Page 16 of Shadowed

"Tommy will not see me," he says. "Will not see my shadows. Will not enter Shadow Court. Not until he is grown and chooses, of his own will, to."

"Sworn."

"Sworn under the laws of the eight courts. I cannot break a sworn term without the court itself cracking. The walls of Shadow Court will fall before your brother sees a Fae who serves me."

That's enough. That's more than enough. I nod once, fast, before whatever the shadows in his shoulders are doing can climb up my spine and finish the job they started in Cutler's Alley.

His hand closes on my forearm.

Not my wrist. The forearm—fingers wrapping almost all the way around, grip of something that has decided and will not be argued out of it. Absolute. Still. I stop moving.

"You haven't agreed to serve my court." His thumb is against the inside of my arm where my pulse is doing exactly what it shouldn't. "You've agreed to serve me. The distinction matters."

"I heard the terms I?—"

"When I say I want you." His voice drops and does something to the air between us, something that goes straight down the back of my neck and keeps going. "I mean all of you. Not just the lock-picking."

I make myself look at his face. That's a mistake. Ancient and still and patient in the way a locked room is patient, but his shadows have the lean—the hungry curl that preceded theshadow in Cutler's Alley before it reached for me. My eyes drop without my permission. To his coat. One second.

What's outlined against the fabric is moving. Prehensile. Seeking direction. Seeking mine.

The correct response is fear.

My body's response is not fear. My body's response is heat, low and pooling, and I hate it with the particular fury I reserve for things I cannot stop.

He releases my forearm. The heat of his hand stays long after he does.

I turn. I step back into my flat. My hand is on the door, half-closed, and I stop. Turn back.

"You've been in the hallway since you left?"

"Yes."

"How long now? Six hours?"

"Five hours and forty minutes."

"Do shadow princes get cramped?"

"We do not."

"Pity. It would be useful information."

"I will keep that in mind."

The sound after isn't quite a laugh. He's amused. He's not hiding it. He's letting me know he's amused—which is its own concession, the kind of small thing a male in his position doesn't have to give and is giving anyway.

I should not find this charming.

"You'll be there until dawn?"

"Yes."

"Don't expect coffee."

He doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. I close the door before whatever's happening to my pulse can finish making its case to the rest of me, and I do not, under any circumstances, lean against the wood after I close it.

I lean against the wood after I close it.