Dark Skies : A Dark Fae Romance, A Dark Paranormal Romance (Dark Fae: Extinction Book 2)

by Quinn Blackbird

  Feminist rage swirls around me like a tornado out of nowhere.

  “I’m not your housewife,” I snarl at him with bravery fuelled solely by anger.

  He cuts his gaze to the knocked-out Spike before sliding his eyes back to me, his lashes low.

  “Your gender is unimportant to me,” he tells me darkly. “But the moment you stop being useful is the moment I kill you.” Slowly, he crouches down in front of me, resting his forearms on his knees. He leans in closer, shadows dancing over his dangerous-looking face. “Unlike my brethren, I see little advantage in saving your kind.”

  I pale, suddenly all too aware of the complete indifference he has towards us shifting into something worse—disdain.

  Uncomfortable, I shift against the pillar. I look up at him from beneath my lashes and, when I ask, my voice is small; “Can I use the toilet first?”

  He has little choice—it’s either that or I’ll go all over this floor.

  7

  I’m not exactly bursting for the loo, but I do have to go—if you know what I mean. Pee is not the urgency here.

  So when the warrior takes me upstairs to the bathroom (connected to the toilet and bidet) and he just ... stands there at the door, I’m floored.

  Cheeks getting hotter, I hover by the toilet in the corner of the tiled bathroom and blink at him. Like, get lost, all right? This shit is private!

  He stares back at me and, in answer to my blank look, he folds his bare arms over his chest, then leans against the doorframe.

  Flames roar up my hot-red face. Can’t help but wiggle my hips a little, as though it will somehow help to keep everything in. But it’s one of those cases where you get close to a toilet, and suddenly you just can’t hold it anymore.

  “Close the door,” I murmur, doing my little shimmy dance.

  A half-smile twists his mouth. He steps into the large bathroom then—kicks his foot back, slamming the door shut behind him. In his hand, he holds the lantern that he fished out of his satchel; it’s pearlescent white flame lights up the bathroom like a ghost.

  A flurry of annoyance tickles my chest.

  I inhale deeply through my flaring nostrils.

  “I need to be alone,” I try again, lowering my gaze to the white-grouted tiles. This place was well cared for before the end. Maybe even after it, since it still seems to be in sharp shape, and there’s little dust coating the tiles.

  “I provide what you need,” he warns, his tone dark enough to draw in my reluctant gaze. “Anything else is a luxury. I would deny you even this,” he adds, lowering his long, thick lashes and tilting his chin down, “if the smell would not bother me.”

  Ok, I have a little tantrum of sorts. My arms throw down to my sides and I shake my hands and shudder my body with a petulant groan.

  Can’t be helped. I really need to fucking go. What’s worse? Doing it in front of him or in my dress downstairs?

  I know the better option is this one. So, with a huff, I reach under my dress, roll down my undies, and plonk down on the toilet seat.

  Then performance-anxiety hits me, hard.

  I look up at the ceiling, glance at the tub in the middle of the bathroom, assess the copper taps in the round sink. Nothing happens; my body, no matter how much it needs to, refuses me.

  “Can you at least turn around?” I ask, cutting my gaze to him.

  He wears an amused smirk on his face; a crack in the stone mask he normally wears. But at least he grants me this. He turns around and leans against the wall, a breath’s touch away from the door.

  With his back to me, I lean over to the sink and turn on the tap. The rush of water helps and he doesn’t turn to berate me for it.

  It flows easier now.

  One of the best purposes of a dress. In a group, I could just squat down in the shadows and darkness and do my business.

  Once I’m finished up, I flush then shift onto the bidet. Oh how I miss running water. And the tub—the tub!—is full of warm water. I can feel the gentle tendrils of heat roll out from the murky soap-filmed surface.

  Eyeing the tub, I rinse my hands in the sink.

  “I need to wash, too,” I tell him, drying my hands on a small, soft towel.

  I hear a scoff. He turns around, leans against the door, and crosses his arms. There’s a ripple down his bicep.

