An emotion passed over the dark-haired man’s face, but it wasn’t concern.
“The prophecy,” Brianna said. “You’re telling me that it’s you, the heir to the dragon’s name?”
“Yes,” he said, his tongue rolling through the words in the ancient language, the prophecy the way it was written, the way it sounded in her head. But he stopped before the last line. He stopped before the one that mattered.
“But you already know,” she said, eyes narrowing in confusion. “The chosen one isn’t me. The true power is in Emily.”
The corner of the dark-haired man’s mouth shifted, sliding into a deliberately suggestive smile. It said she was mistaken, it said he knew exactly which sister he wanted.
“Why would I help you?” she said, the question coming out in her fatigue. She might have otherwise thought better of voicing such a dangerous denial.
He leaned closer, eyes dropping to her lips, curving back up to meet her gaze. “You felt it, didn’t you?”
Brianna knew exactly what the words meant. There was no question as to the it he referred to. What she didn’t know was everything else. The feral rage was in her, something that belonged to her because she was a shadow, something that helped her fight, told her when to run. But the other feeling, the one that had come as she thrust out a pulse to end the fight, the freedom, the absolute power of it—she didn’t have the slightest idea about that one. And what she saw in that instant of clarity made absolutely no sense to her.
“What was it?” she said.
“That is what we could have, Brianna, if you would just let yourself accept it. I can help you,” he said, voice falling into something that was not entirely a request. “Let me help you.”
Her skin prickled, the idea of a bond with him so foreign that she recoiled, foot sliding back over the concrete walkway that surrounded the property. His jaw tightened, his feet moving with hers, and then a voice called her name, somewhere in the distance behind her.
“Brianna,” Wesley said again, running toward her. Brianna glanced over her shoulder at the boy; when her eyes returned to the dark-haired man, his head was tilted at the slightest angle.
She lowered her chin, voice even. “Don’t hurt him.” It was an order, an outright demand, and the shadow knew it.
He watched her for a long moment before his head bowed lower, a farewell, and she sensed he’d counted this as a favor, Wesley’s life another gift. She sensed that he wanted her to know, that she owed him for it.
“Brianna,” Wesley repeated, grateful to finally have reached her, the fear in his voice replaced by uncertainty, a touch of relief. He brushed her arm and she was suddenly weak, her knees giving to fall into him. The prophecy, she thought, all of this for the prophecy. And it wasn’t Wesley’s murmured assurance, not his call for help that echoed through her mind as she drifted into unconsciousness. It was the words that had been foretold. The words the dark-haired man hadn’t said.
And they will rule with their union.
Chapter Twenty-three
Wesley
Wesley stared out the window of the Council’s front hall. The lawn spread out in front of him, its edges manicured perfection while the center was marred by fire and wind and water, a most unnatural disaster. Aern was standing over what remained of the carnage, one hand on his chest, the other hanging loosely at his side. His skin was red, a raw blister, patches of it already peeling away to reveal the new, pink flesh beneath. He had been fortunate by comparison to most of the other soldiers, the ones who had been dragged from the field, comatose. But Wesley wouldn’t have wanted to trade places with the head of Council for anything. Not now.
“What will he do with them?” Wesley asked Ellin.
She stood beside him, gaze also locked on the figures far outside the window, specifically the body of a shadow lying at Aern’s feet. “I don’t know, but I can’t see him bringing them in here.” Her face screwed up as she considered the oddity of it. The men had not died. Their healing was slow, but they clung to life despite what should have been lethal injuries. She wasn’t certain they could truly be called shadows now, after Emily had burned away their gifts, but they were still men. They still lived. “Why haven’t their own people come to retrieve them?”
Wesley’s eyes roamed the demolished walls, the upended guard shacks, demolished gates, disabled security. If they’d been watching, if they’d known anything about Brianna at all, they would have anticipated this. “It’s like they sent them to die.”