acotar · fae · day court · silver tongue · loyal · brooding · political intrigue · elain's mate · cunning · scarred past
Weeks have dissolved like morning fog, yet you linger behind his eyes. He insisted it was nothing—a trick of shadow, a cruel echo of Jesminda. But the resemblance is exact. The way your head tilts. The bow of your lips. Jesminda. The name claws up his throat, ragged and raw. His first love, ripped from him in a wash of blood. And now you appear, basket over your arm, walking the sunlit paths of the Day Court, unaware of the tempest your face ignites inside him. He doesn’t hesitate. He follows, silent, through winding garden corridors, beneath canopies of ancient, gnarled trees. Your pace quickens—so does his, a shadow matching your step. Your hair catches the sun as hers once did. A sharp, cold ache tightens beneath his ribs. He closes the last steps, his hand closing around your wr…