12. Nora

12

NORA

I 'm not surprised when I walk into my home office and see the Unseelie King sitting at my desk.

Silas pokes at the perfectly lined pens next to my typewriter, nudging them out of order with a ringed finger, as if he knows it'll make me twitch. His silver-white hair is cropped shorter on the sides than usual, freshly cut by the barber. A few strands hang loose and brush the edges of his brows.

I imagine he does it to unnerve me—sitting where I should be, invading my space, and making me stand in front of him like I'm a guest in my own home.

It's something I would do, though I think the repercussions of me sitting on Silas's throne would be very different.

The Unseelie King does what he pleases, which I respect. Even if my approval of what he does is up for debate.

"Your Majesty," I say in greeting.

He doesn't acknowledge my presence at first, but when he looks up, it's easy to understand why the humans often mistake us for demons; rimmed with dusty white lashes, Silas's near-black irises contrast the rest of his pale features.

It's unnerving to be the subject of his attention.

"Nora," he greets with a slow smile, leaning back in his— my —seat. His tone is rich and deep in the way that the cliffside sea is: deceptively beautiful and utterly dangerous. "I got your message."

I pull off my coat and hang it on the rack next to the door.

As I walk towards the twin leather chairs that sit opposite my desk, I jab my thumb over my shoulder.

"Want a drink?"

"I already helped myself to one." He salutes me with a glass of whiskey that emerges from a swirl of shadows and into his waiting hand. He inspects the glass. "I didn't think your taste ran so close to your predecessor's."

I recline in one chair, leather-clad fingers gripping the armrests.

"I don't entertain enough to warrant buying anything new, and now I'm used to it."

Silas snorts, eyes glinting as he takes in my poised position in the armchair—relaxed back and ankle crossed over one knee.

A standoff of sorts forms in the silence between us. One where he expects me to fold under his gaze, to trip over myself to win his favor, or fall in line as a good little soldier he views the Sins to be. Because that's what we are to him. Pride taught me as much; he hated how he was pressed beneath the Unseelie King's thumb, free to do whatever he pleased except for when Silas said otherwise.

It isn't freedom at all, only the illusion of it.

I've never operated under the assumption that we're anything but chess pieces for Silas to position across his checkered board. My only goal is to be freer than a pawn, a rook, or a bishop.

I want to be as free as a queen. And as powerful.

So, I wait.

I called him here, but that doesn't mean I'm not curious as to what he has to say. What questions he'll ask. How he'll handle the way I push him and if he'll call me out on it as he did at the Sins meeting.

What can I get away with in private?

He breaks the silence first.

"Taste for liquor aside, you are quite similar to the former Pride," he says. The words sound thoughtful on his lips. He's considered them carefully. "I had my suspicions when you came into the position, given the rumors on how you handled business under him. But it was never quite clear, the vision of who you were going to be as the new Pride. Like you were blurred around the edges, and I needed better focus."

Silas stands and rounds the desk. He perches on its edge, not quite in front of me, but slightly to my left. It gives me the impression that he wants to be close enough to intimidate, but not too close.

He crosses his oxford-clad feet.

The stance is threatening in the way that only casual power can be—all subtleties and grave mistakes before you realize you've stepped into a trap.

I cross my arms over my chest, my fingers wrapping around my biceps defensively. Suspicion roils in my gut.

"Is it clear now?" I ask. "Who my version of Pride is?"

Silas cocks his head. The move is akin to a fox, black eyes studying me to decide whether I'm predator or prey. I am careful to keep my face a blank mask of indifference, but there's something in the way he examines me that sends pinpricks up my neck.

"No, you've still got me baffled." He smiles, and for a brief moment, it reaches his eyes. He sips his drink with a playful shrug. "Which means either you're going to do great things for this Court or very bad things."

"Is that why you had Imogen report to you?"

"I struck a chord there with you two, huh? Can you blame me for wanting to get to know more about the first soul-stealer born in a millennium?"

"I didn't realize I was that special."

My sarcasm is thinly veiled. Pride had beaten the facts into me early on: the last soul-stealer had died years before he was born, and I had to claim that mantle seamlessly. Failure to do so risked more than just embarrassment.

"And it's nothing we can't move past," I add, but forgo the details. I don't owe him anything where Imogen is concerned.

That's between me and her.

He huffs, almost surprised.

"I underestimated your loyalty to her." Silas sets his glass down on my desk before clapping his hands together. "Now, tell me why you called."

"You said you wanted to be updated on my business venture."

"Yes…"

"So, I'm updating you," I say.

I've talked Josie through how I wanted to approach my plans for Jamison with Silas a hundred times over. Our suspicions of who is pulling the strings behind the curtain complicates things. How much can we risk Silas knowing?

"We're headed across the Veil tomorrow to handle a… misstep by our Seelie supplier."

"A misstep ."

I hum. "And I thought it wise to fill you in on the context beforehand, so you're not surprised."

Silas regards me with caution before saying, "Go on."