  “No.” His answer is firm, unyielding.

  I lower my lashes on him, eyes narrowed, and I step closer to the tub. Tossing the towel onto its edge, I hold his stare.

  “I need the warm water for the aches in my body—the aches you gave me,” I say, my voice rising with the flutter of anger in my chest. “You made me clean your wounds. I did that.” Sort of. “So fucking excuse me for insisting on this one small thing.”

  I stink. I hurt. I ache. And I want that bloody bath.

  His mouth tugs up at the corner. “Try it.”

  For a moment, we’re at check. We stare at each other, both motionless and quiet, waiting for the other to move first.

  It’s me. I reach down for the zipper on the inside of my boot. And I barely grip it before large hands snatch my shoulders and I’m spun around.

  A grunt catches in my throat as I’m slammed up against a wall.

  The pressure shifts to my underarms and hoists me up.

  My boots dangle above the tiles. He’s so close to me that my nose grazes against his. I can taste the fresh toothpaste on his breath.

  “Next time,” he warns darkly, “I’ll take those photographs from your boot.” He leans closer, his lips tingling against mine. I hitch my breath. “And with them, I will deliver one hundred cuts to your flesh. Then you may complain about pain.”

  The pressure releases and I land on my boots, upright. Aches shoot up my spine like long needles.

  A grimace hides my wince. The threat he delivered is what tightens my chest most.

  The dark fae snatches my upper-arm and drags me out of the bathroom. He hauls me down the stairs at a pace too quick, and I stumble and stagger beside him.

  When we reach the pillar, I see that Spike is awake. Well, sort of. His lashes hang so low that if they didn’t flutter, I would think he was still asleep.

  But I don’t go to the post to join the dazed Spike.

  The dark fae steers me into the open kitchen, only releasing me when I stumble into the island bench. He’s about to leave before he pauses to run me over with a narrowed, dark look, then cuts his gaze to the backdoor.

  I trace his stare. But before I can even think about any possible escape plan, he’s got the fridge in his grip and starts pushing it to the door, as though it’s nothing but a coffee table.

  He blocks the door.

  Before he makes to pass by me, he studies my pinched face. “Is there an issue?” he asks, arching his brow.

  Looking down at the scuffed toes of my boots, I shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know how to cook.”

  Sort of.

  It’s not like I haven’t helped along the way when I could to learn, in case I ever ended up on my own. But I burn a lot of stuff, so my practice was limited by the others in the group.

  The dark fae gives me a dark look.

  My hands find each other at my front. Fingers fidgeting, I explain, “I had people always do it for me.”

  I feel his watchful eyes on me.

  And then he leaves me to cook for him like a fucking servant.

  8

  Call me a hopeful idiot, but I’m making a lot of spaghetti and pasta sauce. There’s quite a supply in the pantries and since the gas still works on the stove, I have no problems boiling the water.

  As I set the saucepan on the burner, I glance back at the lounge.

  The dark fae has his back to me. He’s rubbing a balm over his almost-totally-healed wounds. The firelight flickers over his muscles, giving the illusion that they ripple. He throws no looks over his shoulder at me—no telling me off for my over-the-top pasta estimations.

  I made enough for all three of us, two servings.
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  Spike is still slumped against the pillar at a twisted angle, but I squint at his profile and see (with the help of the firelight) that his hooded eyes are open. So he’ll be awake for meal-time. If he can stomach what I make, that is.

  At the bubbling sound of a pot boiling over, I rush back to the stove. Water foams all over, but all I do is turn down the burner a tad then give the spaghetti a stir. Not my kitchen, so there’s little use in cleaning down the cooktop.

  Another look back at the lounge.

  Spike is still in place.

  With a damp cloth, the dark fae cleans his leathered armour clothes.

  And I’m left feeling like a fucking maid as I set out bowls on the island bench. My hands are clammy from all the steam off the pot; a bowl slips from my grip and crashes to the floor. It shatters at the toes of my boots—

  I feel the tension suffocate the air.

