Page 49 of Shackled By Shadows

When he reaches us, he flashes me a sly smile but doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he falls into step beside me, his hand brushing lightly against my back as we walk toward the building. The touch is oddly comforting yet intimate, stirring a mix of emotions I can’t quite sort through.

He speaks after a moment, his voice low and smooth. “I hope Ash didn’t give you too much trouble.”

I roll my eyes and shoot Ash a glare. He raises his hands in mock surrender. “I thought we had a great time.”

Oberon’s smile curls further, a flicker of something dark in his eyes as he looks at me. “I’m sure you did,” he replies, his voice warm with a teasing edge. “But Ash isn’t the only one who knows how to make things . . . memorable.” His smile is a slow, dangerous curve, and his tone drops lower, the words laced with something far more intimate. “But I hope you’re not too tired from your ‘great time’,” he adds, the suggestion clear as his eyes flick to me, barely holding back his amusement.

Ash shoots him a look, clearly not fazed, but with a slight twitch of his lips, he adds, “Don’t mind him, Lyra. He likes to tease.”

Oberon’s smile deepens. “Teasing is just the beginning.” He turns to me then, his gaze holding mine, almost like a challenge. “After all, Lyra, there are far more interesting things we can explore when the time is right, of course.”

His words land with a weight, like a quiet challenge in the air between us. My breath catches for a split second, and I can feel a flush creeping up my neck.

Ash, seemingly unaware of the shift in the atmosphere, smirks. “You always have to add fuel to the fire, don’t you, Oberon?”

Oberon’s eyes never leave mine as he speaks, his words almost a murmur. “Some fires are worth stoking.” His tone is smooth, seductive in a way that makes my skin prickle, but there is no mistaking the intent behind it.

My breath catches in my throat, and I quickly turn my attention to the path ahead, feeling a mix of emotions I can’t fully grasp.

Ash rolls his eyes and claps me on the shoulder, trying to break the moment. “Enough, Oberon. Let’s get inside before Lyra decides to take a walk and leave us all behind.”

I focus on the quickly approaching building, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingers. The heat of it settles deep in my chest, making my heart beat just a little faster. I’m not sure whether it is the weight of his words or something more subtle, but it has me feeling more exposed than I want to be.

The males lead me through the oversized doors into the castle-like structure. The air is cool, the walls are made of simple brick, and the floors are cold stone. Rugs run down the hallways in muted colors of red and gold, and flags bearing symbols of the rebellion hang from the walls. Windows line the front, letting in the light and casting long shadows on the floor.

We turn down a long corridor, doors on either side, before finally entering a large room. A massive wooden table dominates the space, covered in maps and parchment, with Fae of all shapes and sizes already seated around it. At the front of the room, a large map is pinned to the wall, and beneath it, another table displays a detailed landscape with small figurines scattered across it, each one carefully placed as if the room is preparing for something important.

Standing at the entrance of the door is a male who immediately commands attention. He’s tall, slender, and dressed in all black. His ears are pierced with several silver studs, and the sides of his head are shaved clean, leaving a strip of long hair running down the middle that is pulled back into a tight ponytail. The aura of danger radiating off him is unmistakable, and I can’t help but feel my knees wobble under the weight of his presence.

He lifts an eyebrow at me, his gaze cold and assessing, before he turns to Oberon. “Who is this?” he demands, his deep, raspy voice carrying an edge that makes my skin prickle.

Oberon doesn’t flinch. His hand, still lightly resting on the small of my back, gives a subtle press, as if to anchor me. He shoots a dark glare at the male. “Easy, Zander,” he barks, baring his teeth slightly before lowering his voice. “Her name is Lyra. She’s with me."

Zander’s gaze snaps back to me, his ice-blue eyes narrowing as he studies me with an intensity that makes me feel like he is peeling back layers. His voice returns, even more menacing this time.

“I don’t like surprises,” he growls. “And you . . . are a surprise.”

“Chill out, Zander,” Ash smirks, unfazed by the tension. “She’s here because we think she can offer something valuable to the team. Not everything needs your approval.”

Before I can react, Oberon’s posture stiffens. His hand against my back suddenly becomes more possessive. He steps forward, a low, guttural growl escaping from his throat, still baring his canines at Zander. “You forget your place, Zander,” he snaps, his voice like ice. “You answer to me. And she is with me.”

For a brief moment, Zander’s face twists into a light snarl, holding his ground.

There is a pulse of raw power in the room, a tension thick enough to cut, but after a long beat, Zander backs down. His gaze flickers briefly to Oberon, a silent acknowledgment of the dominance in the exchange.

Oberon, never breaking his cold stare at Zander, gently guides me toward a chair at the table, pulling it out for me in a smooth, deliberate motion.

I don’t know what to make of the gesture. It is courteous, yet there is an undercurrent of something more intimate in the way he touches the chair, like he is marking his claim.

Ash follows suit, pulling out the remaining chairs and taking his seat. Zander, still silent, sits himself across from me, his eyes now fixed firmly ahead, his expression hard.

With a final glance at the table, Oberon strides to the front of the room, his commanding presence filling the space. He turns to face everyone, his gaze sweeping over the gathered Fae. “Thank you all for coming,” he begins, his tone authoritative and unwavering. “We have a lot to cover. Let’s begin.”

I listen intently to every word Oberon says in his commanding tone, which sends chills down my spine. This is a side of him I have not seen before: focused, authoritative, and utterly composed. His words cut through the tension in the room like a blade, each one carefully chosen to steer the conversation in the direction he needs.

He begins with the growing strength of the King's army, his tone darkening as he speaks. “The King’s army is becoming more organized, more coordinated,” Oberon says, his voice darkening as he studies the map of the kingdom. “They’re tightening their grip, using more subtle tactics, spies, sabotage, whispers among the nobility. It’s no longer just about troops. They’re trying to smother any spark of resistance before it can spread.”

He pauses, his fingers trailing over the edges of the map, his gaze narrowing. “Keagan.” His voice is heavy with something unreadable, disdain, caution, maybe even a hint of something deeper. “He is more than just a weapon. He’s a strategist. Unlike the others, he doesn’t just follow orders; he anticipates and adapts.”