House of Pounding Hearts (The Kingdom of Crows #2)(13)

Six





“Your curse-breaker is fine.” Phoebus swallows, angling his large body behind mine.

Since my friend is not a prude, I imagine he fears retaliation from the male who stands in my doorjamb, wearing a scowl beneath his freshly-applied war paint.

“Super fine.” Sybille squeezes my shoulder, digging her nails into my skin. “Right, Fal? Right?”

My best friends’ squeamishness may have brought a grin to my lips were it not for the presence of Imogen at Lorcan’s side. I do not let myself wonder whether they spent any time apart. As far as I’m concerned, they can spend every bloody second of every bloody minute of every bloody hour together.

Lorcan’s fingertips glide off the studded door, and although he doesn’t smile, his eyes seem incandescent. Probably a trick of the light since the sun beaming through the narrow windowpanes drapes right over his face.

“Your friends are insisting on saying their goodbyes before they are carried down to their new vessel.” As he lowers his arm, his vambraces scrape smoothly over his leather cuirass.

“How nice of you to personally deliver the message. One would think a king would have better occupations.”

Slowly the corner of his mouth curls up. “Hardly. Besides, the day’s beheadings have already been seen to.”

Syb’s intake of breath echoes through my sleeping quarters.

“He’s kidding, Syb.” Phoebus mustn’t be too certain, though, because his hot breath smacks my earlobe a second later, “Right?”

“Lorcan was known as the Crimson Crow. Since his plumage isn’t vermilion, I imagine he earned his nickname for some other reason.” I shoot Lore a frigid smile as I press my palms into the smooth stone and swivel onto my side before levering myself up as gracefully as one can manage when one is wearing no underwear and a man’s shirt.

Lorcan’s smile vanishes when I start toward the door. “Your clothes, Fallon.”

I glance down at my bare legs. “What about my clothes?”

“You seem to be missing many.”

“And yet . . . I’m not. Do you mind moving aside, Morrgot? I have friends to hug.”

The skin beneath his tattoo twitches, spasming some more when he peers down the loose V-neck, which must reveal more cleavage than I’d normally be comfortable with.

I filled your closet with clothes.

“Not my closet, and not my clothes.”

Fallon. My name comes out as a growl. Those clothes were sewn for you. They’ve never graced another body.

“I don’t want to keep my friends waiting.”

His fingers ball into fists that leak dark smoke. I expect him to shift at any moment, but he surprisingly stays two-legged. And even more surprisingly, he backs up, allowing me to step around him.

“Good morning, Ionnh Báeinach.” Imogen inclines her head ever so slightly. Although her hair is neatly plaited and her makeup freshly applied, my mind conjures her up like she looked last night on her way out of . . . I’d have called it work, but Imogen is no doxy.

“Imogen,” I say as I walk past her. “Had a pleasant night?”

“Yes. Most pleasant.” Her gaze streaks through the shadowy darkness, surely toward her beloved king.

An arm weaves through mine, its familiar weight untethering me from the bitter girl I’ve become within these walls. To think that arm will be out of my reach soon. I’m two seconds away from begging Sybille not to leave, but I think of her parents and how worried they must be. Yes, Giana will be home soon, but one daughter doesn’t replace the other.

Fetching me clothes and checking on my grandmother and mother are excuses to give Sybille her freedom. I may be trapped, but she shouldn’t be.

“I’m going to try and land an audience with Dante once I get home,” she murmurs. “To see if he can work something out with Lorcan.”

“Work what out?”

“Ensure your protection so that you can roam Luce freely.”

I don’t want to flatten Sybille’s optimism, but Lore will never let me out of these walls. Not until the wards are removed. “Syb, if you do manage to speak with Dante, make sure to tell him not to trust Dargento.”

She nods just as we reach the air hub, or whatever the Crows call this three-storied stone room topped with a narrow glass cupola that I’ve only ever seen opened. I crane my neck and gaze at the bright blueness, letting it trickle into me and wash away the drabness of these unscalable walls.

Sure enough, Mattia, Riccio, Antoni, and Giana stand there, waiting amongst a few Crows. The only one I recognize is Eefah who is chortling at a story Riccio tells. Her laughter peters out at the sight of my damp hair and unconventional attire.

Giana steps up to me, her gray gaze traveling between me and a spot over my head, which I assume must be Lore because it’s too high to be Imogen. Unless it’s Phoebus? I chance a glance over my shoulder and my eyes land on the Crow King’s. Although his body is limned in smoke, the taut lines of his neck and the strain in his jaw are in sharp focus.

He’s wound awfully tight for someone who spent his night fornicating. I don’t mean to hurl this remark into his mind but that’s where it goes.

Fornicating? You must have me confused with the male whose eye sockets I’m about to hollow.