Shadow (Touched by the Fae 2)

Nine’s my Shadow Man—but he’s also a Dark Fae. And I know exactly what I have to do to get him to do what I want.

“I’m giving you permission to touch me, Nine. You get to take the power in the touch while I get to hide from Rys and forget that stupid freaking peach. Seems fair. So, do we have a bargain?”

“No.” He pauses, then adds, “The terms are not fair.”

Since when does a fae give a shit what’s fair or not? Unless he thinks I’m trying to pull one over on him. Is the touch not enough? What else can I offer him?

There’s only one thing I can think of. “I’ll throw in my true name. If you don’t already have it, I’ll give it to you. Is that better?”

“You misunderstood me. When I said the bargain wasn’t fair, I meant it’s heavily weighted in my favor. For anyone else, I’d agree—but not you, Shadow. Remember that. This touch will be different than any you’ve felt before. Deeper, so much deeper, there’s a risk that there might be other… effects.”

Effects? What’s that supposed to mean? And why is he telling me this now?

I don’t get the chance to ask. Before I do, Nine edges closer.

His silver eyes are blazing. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but his eyes are shining so brightly that they seem to glow. No—they are glowing. Between that and Rys’s lantern, the dark gloom of the sewer isn’t so bad.

I’m so used to Nine’s detached personality. Most of my memories of him are that he was an emotionless Shadow Man who acted like a babysitter, a teacher, and an unwilling guardian at the same time, until I was fifteen-years-old and he simply disappeared.

From as far back as I can remember, he always looked the same way as he does at this very second. He never aged and, except for growing his hair out, he never changed. Though I often wondered, I never once asked him how old he was. He looks like he’s maybe twenty-five—but he’s looked that way since I was a kid.

I know I’ve grown up. I’ve definitely changed. I’m not the same little girl I was when Nine started to tell me stories of magic, of another realm, and a race of superior beings who could steal my soul if I let them touch me even once.

Right now? My reflection is reflected in his wide, glowing eyes. He’s still not blinking. It’s like he’s trying to drink in my image, as if he’s desperate not to forget this moment. I recognize the hunger there, and the absolute despair etched into every feature on his beautiful face.

Nine’s expression is wretched. I’ve never seen that look on his face before. And, okay, I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve made very few personal relationships in my life. But I’ve known Nine since I was a toddler. He doesn’t let his guard down very often and, when he does, it’s the most intimate, revealing experience ever.

My heart thumps wildly, beating against my ribcage. And this time? It has nothing to do with a panic attack.

Whoa.

“I won’t take your name,” Nine says in that lyrical voice of his. The harsh edge has been softened, but the way he watches me unblinkingly? The steel is there. “After this is done, it’s important that you keep something for yourself. It’s fair that way. So, if you’ll accept it, I’ll gladly offer my name instead.”

I blink.

Seriously?

For a fae, giving up his true name is the ultimate sacrifice. It’s making himself vulnerable in a way that I could never really understand. With his true name, he’s returning some of the power he’s going to take back to me.

I shake my head. It messes with the constant headache, but I don’t care. I’ve seen first hand what it’s like to have someone else control your true name. The loss of control every time Rys calls me Zella…

“Nine, you don’t have to—”

“My name is Ninetroir.”

It slams into me, knocking me back, sending me to my ass. I just manage to break my fall as I land on my gloves, but I’m still stunned.

He did it.

He totally did it.

I don’t even have to repeat it, either. Just hearing the way he murmurs his own name, the three syllables wrap around me next, warming me up in the chill of the dank sewer. It settles into my skin, reverberating in my throbbing head, burrowing into my heart.

I’m sick as a dog, plus worried that I’m coming out of this mess even more screwed up than before, and still I know that I’ll never forget how to echo his name.

It’s mine and, at that moment, I know that I would never give it back.

I exhale. As a reflex, I almost thank him; at the last second, I remember myself. He’s fae. Ninetroir. There’s only one thing to say.