Captive of Wolves (Bound to the Fae #1) - Eva Chase Page 0,96
says, brusquer than before. “They’re riled up over you, so we take you out of the equation.”
My body stiffens. I knew this might happen, and still— “Sylas is going to send me to the arch-lords now?” I ask, my voice thinning.
“No. I think you’ll like this solution much better. You can head right back home.”
This time I’m so startled I outright gape at him. “Home?”
He smiles, but it has none of August’s warmth. “Yes, exactly. That’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it?”
It is, but I didn’t expect to have the opportunity handed to me like this by one of the cadre. I never anticipated getting an offer like this at all. It’s a second before I can wrangle my words into order again. “You’re saying Sylas would let me—”
“No,” Whitt interrupts. “Sylas doesn’t know about this. I’m arranging it. It’ll be better for him and August—for all of us. Obviously it’s better for you too. But you’ll need to get on with it. Sylas is holed up in his study now, and August’s taking out his frustrations on that long-suffering punching bag of his, but the window when they’ll both be distracted is relatively short.”
He wants me to go right now. My mouth opens and closes again. I ease my legs down, scanning his face for any hint that this is a trick or a trap. I wouldn’t have thought Whitt would mess with my head like that—he’s never seemed outright cruel—but I don’t really know him.
“What—what about my blood? The cure? It’s not much longer until the full moon.”
“That won’t be your problem anymore. This is your ticket out of the whole mess.”
“But—” The twisting in my gut spreads through the rest of my body. “It’ll still be your problem. All of yours. If I’m gone, you won’t have any way of making the tonic.”
Whitt pauses again, the frenetic energy that appeared to have gripped him faltering. “Why should that matter to you?” he asks abruptly.
I guess that’s a reasonable question. I give the best answer I can. “You rescued me from Aerik. Sylas has protected me—you’ve all been… kind.” Well, maybe that’s not the best word for Whitt’s behavior. “You’ve been counting on me to help you in return.”
And honestly, I want to. I wouldn’t hesitate for an instant if there was a way I could help that didn’t require me to remain a prisoner for the rest of my life.
What will Sylas think when he realizes I’m gone—that I’ve run off on him after all?
Whitt seems to be rolling over my explanation in his head. His fingers flex at his sides as if he’s grasping for a response. He takes a slow breath, and then says, “Your freedom matters more than that, doesn’t it? We’ll make do. We always have before. We won’t make do if having you around tears our cadre apart.”
Maybe he’s right. I don’t know Sylas or August all that well either—I don’t know how fae in general act when they’re vying over a potential lover. Whitt would have a much better idea about the potential for disaster than I do, wouldn’t he?
And he’s offering me a way out that will help me too. How can I say no to my freedom?
I push myself to my feet, tensing my thighs so my legs don’t wobble. A lump has risen in my throat, but I force my voice past it. “Okay. I can see that. But the magic on the doors—and I don’t know where to go even once I’m out…”
Whitt nods, his expression relaxing. “Go now. I’ve left the parlor door unlocked for you. Walk straight ahead from there across the fields and through the woods. You’ll know you’ve reached the very edge of the Mists when the actual mist thickens. Watch for a thicker patch—by twilight, it’ll look like a puddle turned sideways, deeper and darker, almost liquid. Walk through that, and you’ll be back where you belong.”
This is happening so fast, my head is spinning. I don’t like running out on Sylas or August, but would they let me go like this? I can’t imagine it.
But if I exist, then there have to be other cures out there somewhere, right? They’ll find another way, and I won’t stir up any more animosity between the two of them.
“Okay,” I say, psyching myself up. “Okay.” I raise my head to meet Whitt’s gaze as directly as I can, letting all the gratitude in me color my voice. “I’m sorry for—for all the trouble