Page 76 of How to Claim A Shadow King

Instead, I force my power outward, throwing wave after wave of solid shadow-magic against the high stone ramparts to reinforce the keep’s natural defenses against the Fae siege.

Beside me, my brothers are straining against the Unseelie current, their magic anchoring the foundations.

"The western wall is secure," Cern grunts, his massive frame shivering slightly as he violently drives a barrier of thorny, dark roots into the masonry. His ancient antlers are frosted white, casting strange jagged shadows against the stone. He pauses, wiping a layer of frost from his brow, his emerald eyes turning uncharacteristically dark. "But the coven... the village is entirely cut off, Malakai. I cannot feel Nerissa's current through the thicket anymore."

He’s decided, after meeting with the coven again, that some witch named Nerissa is his.

Valen lets out a grim sound, his face briefly flickering to the white, gleaming death skull before snapping back to his handsome, mortal illusion.

He rests heavy hands on the hilt of his great sword, staring into the swirling purple and white vortex outside the walls. "The quiet one... Ruby. She was near the eastern gate when the squall hit. If the Unseelie hunters found her before the frost sealed the Wild Oak Woods..."

"You are gossiping about the witches," I observe. "Both of you."

"It is not gossip, you arrogant shadow-bastard," Valen snaps, his jaw tightening as a pulse of destructive magic flares around his head like a crown. "The line of power from my realm, the one at the ancient graveyard is…” He shakes his head, and his magic flickers out. “It keeps dragging my attention toward the village. Ruby... she does not look as powerful as your witches. When I saw her, though? My magic went entirely still. I have not felt that kind of quiet since..." He pauses, staring at nothing. “I’ve never felt that quiet.”

"She is entirely maddening, Malakai. I tried to visit her. She refused to look at my illusions, and when I showed her the skull, she simply said my teeth need cleaning. I am entirely obsessed with her. I cannot sleep. I cannot think." Valen shakes his head.

Cern lets out a rough, self-deprecating laugh, leaning his muscled shoulders against the frosted battlements. "At least your girl merely looks at you with disgust, Valen. Nerissa has a literal dire wolf familiar. The beast nearly took my left hand off at the wrist when I attempted to hand her a pastry, and she simply laughed. A cold, wicked little sound." He shakes his head, his antlers brushing the stone archway. "I have spent three hours wondering how to track that wolf through the snow just to see her smile like that again. She called me a lumbering weed. I want to build her a throne out of oak and watch her set it on fire."

The two most terrifying, primordial entities on this plane turn their faces toward me, their expressions filled with identical bewilderment.

"How did you do it, Malakai?" Cern asks, his tone dropping into a genuine request for help. "You are the only who has successfully courted a witch soul. We know something happened yesterday—we felt the shockwave clear across the forest. Teach us how to woo them. We do not have a reincarnated soul to help pull them to us."

"She kissed me, yes," I mutter. A sharp blade of yearning slides beneath my ribs as I remember the way she left me wanting last night. "And then she informed me that she is not ready, locked herself in her wing, and the castle is currently throwing a tantrum because I am respecting her sovereignty."

Valen arches an eyebrow, a rakish smirk briefly fighting through his somber expression. "The witch set a boundary against the Shadow King? Incredible. I like her more every hour."

"Yield to them," I command softly, ignoring his teasing as I turn back toward the courtyard. My shadows track a scent of burning flour and sweet venison drifting from the lower ventilation grates. My chest tightens with an immediate possessiveness. "If you wish to win a witch of the Wild Oak Woods, you must discard the language of demands. These women… they are sovereigns. Offer them gifts. Bring them sweets. And when they tell you to stand back, you step into the dark and wait until they call you forward."

Cern considers this for a long moment, staring down at his massive, root-calloused hands before nodding slowly. "Patience. A miserable virtue for a wild god."

"Destruction does not learn patience easily either," Valen grumbles, though he is already sheathing his broadsword, his aura settling into a gentle hum. "Go downstairs, Malakai. The house is whispering that your bride is currently attempting to wield a meat cleaver in the kitchen, and from the smell of it, she is closer to burning your keep down than she is to mending the thresholds between realms."

I offer my brothers a rare, curt nod of gratitude.

The living house opens the doors for me, urging me to follow the trail of warmth that always lingers in my mind wherever Aveline walks.

30

AVELINE

"Iam perfectly capable of handling a blade," I inform the expanse of the kitchen, bringing the knife down onto a thick carrot. The vegetable doesn't slice; it splits with a loud, aggressive crack, a jagged orange missile launching off the wooden island and bouncing across the stone floor.

“How the hells does one cut something that wants to ROLL AWAY!” I shout, stamping my foot in frustration.

"Clearly, you are perfectly capable," a deep, rugged rasp echoes from the arched stone doorway. "If your strategy is to bludgeon the carrot into submission, you are succeeding magnificently, Aveline."

I don't turn around.

I keep my grip tight on the handle, ignoring the way my pulse instantly skips a beat at the sound of his voice. The cooling feel of his presence immediately floods the room, completely overriding the scent of spices. "I’m simply intimidating the ingredients. Surely you’ve heard of my technique."

"It looks closer to a public execution," Malakai murmurs. His boots make a deliberate thud against the stones as he closes the distance to me. "And your grip is entirely wrong. You are holding a knife like a broadsword, Aveline."

"Well, considering my stepfather never permitted me within fifty yards of the castle larders, you should be impressed I haven't done any permanent harm," I say, finally cutting a glare over my shoulder. “To carrots or myself.”

“The last thing I want is you to harm yourself, permanently or not,” he says.

He’s discarded his heavy coat, wearing only his thin linen shirt and dark trousers. The sight of his broad chest, the sheer, imposing width of his shoulders in the dim kitchen light, makes my breath catch in my throat. But it is his eyes that rattle me. There is no smug arrogance in his gaze. Instead, the dark embers of his eyes are heavy. Exhausted, and with an almost desperate yearning. The intensity of it hangs in the air between us, thick and heady.