16. Imogen

16

IMOGEN

W hen morning breaks my slumber, the sun peeks through the slatted wooden shades, illuminating the still and sleeping Nora. Her long lashes dust over alabaster cheeks, and her bare skin glows under the streaks of sunlight, her ribs expanding with each easy breath she takes.

It's progress, seeing her like this.

My body hums with newfound peace. All the weight I've been carrying for the past year has disappeared—and while I know there's a long road ahead of us, we both took a huge step last night.

The fact that she didn't kick me out as dawn broke is proof enough.

I bite my lip, fighting the smile that wants to spread across my cheeks.

Closing my eyes, I try to lull myself back to sleep, snuggling under the covers and into the warmth of her embrace. But minutes pass and I only get more and more aware of my surroundings. Rest runs away from me, swift and elusive.

I slip from the bed, making sure to tuck the quilt over Nora; my fingers graze over the raised twin scars running down her back. They bracket her spine, reaching from between her shoulders to just above her waist.

I've never asked about them, but I know, like the rest of Faerie, how they got there.

It's well known that House Pride has a history of shearing its member's wings as a sign of loyalty. To cast away your own ego and choose to serve the family . The former Pride had shrunk the practice to only his inner circle, but that didn't make it any less barbaric.

My spine tingles as if my own wings are shivering at the thought.

Tea . I am in urgent need of some tea.

I steal a robe hanging from the back of Nora's wardrobe and wrap the soft black fabric tightly around me. The last thing I need is for one of House Pride's staff to see me prancing around naked.

Nora's living space is situated one level above her office, with one half of the penthouse floor belonging to her and the other to Josie. In a series of interconnected rooms, her bedroom leads into a small dressing area with a wardrobe, dresser, and mirror.

I patter past the bathroom, with its black tiled floors and large clawfoot tub, in which I immediately picture Nora soaking, bubbles clinging to?—

Tea , I remind myself. That's what I'm searching for. Not fantasies of kissing Nora in a bubble bath.

I hadn't caught all the details of the apartment last night, having been pulled straight to the bedroom by the ravenous woman before I could get a good look. But entering the main living area, I'm struck by how distinctly Nora it is.

Dark and inviting, but not overly personal, the walnut shelves, green wallpaper, and brass sconces play perfectly with the well-worn couches and musty smell of leather-bound books. Windows line the far wall, overlooking a small bar cart full of crystal decanters. Emerald-green velvet couches and armchairs sit before the fireplace, same as in her office. Below the intricately carved mantel, a fire crackles low, mere glowing embers.

But my gaze catches on what's mounted above the mantel—my arms wrap around my waist, and my heart drops into my stomach.

Wings.

A pair of Seelie wings.

They are spread wide, a four-pronged pair that shimmers a near-translucent green in the morning light. The upper wings are edged in a thick line of black that curves and thins as it crests the lower edge of the wings. At their center, the darkest black, like an ink spill, spreads. Matching eyespots sit at the center of each lower wing, and trailing at the bottom, the wings taper and curl in on themselves like ribbon.

I'd seen depictions of them in books, renditions in childhood faerie-tales, but never in person. Though, this one is different from the old picture books. They were always lighter, brighter, thrumming with life.

These… aren't.

It's odd. I may be an empath, but the emotion swirling in my gut evades me. It's not quite awe, and it's not quite sadness.

"Snooping for secrets?"

I jolt, spinning around to find a smirking Nora leaning against the room's archway entrance. She's donned her own robe, the same crow-black shade as her hair, though it does little to cover her long legs.

"No," I say defensively.

A lightning bolt of nerves strikes me as I worry that it does appear that I'm snooping.

Her smile only grows as she launches off the molding, prowling toward me predatorily. She catches me, arms wrapping around my waist, and gooseflesh spreads over my skin.

"No?" she asks.

"I was searching for a kettle to make some tea," I squeak. All my muscles are tight and taut, stiff in her arms.

"Relax," she says, and my body responds in kind. "I was just surprised to wake with half my bed empty. You're the one who is always begging me to stay for cuddles."

"Oh."

Her nose runs up the side of my neck, stopping under my ear where she plants a kiss.

"Good morning," she adds, laughter coloring her words. "Your heart is racing. I didn't mean to startle you."

I huff, letting myself melt into her embrace.

"I was more surprised by the decor."

Nora hums, her arms tightening around me a fraction. Her face is still sleep-rumpled, indents crisscrossing on her cheek from her pillowcase.

I spin in her embrace, my back pressed to her front, and stare up at the pair of wings.

"What are they?"

"Wings." I feel her shrug at my back.

"I can see that . I meant are they?—"

"Real?"

I hum, leaning my head back on her shoulder. Without my heels, she's able to peer down at me. Her jewel-toned eyes search my face, for what, I don't know, but a sadness darkens them all the same.

"They're the wings of a Seelie I killed for Pride," she says.

"Why would you keep them?" I ask.

Our words have become quiet, hushed. Suddenly, our voices ring too loud in the room.

Nora's throat bobs. She brushes a stray piece of hair behind my ear; the tender touch pulls a flush to the apples of my cheeks.

"They're a reminder of what's at stake if I fail," she says.

"Fail at what?" I ask.

Her eyes narrow, flicking back to the wings as if a memory is replaying behind those gemlike irises.

"Anything. Everything."

A beat passes between us.

"Did you do it yourself?" I ask.

Nora clears her throat. She shifts, though she keeps me in her embrace. I can tell she's having trouble getting the words out, so I wait for her.

Slowly, with intention, they fall from her lips.

"Pride cut those. But others…" she trails off. "He had me take over clippings once I turned eighteen."

"He had you doing that all through college?"

"He thought it important for me to build respect within the House."

Respect . I hold back a scoff at the word.

There is a difference between respect turned from fear and respect that is earned.

Pride clearly had a tendency to lead with the former.

"Including Josie's?"

Nora sighs. Her lashes flutter with memories I can't see as she presses her forehead to mine.

"No. I didn't shear Josie's wings. But I was there, holding her hand. And she did the same for me."

For the first time in ten years, I sense a small tendril of emotion slip past her mental shields—a deep-rooted grief sinks my gut.

As quickly as my magic picks the feeling up, it's gone; the emotional void around Nora swallows it whole.

A pounding on the door has me jumping out of Nora's embrace. Even Nora flinches, muttering a curse. Her brows pinch together as she opens the door, revealing an equally sleep-rumpled Josie.

"What's wrong?" Nora asks, back immediately straightening with concern.

"Hattie's downstairs, freaking out…" Josie's eyes dart to me and quickly back to Nora, pink rushing to her cheeks. "I think it best for you to hear it from her yourself, but shit's gone down human-side. Again."