Page 72 of Mate of a Monster

“Where?” she asks, her eyes searching mine. Not much to find in here. Give up now.

Nowhere I can explain. Nowhere that makes sense. I just need to move, need to find something. Someone. The pull is low and insistent, like a rope tied around my spine, tugging me toward the west gates. Toward Crowsnest. Because I want to fucking kill her, right?

Arabella’s grip tightens. “He’s here.”

I blink. “Who?”

Her smile breaks wide, genuine in a way that catches me off guard because Arabella doesn’t smile like that. She smiles like a diplomat. She smiles like a wounded pet—a snake, probably right before it sheds its skin.

Wait. What?

“My brother.” She pulls at my arm, turning me toward the entrance. “My twin. He’s here to see me!”

“Twin?” My head jerks back. How did I not know she had a twin?

Do I know anything about this girl at all?

The door widens and the “twin” steps through, mouth in a frown. Tall, and he shares Arabella’s blond hair, but his eyes—guarded and red—are almost chilling. “King Legend.” He offers a small bow, quickly turning toward my mate. “This isn’t a happy visit, sister. Mother and Father are dead.”

…

Haide

Crowsnest is something else.

I drag my fingers along the wall as I move through the space. Warm bark gives way to cool marble, then back again. The floor is the same. Uneven planks of dark wood interrupted by slabs of white stone, smoothed down by time.

A small kitchen is tucked into a bend of the trunk where two massive roots create a natural alcove. Iron pots hang from hooks driven straight into the bark. A basin carved from a single piece of stone sits beneath a copper tap that drips once, twice, then stops. Shelves hold mismatched cups and plates, all of them chipped. A major contrast to the palace of fucking uptight royalness.

A bathroom hides behind a door that catches as I pull it open. Claw-foot tub. No curtain. A mirror with a crack running diagonally through the glass that splits my reflection into two uneven halves.

One bed.

It sits against the far wall where the tree’s trunk curves inward, creating a shallow alcove that feels almost protective. A simple iron flame draped in linen that smells of flowers not planted in this lifetime, with deep burgundy pillows. It’s all comfort.

One bed. Two of us.

“Floor’s fine.” Zev doesn’t even look up from where he’s already sprawled across the rug, arms behind his head, boots still on. “Slept on worse.”

He has. We both have. Exile doesn’t exactly hand out feather mattresses.

“You sure?”

“Haide.” He cracks one eye open. “If I crawl in that bed, I’m asking the Nightkin to use your own hands to kill me. And I’m pretty sure when you die in Rathe, you’re just fucking dead.”

Fair.

“And smart.”

I smirk at the Nightkin’s grumpy tone and fall onto the bed, staring at the strange lights flickering above.

“Aha.” Zev sits up; his attention snaps to the window where a vine has crept through the gap between frame and bark. Thick leaves, dark green, and nestled between them sit fat, resinous buds. “That’s what that pipe I saw was for.” He’s already pulling one free, rolling it between his fingers and sniffing it.

“Zev, don’t.”

“Too late.” He goes and grabs said pipe, not hesitating to get fucked up when the opportunity presents itself. “I get let out of a royal prison because my best friend is a baddie. We’re celebrating.”

I chuckle, the sound growing when the first inhale makes his eyes water. Then comes the coughing. The third inhale finally drags a laugh out of him.