Chapter 35

35

KASSANDRA

W hen I wake up in Draven’s bedroom—with its black drapes and black bedspread and black tapestry—I don’t feel confused or even scared.

No, I’m furious.

It burns like magma through my veins, white-hot and blistering, scalding everything it comes into contact with. My skin practically fizzles from the force of my anger. I can almost imagine it’s radiating off of me in palpable waves.

I don’t know who’s more surprised—me or Draven—when I jump from the bed and storm forward until I’m directly in front of him. I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact, which only seems to exacerbate his amusement. A tiny smirk dances on the corners of his lips.

My rage continues to grow and grow and grow, a snowball effect, tumbling down a steep hill.

“Is something the matter, little bird?” He cocks his head to the side, a decidedly predatory movement.

His cheeks are pale in the darkness of the room, causing his scar to stand out in stark contrast. His midnight-colored hair falls haphazardly over his forehead.

“Take these cuffs off of me,” I sign with a scowl, nodding towards the metal manacles around both of my wrists, securing my gloves in place. “Now.”

His smile only broadens, revealing two rows of perfectly white teeth. “Now why would I do that? After all, you killed my father the last time you were able to use your gifts.”

A tendril of guilt and shame coils around my heart and squeezes tight. I did kill his father, but that was only because I had no other choice. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. But…

Not meaning to doesn’t change the fact that it happened.

Maybe I’m not so different from Treyton after all. We both have blood on our hands, staining our fingers a deep, vibrant red.

I search Draven’s face carefully, studying his reactions, but he just continues to smile at me. An imperious, mischievous smirk that makes his silver eyes sparkle. There’s not a hint of hurt or even anger on his face.

I consider his previous words— Now why would I do that?— and answer with the only word I can think of.

“Because.”

“Because?” One of his brows arches. It somehow makes him look even more arrogant and condescending.

“Because I’m your mate.” I allow the declaration to settle between us, trembling slightly like the taut string of a violin that has just been plucked.

I search his reaction carefully.

Those silver eyes widen nearly imperceptibly, and his jaw clenches, causing the scar bisecting his cheek to twitch. I have to give him credit—he has a good poker face. I imagine he’s skilled at cards.

But he’s not unflappable. Everyone has their tells, and I think I’ve finally pinpointed Draven’s.

To be completely honest, I wasn’t sure my assessment was correct. Yes, he threw that word around, but I never felt a connection to him the way one did with fated mates. But at the same time, I never felt that connection with anyone. Not Blaze. Not Treyton. Not Aleksander.

I don’t know if it’s because something inside of me is inherently broken or if it’s my curse as the Death Whisperer or if it’s something else entirely.

Either way, I was gambling when I declared myself his mate. Only…it seemed to have paid off.

Draven has gone very, very still. The muscles in his shoulders ripple with unfettered tension—tension I can feel saturating the air in sickly, corrosive waves.

For a long moment, I don’t think he’s going to respond, but then he places his hand over the cuffs, whispers a single word, and a flash of white light explodes from his palm. The cuffs around my wrists clatter to the floor.

“How long have you known?” His voice is a husky rasp that conjures images of the last time I was with him.

His mouth on my breast…

His hand beneath my skirt…

Twin flames erupt in my cheeks, but I duck my head before Draven can notice. When I’m certain I have myself under control, I force my gaze to meet his. Those silver, metallic eyes ensnare my own, and I’m helpless to look away, utterly bespelled by him.

“I didn’t know,” I confess, punctuating the words with a shrug. “Not until now.”

“But you suspected.” It’s not a question.

“A lot of things have been coming to light recently,” I admit, thinking of Treyton. Of Blaze. Of Aleksander. Of Calan.

So many secrets…

How many more can be thrown on top of me before I’m buried alive?

“I want you to tell me the truth,” I continue, grateful when my hands don’t shake, belying my trepidation.

“The truth.” He speaks the last word slowly, as if he’s tasting it on his tongue. Devouring it.

“The truth.” I nod once.

“The truth is, little bird, that I’m obsessed with you. Completely, utterly, one hundred percent obsessed. I think about your taste when you’re not around me. Your sweet, perfect body. Your supple breasts and wet pussy. I want to fasten you to my mouth so I can taste you until the end of time. I want to care for and worship you in a way I never have with Gaia or any of the other minor goddesses. This bed will become my altar, and you will be the deity I prostrate myself before.”

He takes a step closer until his hard chest brushes my soft curves. Goose bumps pebble on both my arms.

“Is that truth enough for you?”

Liquid heat surges to my core, and I wonder if he notices. I don’t want to have this reaction to him, yet… It seems inevitable, like trying to stop time.

“That male in the dungeon…” I allow my hands to hover in the air, hoping he’ll fill in the blanks.

The glazed expression clouding his eyes clears, replaced by confusion. “Your Winter Prince? Calan?”

“Calan is in the dungeon?” I ask in disbelief.

Gaia. That must’ve been what happened to him after Draven’s forces attacked the temple.

Fear for the icy prince threatens to plow me over. I grip Draven’s arms desperately, making sure I have his attention, before releasing him to sign.

“You need to free him!”

I know Calan. He would hate being locked away in a cramped, dirty space. He’s probably losing his mind now that he can’t follow his usual routine.

Is he hurt?

What did Draven do to him?

“Calm down, birdy.” Draven’s frown is a slash of pink across his handsome face. “Your prince is fine. I just needed to…borrow something of his.”

“What do you mean by that? And who is the other fae down there? The one who looks like you?”

“Come. Sit.” Draven moves to sit on the edge of his bed and pats the spot beside him.

I remain standing, glaring at him.

Even sitting down, he’s still taller than me. Sometimes I hate being short and petite. All of these males practically tower over me, their frames lined with muscles I could never hope to have.

Draven doesn’t seem perturbed by my refusal. Instead, he simply crosses his legs and rests his elbow on his knee, considering me. I feel stripped naked under his penetrating, all-seeing gaze.

“You’re not going to believe me even if I were to tell you the truth.”

I venture a single step forward, refusing to break eye contact. “Try me.”

“The fae in the dungeon… The one who looks like me…” He scratches at the stubble on his jawline. “That fae is Draven.”

His words take a second to process in my tired, weary brain. Even when they register, I don’t immediately react, sure I misunderstood him.

“You’re Draven,” I sign, frowning.

The smile he offers me then is almost…sad. Pitying, even. “No. I’m not.”

Slowly, his movements intentional and precise, he rises to his feet. Power emanates from his body—blinding light that makes me want to shut my eyes. It halos his dark hair and highlights the blond roots.

“My name is Sylvan. Prince Sylvan.” He bows at the waist, his eyes never leaving my own. “Heir to the Day Court.”