark chuckle, he peels my hand away from his chest, breaking the spell. "Would you be less scared of me if I said yes?"

"I'm not—" I swallow hard, not ready to admit my wild heartbeats have nothing to do with fear. "But you're Fae."

"Fae or not, shadow magic is merely the metal we use to forge our own tools. You get to decide what shape your magic takes, and whether to grind its edges into smooth blades or braid it into unbreakable strings. Healing abilities are usually synonymous to a keen mind and a compassionate heart. Those qualities could make you a great huntress. Seeds have to show a minor but well-rounded ability for the three paths, but sprouts can focus their studies on only one or two… With enough training, you could learn to craft bolts of shadows out of the very palm of your hands."

"Like you did earlier with the arrow," I cut in.

"Yes." He walks away and enters the third, unexplored room. "I'm going to take a quick shower. You can help yourself to anything in the fridge." With that eerily benign offer, he shuts the door in my face, entombing himself and his secrets on the other side.

Holy horses!

Butterflies wreck havoc in my stomach as I wash my hands in the sink, set my mask down on the counter, and use a wet rag to pat my face down, wiping off a splash of his blood—and way too much sweat.

Curious about this incredibly small kitchen, I tiptoe over to the fridge and open it again. The neat rows of bottles and metal cans have words written across them in both bold and tiny calligraphy, and the drawers of fresh-looking vegetables and fruits leave me in awe.

I've never even read about some of these.

A jar of cold water on the bottom shelf beckons, and I rummage through the neighboring cupboards for a glass, my hands still tingling with adrenaline from the kill, the healing, and the warmth of One's skin.

He comes out of the bathroom in minutes, rubbing a fluffy white towel to his ear. His hair is all in disarray, no longer slicked back over his head, and the wavy black locks soften his lethal, curated look. He's still half-naked, but wearing a different pair of pants, and his mask is clean… The thought that he removed it in there dries up my mouth.

An eerie-looking shadow across his chest catches my attention. The anomaly hovers above the hunter's heart like smoke, and yet gleams in the night like liquid silk. I couldn't see it earlier because of all the blood, but the black luster draws me in.

I rinse out my glass to keep myself from touching it. "Earlier. Were you saying I could become…like you?"

He grabs another beer in the fridge and hops onto the island, legs dangling below him, barely an inch of space between us. "Would you want to?"

I return the glass to the cupboard to try and break the tension. "You're talking in riddles."

"If you pass your neophyte training, you could become a huntress." His broad frame obscures the city lights as he leans in ever so slightly. "Is that…something you'd want?"

A thrill spirals in my bones at the proximity of his bare chest, and I blush a thousand shades of red. He looks perfectly at ease to be half-naked in front of me, like it's natural.

Crops, it's hot in here.

"I could never?—"

"Hypothetically."

I squint at him, desperate to see his eyes underneath the mask, desperate to know if I can trust him. "Yesterday, before I took the oath, you said my full name. Why?"

He swallows a mouthful of ale before answering, "Names are at the root of our magic. You can know of something without knowing its name, but to truly master it, or have any sort of real power over it, you must learn its full name."

Him and his brothers are hiding their true names. It's so obvious after this conversation; it's not even a question. Even Lori. Mara. James. I don't know their full names, and I even had the instinct to only give them a part of mine.

"So when I asked if One was really your name… It wasn't very smart." Still, something gnaws at me. "If knowing someone's name gives you power over them, why does the king present his to everyone? Why doesn't he keep it secret, too?"

"The king is the most powerful being in the shadow realm. To rule over people, you must prove you're strong enough for them to know your name."

My nose wrinkles at the flaws in his logic. "That sounds ridiculous."

He cracks a smile. "What about your kingdom? Do you feel you have the right to rule because you are your father's daughter? Shouldn't a reign be built on more than blood?"

"I'm not allowed to reign. I'm a woman."

"Isn't that flawed?" He scratches the edge of his mask back and forth.

"Are there queens in Faerie? Queens that truly reign?"

He holds up three fingers. "Autumn, Spring, and Summer."

"Wow." Almost half. "And what does ‘by the spindle' mean?"

"According to Fae legends, the fabric of the universe is weaved in real time by the seven gods through a single, golden spindle. Everything we are—everything we feel—is immortalized in an endless tapestry. And the different threads used decide what course our lives will take." He angles his mask to the ground between us. "Penelope means weaver, did you know?"

The sweet, eerie way my name rolls off his tongue emboldens me to inch closer, but I shake my head.

"She was a Fae queen. Everyone thought her husband had been killed at war, but she didn't believe them. Countless suitors tried to steal her away, but she set out to weave a burial shroud for him and vowed not to take any man to bed before she'd finished weaving it—a task she never intended on completing."

My stomach flip-flops. "Clever."

"The perfect name for a pious, loyal wife." He licks his lips and discards his empty bottle in the sink, a shadow darkening his mask. "The spider was planted here to attack me. Poor Clara—the lovely woman who kept the fridge full and paid my bills—was just collateral damage. We should deal with her body before we go." He jumps off the counter, and the strange smog over his heart thickens.

