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Lorcan stilled as they settled into them. He’d
never ... he’d never had anyone who—
“Is it a sickness?” she demanded. “Is it
something broken within you?”
“Elide.” Her name was a rasp on his lips.
Lorcan dared reach a hand for her.
But she pulled out of reach. “If you think
that because you swore the blood oath to
Aelin, it means anything for you and me,
you’re sorely mistaken. You’re immortal—
I’m human. Let us not forget that little fact,
either.”
Lorcan nearly recoiled at the words, their
horrible truth. He was five hundred years old.
He should walk away—he shouldn’t be so
damned bothered by any of this. And yet
Lorcan snarled, “You’re jealous. That’s what
truly eats away at you.”
Elide barked a laugh that he’d never heard
before, cruel and sharp. “Jealous? Jealous of