"Do you know of the circumstances that led to Pride taking me in?" I say, the words forming carefully on my lips.

I remind myself that Silas has a bloodhound's instincts. It's as if he can smell the lies as they're spoken, and I'm not willing to divulge every detail of that night. I don't think I ever will be. Even Josie hasn't heard it from my lips directly. Instead, she peeked into my memories when we were seven, an instant bond forging between us through shared trauma.

"Orphaned young, but your talents were noticed, so you were brought under his wing. It's not an uncommon story, especially for your House," Silas says, lips tucking into an unamused frown. "I assume you'll connect the dots as to why this is relevant?"

"My biological parents weren't caught in the crossfire of some raid on House Pride. We were targeted. They came to our house human-side, and they killed my parents." The words are thick on my tongue. I don't tell him that they came for me, to take me to Avalon like I was some kind of prized mule. "Well, one specific Seelie killed my parents. And he got away."

It takes a second, but I can see the cogs turning in his head, the questions forming on the tongue that now pokes the side of his cheek.

" There's always more ," Silas chuckles as he quotes my words from the Sins meeting back to me. A single dimple forms in his left cheek with his smug smile. "Let me guess, whoever orchestrated the murder of that family is also the man who killed your parents?"

My lips part into a scowl. "You already knew?"

"It's naive to think I wouldn't assign someone else to watch over you after the other day," he says. "But don't worry. It wasn't one of Lust's lackeys."

I shake my head. "If you already knew about the attack, why didn't you say so?"

He snorts, pushing off from the desk and heading to the window. "You're cute when you're confused."

And then it clicks. My face falls into an accusing glare.

"You're testing me."

"I wanted to see if you'd be honest with me of your own accord."

"Did I pass?"

"Are you still breathing?"

When my eyes darken in their glare, he laughs—but I know by the glint in his obsidian eyes that the threat behind his humor is very much real.

"I'm glad you called me rather than doing something rash on your own. Wrath owes me fifty dollars—he thought you'd kill them right away. I figured you were smarter than that when it came to Faerie's other half."

Doesn't mean I won't still kill them .

I stand, stepping around the desk to reclaim my vacated chair. His hawkish eyes follow me as I sit. The leather is still warm and malleable from his body heat. I jerk open the bottom right drawer, pulling my revolver from its home along with its cleaning kit.

It's infuriating, the way this man is one step ahead of me.

I empty the cylinders; the bullets laced with iron clink like wind chimes as they hit the desk. Then, I set into my nightly routine, cleaning the barrel and cylinders with a bristle brush and cloth that I dip into solvent. My nose tickles as the stench of the cleaning solution fills the air. I should have the window open while I do this, but I need to still the sudden frantic beating of my heart and routine is the easiest way.

Today has been trying. The past two weeks have been trying.

Slowly, I regain my composure.

I move onto polishing, making the metal shine under my fingertips. Silas's eyes narrow on the movement, but he doesn't comment on it. He waits. Minutes pass, and he is silent as I work.

"You speak as if you know me, yet you claimed confusion not ten minutes ago," I finally say.

"I gather data and make assumptions," he says. "I believe we share a lot of the same values, which makes me think you'd handle the situation similar to me. But sharing qualities does not equate to knowing ."

"And what is it you think we share? The King and a Sin. I'd say they're quite different," I say. I keep my eyes on Silas as I reload the gun.

"Loyalty to our people. A sense of responsibility and the desire to protect. To shield them from the worser fates out there." Silas says this casually, as if he's ticking boxes on a list. "It's why you killed Pride."

My fingers pause on the barrel as it clicks back into place. I bite the inside of my cheek and set the gun down.

"I don't see how?—"

"Let's be clear, he was a pain, and I was happy to see him go." He waves his hand in the air as if it's common knowledge. "You didn't kill Pride because you wanted power. You replaced him because you wanted to protect your family, and that's the only way you knew how."

My head starts to shake before he even ends his theory.

"You're wrong."

"Am I?" Genuine curiosity tints his voice, sensing the truth within my words.

"They're one and the same to me. Power is protection."

"And I'd say they're opposites. One is rooted in selfish greed and the other rooted in selfless love."

"Love, at its core, is selfish."

Silas hums. "Maybe. But you would have to be in love to know for sure."

He saunters as he closes the distance between us. When his knees are inches from mine, he plucks my gun from the desk. Inspecting it, he rolls the cylinder, clicks it back into place, and points the gun at me.

My breathing stops as I stare down the barrel.

Then he twirls it—so fast the metal is a silver blur in the air—and the handle is facing me. I'm quick to try to pull it from his hand, but he holds onto it with a viselike grip.

Silas leans forward, anchoring one hand on the desk chair as he peers down the sharp slope of his nose. He studies me as I've studied him; both of us carefully logging the tightness of our jaws and the way our lips twitch in the silent stare off.

His pupils dilate. His sigh is a breeze on my lashes.

"Send me the details for tomorrow," he says. "I look forward to seeing you in action."