This time, I can't resist the urge to touch it, and my hand darts out of its own volition. "What is that?"

One snatches my wrist and holds it close to his chest, effectively covering the anomaly. "A leftover scar…from a past mistake." His lips press together for a moment before he adds, "No one is supposed to be able to see it."

"It moves." I try and fail to peek at it again.

One's voice quiets down, and his slow drawl riddles me with goosebumps. "It was a very bad mistake."

I stare at the claw marks, where I figure his eyes are, and graze the edge of his mask with my other hand.

"Don't—"

Despite his warning, I peel the layer of obsidian stone away from his face. His nails dig into my pulse point, but he doesn't stop me, my captive hand still locked over his heart.

I spent hours imagining what he looked like, wondering if the claw marks in his mask were a clue as to what laid underneath.

A scar runs from One's forehead to his cheek in a straight line, but it's by no means his most striking or bewitching feature. Liquid gold burns within his irises, and he draws in a sharp intake of breath. Our gazes are locked as I trace the arch of his scarred brow. His strong cheekbones match the shape of his jaw, and I follow the aesthetic curve of his nose down to his mouth.

His grip tightens around my wrist. "Careful, kitten."

"Why do you keep the mask on? You're…perfect," I ramble, stunned by his appearance.

"You think I'm perfect?" He snickers in a derisive manner and prowls forward. My backside bumps the island as he releases my wrist to wrap a hand around my throat. "Do you have any idea how imperfect I can be?"

"No," but the tug in my belly tells me I want to find out.

The base of his thumb settles in the hollow of my throat, and if he means to scare me, he's doing a very poor job of it. My gaze drops to his lips.

"Fuck." He curls a hand around the back of my neck to hold me closer, and I push myself off the ground to kiss him.

He meets me halfway.

When he takes advantage of my small gasp to slide his tongue inside my mouth, I respond out of instinct. The taste of charred pears and fine wine invades my senses, and a low, approving growl grates his throat.

This kiss is nothing like the ones I shared with Isaac.

Our tongues crash into one another, over and over again, in a slow, delectable dance. I can't get enough. I want more.

I want it all.

He angles my face to the sky and dips his head to lick the slope of my neck. The touch of his lips there is so overwhelming that I cry out. My knees wobble, but he pins me to the counter at my back, his strong thigh sliding between my legs.

The need to retaliate grows beyond my control, and I forget myself. Without an ounce of hesitation, I rake my nails down his shoulder blades and test the contours of his body. The feel of his strong, naked back sets me ablaze as I study which spot plagues him with goosebumps and which causes him to shudder.

My dark Fae reaches behind me and tugs on the end of my braid, pulling the thread down. He unravels it with both hands like he's been dying to do so for weeks. The caress somehow carries the weight of all the other wasted opportunities combined, his touch not the same as the touch of a mortal. Lithe. Heavy. Simply more.

We breathe together for ten, twenty, maybe a hundred breaths, and kiss as though we were always meant to kiss.

I draw away from his lips to taste the constellation of Fae tattoos behind his ear, and he meets my gaze. Something shifts, and all of the sudden, I feel lighter than air.

One's liquid-gold irises are like the pages of an open book, more revealing than the most sensual of fairy tales. Clearer than poetry. Sweeter than music.

His eyes are full of unsung songs.

I start to undress in front of him, unzipping my jacket and shrugging it off, eager for him to touch me. I wait for some measure of warning to spark a storm in my chest, but my dark Fae isn't offering the same sins I read about in books. The poor women in the stories Esme passed along were all left ruined and alone. They spent their whole lives regretting their moment of weakness and erred until their last breath, trying to repair the damage done.

I'd never regret his touch. If he were to break me with his hands, he'd make sure to glue me back together. I read all that in his eyes and more, along with the shape of his true name.

Spellbound, I scratch deep lines in his back, and he bites my bottom lip in response. The metallic tang of blood smears my tongue, and the eerie lightheadedness recedes.

One tears himself away. All the clarity I'd gained in his arms fades, and I bring a hand to my bloody lip, the name that had been on the tip of my tongue retreating back to the darkness.

Heartbeats echo in my throat, my chest, and the intimate, forbidden place between my legs.

"I shouldn't have done that," he croaks, his chin angled to the ground.

"I—Why?"

Wait…is he talking about the kiss, the removal of his mask, or the bite?

Blood stains my index finger when I pat the cut. "It's barely a nick?—"

"Near the end. I didn't mean to enchant you." The swirl of shadow over his heart wriggles and writhes like a nightmare threatening to crawl out.

A fierce blush brands my cheeks. All the songs I'd thought I could read in his eyes…that really should have been my cue that something was wrong. Crops.

"It's my mistake. Let's pretend it never happened." He escapes to the darkness, suddenly invisible, his discarded mask vanishing along with him.

A chill envelops me, his heat gone, and the aftershocks of his kiss shiver through my body. "One?" I search the empty room, but the only sound audible is the loud pulse at my temples.