  I stiffen, looking up at the lounge.

  Spike has twisted all the way around, his wide and puffy eyes on me, filled with terror. And the dark fae has risen from the couch, wandering his way towards me.

  My gaze swerves to his hand. Loose in his grip, he carries a small knife.

  As he steps into the kitchen, his eyes do a quick sweep of the space before he advances on me, moving like a panther around the island bench.

  He looks down at the tiles.

  I’m frozen by the sudden terror in the air; radiating from Spike. I can’t look anywhere but at the dark fae’s stone-cold face.

  He studies the shattered bowl hugged around my boots for a heartbeat. When he finally lifts his gaze to mine, a tedious frown pinches his brows together.

  “Be quiet,” he says then walks out, back to the couch.

  Uh...

  Well I was expecting a bit more than that.

  I’m not ‘disappointed’ of course, but by the way Spike was acting and looking at me, I definitely was expecting a beating or something. It’s a relief that he left me alone, but really ... why did he?

  Is he just one of the nicer dark fae warriors out there?

  My forehead creases as I turn my perplexed stare on Spike. He looks just as baffled as I feel and, after a moment in which he seems to forget all about my breaking his nose, he just shrugs and turns back around.

  I’ve heard stories of the dark fae from Spike. Stories that they have stripped skin from bone for a kuri simply over brewing their earthy coffees or failing to pitch their tents on time, or one time—for refusing to dance for them.

  So how did I get away without a scratch?

  Then it dawns on me. Be quiet, he told me.

  He doesn’t want anyone to know we are here. Any nearby survivors could be alerted to our presence—his presence. After our bombing, he must know by now that to some of our groups, he is vulnerable, all alone with two kuris who would turn against him in a heartbeat.

  So be quiet it is—for now. Because I don’t need another group coming to my rescue. I only need time and a plan to do what I promised I would.

  Kill the warrior.

  Plates are balanced on my spread-out hands and another is tucked in the edge of my bent elbow. Never done this before—balanced so many plates and forks—but I’ve seen plenty of servers and waitresses do it, so ... that’s practically the same thing, right?

  Apparently not; I rattle louder than I walk.

  The dark fae looks up from his weapons belt—he’s polishing the blades—as I come in. For a beat, he glances at the three very full plates of pasta and sauce. But he cares little about my making meals for both me and Spike, too.

  He goes back to his dagger, the same one he plunged into the corpses back at the village.

  I take the plates over to him first and I wait. He might like to choose which one he wants. But he spares no more looks my way, so I crouch and slip a plate from my palm onto the coffee table before joining Spike at the pillar.

  Sliding down the pillar, I hand him a plate.

  His scowl furrows deep into his skin, ageing him a decade. Fury ignites his ordinary brown eyes into pits of shimmering mud. Oh, he wants revenge for me busting up his nose.

  Still, he takes the plate, his bound hands clenched so tightly that they make me think of claws. Just by looking at his tense, crooked fingers, I can feel his aches in my own.

  Hesitantly, I wrap pasta around my fork then lift it to my mouth. I cast a glance at the warrior. He’s turned all the way around to lean against the spine of the couch. Ignoring the cutlery, he eats with his fingers, staining his fingertips blood-red (I might have added a half-bottle of red wine to the sauce, but when and where you can, right?)

  In silence we eat.

  Both Spike and I stay tucked over ourselves. The fear of having our meals snatched away is dug into our hunched shoulders and curved backs.

  The warrior seems to have entirely forgotten about us, though. He watches the flames in the hearth, his eyes glistening like liquid fire, and his mind far away from this moment in time.

  Still, despite his distraction, I eat too fast. And I end up with a tummy ache by the time I’m licking my plate clean.

  With a groan, I slide my plate from my lap to the floor. Reclining against the pillar, my hands find my bloated belly and rub, and I browse my gaze around the lounge.

  The only welcoming feature of this space is the white-painted bookshelf against the wall, at the corner of the seat window. Oh, I’d love to snatch a book from there, spread out on the window-seat, and bask in the sun.

