Cursed

Chapter Seventeen

A day at the cabin had turned into two, and then three and before Elora knew it, a full week had passed and then another. They had been at this stupid cabin for two whole weeks with no word from Cale, or Arrow or even Rosalie.

Elora had no idea if they were okay, or if they simply, somehow managed to forget to check in. It was unlike Cale to not blow up her phone for a safety confirmation. Is this how Cale feels everytime I take my time to reply? When I miss a phone call, because my head is in a book, or my phone is on silent, tucked away in my bag.

I highly doubt I'll have my job, if and when I return to Fairgraves.

Everyone had put their lives in danger. For her. She battled with thoughts of just going and handing herself in, confessing everything and she would figure out something in regards to the body in the shapeshifter, Arrow Prescott's, home freezer.

Don't be silly Elora. It was too late for that. Her choice to call that day, a little over three weeks ago, was exactly the reason they were in this mess now–no, my choice to go on a stupid walk, down that stupid dark street was the reason.

She knew better. Cale had taught her better. The world could be a nasty place and Elora had walked herself right into a living nightmare. The twenty three year old frowned. She shook her head, talking away to herself in her mind wasn't going to do her any good.

She glanced down at the musty old pages belonging to a book she had found beneath the bookcase after the braided bracelet she had made using wool found in the bathroom closet, had snapped off. Elora had reached down to pick it up, when the black leather bound book had caught her eye.

At first, she thought it had been a diary, her curiosity won over and she peeked inside. It wasn't a diary. It was a book, a handwritten account, about a young queen and her hazel eyed mate.

The word 'mate' alone had roped Elora into reading it. A great deal of the books she had read were romance, mentions of soul mates, and well... downright smut, but this felt different.

Elora could see the tear-stained pages, she could almost smell the field of flowers and fire that were mentioned upon centuries-old pages.

How her heart hurt for the author of this journal.

I had danced around the fire's flickering flames, my arms swaying with the hypnotising melody that my lover played for our party of two. We had been on our own for some time. My darling, my loving mate. He was absolutely beautiful in mind, body, and soul. There wasn't a day I did not think of him and his handsome smile. Of those hazel eyes that looked to me everyday with nothing but love. My mate. My soul mate.  Now, he played for me. He sat on the grassy meadow, flowers scattered out around us, a warm log fire lit, just for tonight, we would enjoy ourselves. We would take tonight for ourselves for tomorrow we may never see each other again. He played, and he played and he played. For me.

For his mate.

So that I could feel the gentle night breeze on my skin and warmth of the fire on my feet. He played for me. Those hazel eyes never left my skin. Always meeting my gaze. "I love you Delilah. You are my heart."  He had stopped playing, his flute resting in place a mere inch or so away from his lips. "You are my heart." I had told him. "Always." He tilted his head forward, acknowledging his own words. "Always."

"Will you hold me tonight? I do not care if they find us. If I die, I want to die in your arms and no place else." I wish I had not asked him. I wish I had let him stand guard, let him watch our tent like the soldier he was, wanting to protect us, to protect me for those seeking to slay me. To take my crown.