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

“As long as you don’t lock me in a stone palace or leave me behind, I will love you forever.”

His throat dips. “You know that if I could, I’d take you with me.”

I steal my hand from his. “Please, Pheebs. I beg you, don’t leave me here. Please.” My voice breaks even though my eyes stay dry.

He sighs, before gathering me into a hug. “Fine. I won’t. I’ll stay as long as you stay.”

“That’s not—”

“—what you want. I know. But it’s the best I can do if I care to keep my limbs attached to my body, which I do.”

“They’d regenerate.”

“Not if an iron beak or talon pries them off.”

I pull away, spine arching to peer up into his face. “Did Lorcan or some other Crow threaten you?”

“Not me, specifically.”

I grit my teeth.

“Look, I think you’d be doing yourself a great disservice by leaving. I hear there’s much unrest in the capital. Most Fae are unhappy that Marco’s dead and that the Crows have returned.”

I flick my gaze toward the windows that give onto the ocean and the island of Shabbe beyond. I’ve no doubt making me face the pink rock is part of Lorcan’s punishment, the same way keeping me in the room contiguous to his is.

Thankfully, there’s no door between our rooms and the stone wall blocks out all sound, but I swear I can feel him on the other side. Several times, I’ve woken up in the middle of the night with the distinct impression of his yellow eyes beaming from a pocket of darkness. If he did pay me unwanted visits, though, I’ve yet to catch him—the same way I’ve yet to hear him speak through the stupid mind link.

Although I’d like to believe he isn’t plucking the thoughts from my head because I’ve figured out how to shield my mind, I’m not delusional. I doubt there’s any way for me to keep an all-powerful shapeshifter with the ability to create storms and send visions from penetrating my skull.

Lorcan’s either bored of viewing all my unpleasant thoughts or too busy ruling his charcoal-eyed, feathery folk. After all, he has so many more minds to trespass into now that his people have resuscitated.

My head is yanked brutally back. “What the underworld are you doing, Pheebs?”

“Brushing out that snarled mess atop your head before a Crow mistakes it for a nest. Now hold still.”

My head is wrenched back anew. “With what are you brushing it? A garden rake?”

“No, although I should ask Lorcan if we can get one. Your hair may be short but it’s preposterously bushy.”

I twist my head, abandoning many hair follicles to whatever instrument of torture Phoebus wields. “You’re to ask Lorcan for nothing. Don’t owe that man a thing.”

Phoebus is smart enough not to attempt to appease me. Once he’s done torturing my scalp, he ambles toward the adjoining grotto which someone transformed into a closet. “So, what are we wearing?”

“I’m not changing.”

“Picolina, you’ve donned Gia’s clothes for the past three days. We need to get you—”

“I’m not wearing any of those clothes. I don’t know who they belong to.”

“They belong to you. Lorcan had them made—” My glare stops Phoebus’s explanation, or so I assume. “The male-faced harpy had them sewn solely for you.”

I hike up my chin. “One more reason not to wear them.”

He sighs. “Well, at least splash yourself liberally in perfume because you smell like the inside of a conch shell.” My tapered gaze makes him add, “Which I’m sure smells lovely to Crows. I hear they’re fond of mollusks.”

I watch his lips for a twitch that would hint at humor. Phoebus remains alarmingly solemn, so I visit my private bathing chamber, which I refuse to show appreciation for. Anytime even a modicum of wonder creeps up, I squash it down.

I riffle through the many glass vials of scented oils arranged in an earthen pot, nudging aside the bars of soap flecked with dried herbs and flowers that remind me of the ones Nonna would cook and sell for coin.

As I uncap one of the vials, my heart swells with emotion for this woman who raised me like her own even though I wasn’t hers at all. I hate the way I left and want nothing more than to run into her arms. Would those arms close around me or would they push me away?

I dab the oil on my pulse points, then furtively sniff my shirt to see if I really smell like a beached shell. I don’t.

Ass.

Phoebus was probably trying to trick me into changing. Except wearing any gifted outfit would be construed as a peace offering, and I will only offer that man-bird peace if he offers me my freedom.

I thumb the cork back into the vial and return to the bedroom to find Phoebus examining a painted mural which I refuse to find pretty. “I’m ready.”

“For . . . war?”

I smile for the first time in days. “No, I’m ready to drink my weight in wine. Whyever would you think I look ready to kill?”

“It’s your eyes. They glitter.”

I snort as Phoebus crooks his arm and I loop my arm through. “I promise not to inflict harm on anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“Perhaps leaving this room is an unsound idea.”