Captive of Wolves (Bound to the Fae #1) - Eva Chase Page 0,89
it when I’m not specifically undoing a spell someone else made. Well, I’ll just have to see what happens.
“How many true names do you know?” I ask, setting those thoughts aside.
“Fifty-four,” August says with obvious pride. “Whitt has close to eighty, but he’s had a lot longer than I have to learn. I think Sylas has over a hundred… He’s always developed his spellwork whenever he can. That’s a lot even for a lord. It gets harder once you’ve covered the simple ones and the areas you have the most affinity for.”
Right. August said before that he had a knack for bodily magic like healing. Does he have symbols on him for skin and muscle and bones?
As I remember how he checked my foot, another possibility occurs to me, bringing a chill through my nerves. “Do people have true names?” Could the fae command me by knowing mine? Would “Talia” be enough or would they need middle and last name as well?
August nods. “Fae do. August is the name my father gave me, but we’re all born knowing a deeper one that’s bound to our soul. From what I understand, it’s not the same with humans.” He pauses. “But then, we have so many other kinds of magic that humans can’t defend against, it wouldn’t be necessary to go to the trouble of finding out.”
Not exactly a comforting statement. “I guess you must keep your true names hidden most of the time,” I say. Why would anyone want to give others that much power over them?
“All of the time is more like it,” August says with a chuckle. “I’ve never shared mine. There are some lords who demand it of their cadre… I trust Sylas enough that I’d give him mine if he wanted it, but the reason I trust him that much is because he’s not the kind of lord who’d rule that way, so it hasn’t been an issue.”
His admiration for Sylas reverberates through his voice. I think of the way he reacted when he smelled the fae lord’s scent on my skin. My gut tightens, but August has been speaking freely and warmly enough that I find the courage to form the words.
“Were you… angry because Sylas and me—because we—” I can’t figure out how to finish the question, both out of embarrassment and uncertainty about how to even describe what happened between the fae lord and me. We didn’t have sex. Could you call what we did “making out”? That doesn’t feel like the right phrase either—like something teenagers do in the back of a car, nowhere near the intensity of the energy created between the two of us in his bed.
Thankfully, what I have said is enough for August to catch my meaning. He drops his gaze, his shoulders tensing, but he looks more awkward than upset.
“I’m sorry about my reaction,” he says. “I had no claim—it just took me by surprise. But it isn’t as if I could compete with him.”
It takes a few seconds for that comment to sink in. I knit my brow. “I didn’t think it was a competition. I didn’t think— You said we shouldn’t do anything together.”
His laugh comes out hoarse. “Not because I don’t want to. Skies above, Talia, you have no idea— But I’ve seen what happens to humans who’re taken in with the fae that way. It doesn’t often end well. I’m not sure, even if I mean well… It matters more to me to protect you than to take you as a lover. But Sylas can protect you better than I can, so he can probably manage both. I can’t resent him—or you—for that.”
A jumble of emotion fills my chest, confusion and longing and frustration and more that I can’t easily label. “It’s not as if I’ve married him or something. It was just one night.” So far. I also can’t say I wouldn’t want another, given the chance. But I couldn’t say that about August either. Argh.
I bring my hands to my face. “I like you a lot too, okay?” I go on, my voice partly muffled by my palms. “I don’t think he’s… better than you, or whatever. This is all just really overwhelming. I don’t know how I’m supposed to act.”
August’s tone softens. “You’re doing just fine. I really wasn’t angry with you. If I was angry with anyone, it was myself—and I’ve dealt with that.”
He reaches out to stroke his hand over my hair, and a quiver runs across my skin