Crown of Midnight (Throne of Glass #2) by Sarah J. Maas

Chaol swallowed hard. He should have given her privacy instead of waiting here. If she’d wanted him to be here, she would have written him a note.

Celaena stopped before the dim fireplace and used the poker to stir the coals before tossing another two logs on. She stared down at the flames. Her back was still to him when she spoke.

“If you’re trying to figure out what to say to me, don’t bother. There’s nothing that can be said, or done.”

“Then let me keep you company.” If she realized how much he knew, she didn’t care to ask how.

“I don’t want company.”

“Want and need are different things.” Nehemia, probably, should have been here—another child of a conquered kingdom. But he didn’t want Nehemia to be the one she turned to. And despite his loyalty to the king, he couldn’t turn away from her—not today.

“So you’re just going to stay here all night?” She flicked her eyes to the couch between them.

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

“I think my experience with ‘worse places’ is a lot more horrible than yours.” Again, that twisting in his gut. But then she looked through the open bedroom door to the foyer table, and her brows rose. “Is that … chocolate cake?”

“I thought you might need some.”

“Need, not want?”

A ghost of a smile was on her lips, and he almost sagged in relief as he said, “For you, I’d say that chocolate cake is most definitely a need.”

She crossed from the fireplace to where he stood, stopping a hand’s breadth away and staring up at him. Some of the color had returned to her face.

He should step back, put more distance between them. But instead, he found himself reaching for her, a hand slipping around her waist and the other twining itself through her hair as he held her tightly to him. His heart thundered through him so hard he knew she could feel it. After a second, her arms came up around him, her fingers digging into his back in a way that made him realize how close they stood.

He shoved that feeling down, even as the silken texture of her hair against his fingers made him want to bury his face in it, and the smell of her, laced with mist and night, had him grazing his nose against her neck. There were other kinds of comfort that he could give her than mere words, and if she needed that kind of distraction … He shoved down that thought, too, swallowing it until he nearly choked on it.

Her fingers were moving down his back, still digging into his muscles with a fierce kind of possession. If she kept touching him like that, his control was going to slip completely.

And then she pulled back, just far enough to look up at him again, still so close their breath mingled. He found himself gauging the distance between their lips, his eyes flicking between her mouth and her eyes, the hand he had entwined in her hair stilling.

Desire roared through him, burning down every defense he’d put up, erasing every line he’d convinced himself he had to maintain.

And then she said, so quietly it was hardly more than a murmur, “I can’t tell if I should be ashamed of wanting to hold you on this day, or grateful that, despite what happened before now, it somehow brought me to you.”

He was so startled by the words that he let go, let go and stepped back. He had his obstacles to overcome, but so did she—perhaps more obstacles than he’d even realized.

He had no response to what she’d said. But she didn’t give him time to think of the right words before she walked to the chocolate cake in the foyer, plunked down in the chair, and dug in.





Chapter 22


The silence of the library wrapped around Dorian like a heavy blanket, interrupted only by the turning of pages as he read through his family’s extensive genealogical charts, records, and histories. He couldn’t be the only one; if he truly did have magic, then what about Hollin? It had taken until now to manifest, so perhaps it wouldn’t reveal itself in Hollin for another nine years. Hopefully by then, he’d figure out how to suppress it and teach Hollin to do the same. He might not be fond of his brother, but he didn’t wish the boy dead—especially not the kind of death their father would give them if he learned what dwelled in their blood. Beheading, dismemberment, then burning. Complete annihilation.

No wonder the Fae had fled the continent. They had been powerful and wise, but Adarlan had military might and a frantic public looking for any solution to the famine and poverty that had plagued the kingdom for decades. It hadn’t just been the armies that had made the Fae run—no, it was also the people who had lived in an uneasy truce with them, as well as the mortals gifted with magic, for generations. How would those people react if they knew that the heir to the throne was plagued by the same powers?

Dorian ran a finger down his mother’s family tree. It was dotted with Havilliards along the way; a close mingling of their two families for the past few centuries that had given rise to numerous kings.

But he’d been here for three hours now, and none of the rotting old books held any mention of magic-wielders. In fact, there had been a drought in the line for centuries. Several gifted people had married into the bloodline, but their children hadn’t been born with the power, no matter what manner of gifts their parents posessed. Was it coincidence, or divine will?

Dorian closed the book and stalked back into the stacks. He reached the section along the back wall that held all the genealogical records and pulled out the oldest book he could find—one that held records dating back to the founding of Adarlan itself.