Captive of Wolves (Bound to the Fae #1) - Eva Chase Page 0,105

he told me to go and opened the way, but that’ll only stir up even more conflict between Sylas and his cadre, won’t it? Whitt didn’t force me to leave. I made that decision on my own, and I can take responsibility for it.

“I—I was worried about how upset the two of you seemed to be with each other because of me,” I say, tucking my arms around my chest to hug myself. “It seemed like I was making things worse for you, not better. I found the door unlocked—I realized I could just leave—it seemed like the right thing at the time.”

I can’t see Whitt’s reaction to my partial lie, but Sylas’s makes my heart ache. He lowers his gaze, his mouth twisting. “I’d like to think my cadre and I are made of stronger stuff than could be broken that easily,” he says. “And it shames me that it would have appeared otherwise to you. Whatever tensions arise between us, those are our duty to manage, not yours.”

“Okay.” The breeze licks over my shoulders, cooler with the deepening night. “I’m sorry. I should have talked to you first. I didn’t know that woman would be out here.”

“I can’t blame you for taking the opportunity that presented itself.” Sylas squares his shoulders. “Are you ready to return to the keep?”

Not “Do you want to” or “Are you willing to”? Just a given that I will go back. Because their rescue was never just about defending me as a person but protecting the power my blood represents as well.

August makes a soft sound of consternation, but the thought of him arguing on my behalf sends a different sort of ache through me. Even if I was sure I’d be better off in the human world, which I’m not, I can’t fight or outrun Sylas. If I was leaving to avoid drawing them into an even greater conflict, then I can return for the same reason.

“Yes,” I say, raising my head as if it was completely my decision. “Let’s go.”

30

August

When Talia doesn’t join me in the kitchen at the typical breakfast-making time, I take a detour upstairs to stand outside her door. I don’t knock, not wanting to wake her, but the whisper of her breath reassures me that she is still here.

But is this really where she should be?

Normally I get so wrapped up in the bustle of meal preparation that just about everything else falls away. Today, that question keeps nagging at me. I crack an egg too hard and have to fish bits of turquoise shell out of the bowl. I fold the pastry dough so vigorously it turns stiff in my hands and I have to start over again. Before I can ruin anything else, I go off in search of Sylas.

We’ll all survive a slightly late breakfast. I’d like to be sure Talia’s going to survive the next week, and in a state I can sit easy with.

A quick prowl and traces of scent lead me to the orchard. The summer heat is already expanding over the fields, the potent rays of the rising sun baking the leaves on the fruit trees. As I venture between them, their dry, green smell fills my nose.

Sylas is standing under a duskapple tree, his hand on the trunk, his gaze scanning the branches. This one and a couple of its neighbors developed patches of sickliness over the past few months. Baking with their fruits might be my area of expertise, but the magic of all types of plants comes most naturally to our lord. They’ve started to thrive again with his coaxing.

He turns at the sound of my footsteps, regarding me with typical composure. It’s easy for him to criticize me for getting riled up when keeping a rein on his fiercer emotions seems to come naturally to him too. Does that pale eye of his tell him what I’m here to talk about before I’ve even opened my mouth?

Or maybe he knows me well enough not to need any Mist-borne awareness to figure it out. My half-brother has been a constant presence from the moment of my birth. He remembers more of my life that I do.

“Come to harvest some fruit?” he asks in a tone that suggests he does already know the answer.

Might as well get straight to the point. I sniff the air to confirm there’s no one else nearby and then meet his gaze head on even though the deferential part of me wants to