  The sun.

  Shit, I miss it. I miss the sunshine warming my skin and lightening my hair and drawing out beads of sweat down my spine. All of it; the pleasant and the unpleasant.

  What I would give for one more day with a bright, hot sky glaring down at me.

  And what I would do for one of those books on that floor-to-ceiling shelf. Even with the firelight, it’s hard to make out the dusty titles, but I do recognise a spine here and there.

  ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ stands out to me. One of my favourites from school, learning all about the coded messages in the book for the gay underground back in those days.

  Capote was a brave bastard. I still can’t believe this book of his isn’t in the literary canon. That shit needs to be branded a classic.

  Total dejection suddenly crushes me like a rainfall of stones.

  I’ll never read another book, another classic. I’ll never discuss the suspected homophobia of Bloom—and thus, the rejection of Capote’s ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ from the canon—with anyone ever again.

  I’ll never discuss the perfect lighting for photographs, the classic cameras, how difficult it is to capture the perfect moon on the perfect night.

  All those people with the same interests as me—dead.

  All those people still surviving around me—dangerous and completely uncultured and uneducated in this world ... Just as I would be in the dark realm, if I was ever unfortunate enough to get there.

  In fact, that’s something I make note of to ask Spike later. Are the dark fae armies carting bands of kuris simply for slavery in this world or ... do they intend to make them slaves in their world?

  That thought terrifies me. It floods me with ice-cold spears through my body until I press back against the pillar and bring my knees to my chest.

  I swallow, hard.

  Need to kill him before he kills me or worse, take me back to his world.

  But—

  Fuck!

  I had the chance.

  I had the chance and I missed it completely!

  I made his damn dinner—a direct passage way between potential poison and his insides. A perfect way to commit murder ... for me anyway. Not about the blood and gore, but I can deal with some vomit.

  Next time.

  And there will be a next time, because he trusts me to make his dinner now. He sets the plate down on the coffee table, then leans back to rest for a bit, shutting his eyes.

  Ok, so maybe I missed my first shot, but that doesn’t make
a loss. No failures, only lessons learned, right?

  The lesson I learned?

  Poison the shit out of his next meal.

  Hopefully that comes sooner than later. Because right now, I’m suffering. Not only do I have the worst spot at the pillar (a little too away from the heat of the fireplace for my liking) and I have this ghastly swelling in my tummy (note to self; don't overload on carbs when you’ve been starving for weeks), I have to stare at that fucking bookshelf.

  I have counted a few more in my quiet, sullen moment.

  ‘Jane Eyre’; ‘Sense and Sensibility’; ‘Catcher in the Rye’; ‘Twilight’ (what an odd addition to the collection).

  My faraway book thoughts are shattered as the warrior suddenly pushes up from the couch. My eyelids are heavy and tired as I look up at him.

  He advances on me, the same food-coma pulling at his eyelids. Then I realise, as he reaches down for my rope, that he needs to secure me to the pillar before taking rest.

  I blink, surprised, as he tugs the rope, guiding me to stand. I get to my feet, balance swaying, hands still pressed firm against my belly.

  Peppermint tea, I would order if I were at home in my villa.

  He guides me over to the couch and the frown in my forehead deepens with each step. Face like a crumpled hand-towel, I watch as he scoops his free hand under the couch and—easily—lifts it up. He hooks my rope around the leg of the couch once, thrice, around and around until he fastens it into a knot that I don’t recognise.

  I only know sailing knots, but this one is ... complicated. Maybe from his world, not mine.

  Either way, when he lets the couch thud back into place, I hear just how heavy it is, and I know there’s no way I can lift my way out of this restraint.

  He flops down on the couch. It creaks under his weight as he turns his back to the fire and gets himself comfortable.

  I throw a look back at Spike. Hard to tell with his busted nose and all, but he looks like he’s scowling at me. Confused or furious, I don't know.

  It isn’t lost on me that I got the better position here. I’m directly across from the fire, I have the couch to lean against and the fluffy rug to lie down on.