Reign of the Fallen (Reign of the Fallen #1)(47)
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” he says, gazing down at his favorite cake with no enthusiasm. The kohl around his eyes is blurred at the corners, smudged into his alabaster skin like bruises. Or like he wiped away tears with a careless hand. “Simeon and I had a fight.”
“About what?” I probably shouldn’t pry, but those two hardly ever exchange an unkind word.
“About you. About him not going to the Deadlands anymore, because I can’t sleep with the thought of him bleeding out someplace where I can’t save him.”
“Danial—”
“So if you don’t mind, I’d rather be alone right now.” He gently shuts his chamber door in my face.
I wander across the palace to Jax’s room, not wanting to be alone, but it’s empty. I notice several new holes in the wall above his bed.
My thoughts turn to the Deadlands as I stare at the shattered wall. If Master Cymbre hadn’t found me, I’d probably be dead. And as I brush pieces of wall off Jax’s quilt, I realize I’m glad I’m still here.
I just wish Evander were here, too.
Tucking my shaking hands into the crooks of my elbows, I hurry to my room and the promise of a calming potion’s bitter-apple relief.
It now takes three vials to get to the place I want to be, the place where closing my eyes and seeing his face—his real face, not the perfect apparition the potion sometimes brings—doesn’t make me feel like a giant fist is squeezing my heart, trying to stop it from beating.
No longer shaking, I pick myself up off the floor and put on a clean black tunic and trousers. My belt and sword hang in my wardrobe. I won’t be needing them anytime soon.
I slip into the hall and climb the tightly wound stone steps that lead to the rookery, where the palace’s messenger ravens are bred and kept. It appears to be empty, save for many sets of glittering dark eyes and rustling wings. The attendants who care for the birds are likely at supper, judging by the sky’s deep indigo and the crescent moon that shines down through the rookery’s glass ceiling.
As I poke my head inside, a rough voice calls, “Sparrow.”
Jax strides down the hallway toward me. As he moves closer, I steel myself against the storm crackling in his eyes. “I went to the healers’ wing, but you weren’t there.” His long, muscular legs close the distance between us, and his broad hands grip my shoulders hard. “And you weren’t with Simeon and Danial. Or in your room.” There’s something accusing in his tone as he finishes, “I thought you’d gone back to the Deadlands.”
“You’ve been talking to Cymbre,” I whisper, because whispering’s about all I can do with Jax’s weight pressing me against the outer wall of the rookery. “How is she?”
Jax shakes his head. “Not her best. She’s been drinking and pacing and drinking some more. But she’s still smart enough to know we’re nowhere near finding the missing nobles. And that she can’t tell King Wylding or anyone else but me and Simeon that you went to the Deadlands alone.”
“And killed three Shades,” I add, putting pressure on his wrist to free myself from his grasp. I use his momentary surprise to my advantage, shoving him against the wall and pinning his arms. Leaning in until our noses almost touch, I murmur, “Including the one that killed Evander. So you’re welcome. What’s the matter with you?”
Jax narrows his eyes, but they don’t stop searching mine. “You should’ve told me what you were planning. I would’ve gone with you. I would’ve helped.”
My heart picks up speed as Jax tries to twist out of my hold. “And risk getting you killed? You think I need any more nightmares?”
“What about my nightmares?” Jax effortlessly breaks my grip, like he was just struggling out of politeness before. He wraps his arms around my waist, his broad hands searing where they touch. I don’t stop him. I’ll be cold again without his touch, and I don’t want to be cold anymore. I’ve been cold for too long.
“You think I’ve gotten a good night’s sleep since he’s been gone, even with you beside me?” he growls. “You think I’d be fine and carry on like nothing had happened if someone told me you’d died in the Deadlands, too?”
I swallow hard. “Jax, we’ve been over this.” Despite the potion singing through my veins, I’m shaking from my hands down to my boots. “We’re just friends.” He’s just a friend whose lips are dangerously close to mine. Whose eyes are like the sea, wide and deep, churning with the pain of a thousand unkindnesses the world has shown him.
“Right.” Jax cups my face in his hands. His breath smells of sugary, expensive mead, overpowering the crisp scent of his evergreen soap. “Then listen, friend, when I say some of us still need you here.”
His lips collide with mine. I open my mouth, yielding to the pressure of his tongue, which he wields like a weapon to make me weak-kneed in his arms. I tangle my fingers in his dark hair as he deepens the kiss, taking us to a place where nothing exists but our mouths and the pulsing, luminous heat between us.
He tastes sweet, and a little smoky, like the honey we eat in the Deadlands. And like the honey, his kiss reminds me of how very alive I am, makes me dizzy as blood rushes from my head to lower places that are suddenly aching.
When I shove him in the chest with my shoulder, wondering if this is really happening or if I’m having my most vivid hallucination yet, he grabs my hands and twines his fingers through mine. He kisses my hands and my shoulder, then nuzzles the curve of my neck where my pulse beats an erratic rhythm against his mouth.