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28. Bone-Deep

Knock, knock, knock.

You, Devlon, and Marko had discussed your future and that of the Twilight Court until the wee hours of the morning, so you tried to sleep in the next day.

Knock, knock, knock.

Emphasis on "tried."

You thought that if you didn't respond, you'd be left alone to sleep, but the knocking only grew louder. You groaned until it turned into a frustrated shout.

"What?" you snapped over your shoulder. "I'm trying to sleep."

A throaty laugh — that was Devlon.

"Well, you're awake now," he said. "Are you decent?"

"Yes." You took a deep breath. "Why?"

"Because," he said, swinging the door wide open, "you have mail."

"Huh?" You struggled to sit up, rubbing your eyes.

Devlon crossed the room and then pulled the alcove curtains back, but it wasn't him you paid attention to. Dozens of female servants had filed in after him, carrying sweet and savory breakfast foods and piles and piles and piles of presents.

You were still half asleep, so it took a moment to process everything.

Dressed in black Illyrian leathers and equipped with Cesarea, Devlon suddenly looked very out of place among the dainty tableware and fancy presents.

You giggled before you could stop yourself.

"What?" Devlon accepted a mug from a servant. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing." You wiped a hand over your face and groaned. "What time is it? What's going on? And why do I have mail? I just got here. This is weird."

"So many questions," Devlon murmured with a smirk. He leaned into the alcove, a knee on the bed, to give you the mug. When you realized it was coffee, you started to chug it. "Hmm . . . Let's see. It's eight o'clock — don't give me that look — you're being served breakfast, the servants are bringing you your mail, and you have mail because each High Lord has sent you presents. Well, besides Rhysand."

Your coffee went down the wrong pipe.

Devlon gave you a dubious look as you choked.

Once you could breathe again, you rasped, "I'm sorry, what? I'm confused. Why did they send me presents? I haven't . . ." You trailed off, flustered. "I haven't done anything that calls for presents. And certainly not this many."

Devlon gave you a strange look as he sat on the foot of the bed. "The presents are to celebrate your status as a High Lord, your claim to Illyria, and the return of the Twilight Court . . . If you ask me, those are pretty big things to celebrate."

You went back to chugging your coffee.

After your conversation last night with Devlon and Marko, not many things had been solved, but you'd all agreed on one thing: to wait until after Koschei was taken care of to talk about what belonged to whom.

Between your Court and Rhysand's.

Your court.

You fought a grimace.

The very thought about that "talk" made you nauseous for two reasons: one, it sounded awkward; and two, you didn't even know if you'd be here for it.

Once you finished your coffee, you wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand.

Your chest twinged with something — a desire, a longing, a wish.