Captive of Wolves (Bound to the Fae #1) - Eva Chase Page 0,19

it next to the towel. As I step back, I pull a flask out of one of my vest’s many pockets.

It’s important to always have lubrication on hand should one want to grease one’s mood.

I toss back a shot’s worth of faerie absinthe. It burns in the best way going down. Before it’s even hit my stomach, the edges of my annoyance have smoothed with a tickling glow.

It’s less the alcohol that provides the lube than the cloying fruit this beverage was made from. If that scrap of a human took one bite of the peach-like globes, she’d find herself attempting to walk on her hands and gulp grass for dinner without any idea she was behaving at all oddly.

My being relegated to a servant’s task is Kellan’s fault the most, really. Even when he was merely a visitor in Sylas’s domain, you could always tell where he’d recently passed by from the terrorized glaze that came over the human servants’ eyes even while under their enchantments—and the fact that one or two of them was liable to go missing if he was around long enough. A pity he wasn’t Aerik’s brother-by-marriage instead. They clearly share some inclinations.

But no, he’s our problem. Here in our new abode with that mangy prick as a permanent fixture, it’s no wonder Sylas has declared collecting servants from beyond the Mists to be “too much trouble.” And with the pack so dwindled and beaten down, our benevolent benefactor hardly wants to add to their burden other than a few tasks here and there.

None of that bothers me overly so except when the burden falls on my shoulders instead.

The bath full, I shut off the water and wipe my hands of the chore. When I step into the hall, August is just helping the girl up the staircase. I turn on my heel away from them and take a deep inhalation, absorbing the lingering scents.

Sylas has come by too—on his way to his study, no doubt. He tends to go there when he’d rather not be disturbed, but disturbing people is a particular talent of mine.

I amble over and knock—as a courtesy, and because he is my lord and I’d rather keep my throat intact, thank you very much.

“Come,” the rumbling voice says.

Sylas’s study is one of the grandest rooms in the keep, naturally, since it’s fit for a lord. I’ll never say he doesn’t have decent taste in décor. As I prowl in, I tamp down any envy I might otherwise feel over the expanse of that hawthorn-wood desk, twice as large as the one in my own office of sorts, or the liquor cabinet against the wall with its assortment of rare vintages left over from our great exodus.

Would keeping my dishonorable emotions in check be easier or harder if I didn’t have to admit our lord has filled the role quite capably? It’s impossible to say. As we all do, he has his weak points, but on the measure of things he’s as tremendous a lord as anyone could ask for.

Sylas glances up at me from where he’s sitting behind the desk, a journal full of notations open in front of him. “What is it, Whitt?” He doesn’t need to stand and show off his full height to convey the authority we both know he holds over me—over this entire place. Everything from the command in his tone to his imperious gaze gets the message across.

I prop myself against the bookcase next to the door and aim a smile at the oldest of my younger half-siblings: the only offspring who ever mattered to our father.

“I was merely wondering what the delay is about. It’s not like you to dilly dally. We know how the girl can be used—we experienced the power of her blood ourselves last night. You’ve been waiting for a chance like this for decades. We invaded Aerik’s domain specifically to get that chance. Why not turn her over to the arch-lords straight away and claim our reward?”

Sylas considers me thoughtfully, as if he thinks I should be able to put the pieces together on my own. Out of everything, this side of him, measured and penetrating, irks me the most.

My half-brother’s passions can be as fiery as those of any of our summer kin, but he always keeps an even temper with me. It feels like a judgment—as though he’s determined that I’m so volatile he can’t afford to be anything but steady with me. As though I’m fragile