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I blink a few times, snapping my eyes away from his neck, his mouth. My fangs are down, damn it.
Zev brushes his knuckles over my cheek, the touch featherlight, but the sparks I feel there are almost enough to make my knees buckle.
“I have more than a drop of fae blood in me,” he says. “More than what a drifter has. I’mhalffae,” he says.
Shock barrels through me at the admission, but it makes sense. I thought his magic was more than just drifter.
“Did you sense that?” he continues. “My blood is more powerful than you can imagine. Want a taste?” he asks, and through my lust-addled senses, I almost jump on the opportunity to sink my fangs into his neck and drink until I’m drunk on all thingshim.
But the memory of all his judgment, his orders, the way he captured me like a goddessdamn animal soars to the forefront of my mind, and I take a step back, hissing for good measure.
“I’d rather drink a hare’s blood,” I snap.
Zev laughs, a full-bodied, joyful laugh that vibrates along every inch of my bones.
“I’ll be sure to catch you one next time I hunt,” he says, shaking his head, laughter still clinging to his lips as he turns, making his way back to his seat on the other side of the fire.
I glare at him for a few more moments before I settle back into my seat, as far away from him as possible, my hands trembling as I force my fangs to retract. After I’ve collected my breath and my senses, I lay my head on my satchel and curl up on my side.
Zev leans his back against a tree, one muscled arm draped over his knee as he look past the fire at me.
Instinct tells me to look away from his dominating stare, but I force myself to hold my ground and steel my nerves. This drifter will not break me.
He smirks again, blinking, and just as I feel victory slide over me as his eyes turn toward the stars, he says, without looking at me, “I will find out what you’re hiding, little succubus.” His whisper is drenched in unflinching confidence. “Whether you like it or not.”
Chapter 11
Livana
Aweek on the road, and I smell Sparrow Hills at least a mile before Rain carries us across its borders.
Dust and decay.
It lingers in the cold, frost-tinged air, making even taking a deep breath feel oily. Sadness sweeps through me as I dismount Rain, stretching my legs and electing to walk by his side as we make our way through the meager village roads.
“Tired of riding?” Jagger asks, his voice quiet among the solemnness of the city.
I shake my head. “It doesn’t feel right to sit atop a horse while passing through here.”
Jagger nods, understanding flashing in his teal eyes.
Sparrow Hills used to be one of the most luxurious and flourishing cities across the continent. The Fae marked this as their royal territory, their nature powers transforming the drylands into a lush oasis fit for kings and queens. Forbidden songs sing the stories of this place’s former glory, boasting of crystalline rivers with healing powers and fruit so sweet it sent you into an intoxicated state when consumed.
That was before The Great Purge.
Before most of the Fae had joined in arms against the Collector’s armies…and lost.
The Collector had all the fruits plucked from the trees until they died and drained the rivers dry as a punishment for them joining the opposing side. He then shifted into his terrible form and seared half the town to ash, leaving only those who would submit alive to rebuild. Though, those left were never able to restore it to its once former beauty.
My stomach turns as we continue along the broken, dry earth they use for roads here in Sparrow Hills. I can’tnotsee the desolation that lingers across every inch of this place—the half crumbling huts the residents use for homes, the putrid pales of liquid outside of makeshift taverns, the younglings carrying loads of paltry goods to and from their lone market, their feet bare and caked in frozen mud, clothes tattered and faces weary.
The same younglings who might beg a coin or food from me, if I wasn’t with the drifters, people they’ve been taught to fear because of their connection to the Collector.
Guilt clings to my skin like a grimy layer of dirt. I heard things were bad, but seeing and hearing are two entirely different things. My magic pulses beneath my skin, feverish and desperate. A few flicks of my fingers and I could create a flowing river here, a few ripe plants there.
But at what cost?
Bringing the collector core here by using my magic would only hurt these people in the end.
