Rowan could almost hear the words Aelin was struggling to keep in. Liar. Piece-of-shit liar.
“Then who did?” Rowan demanded.
“I left.”
“If we’re on the same side, then put your rutting knife down,” Rowan growled.
Lorcan chuckled. “I don’t want to hear the princess yapping. What I have to say applies to both of you.” Rowan waited, taking every second to assess and reassess their surroundings, the odds. At last, Lorcan loosened the blade slightly. Blood slid down Aelin’s neck, onto her suit. “You made the mistake of your short, pathetic mortal life when you gave Maeve that ring.”
Through the lethal calm, Rowan felt the blood drain from his face.
“You should have known better,” Lorcan said, still gripping Aelin around the waist. “You should have known she wasn’t some sentimental fool, pining after her lost love. She had plenty of things from Athril—why would she want his ring? His ring, and not Goldryn?”
“Stop dancing around it and tell us what it is.”
“But I’m having so much fun.”
Rowan leashed his temper so hard that he choked on it.
“The ring,” Lorcan said, “wasn’t some family heirloom from Athril. She killed Athril. She wanted the keys, and the ring, and he refused, and she killed him. While they fought, Brannon stole them away, hiding the ring with Goldryn and bringing the keys here. Didn’t you ever wonder why the ring was in that scabbard? A demon-hunting sword—and a ring to match.”
“If Maeve wants to kill demons,” Rowan said, “we won’t complain.”
“The ring doesn’t kill them. It grants immunity from their power. A ring forged by Mala herself. The Valg could not harm Athril when he wore it.”
Aelin’s eyes widened even more, the scent of her fear shifting to something far deeper than dread of bodily harm.
“The bearer of that ring,” Lorcan went on, smiling at the terror coating her smell, “need never fear being enslaved by Wyrdstone. You handed her your own immunity.”
“That doesn’t explain why you left.”
Lorcan’s face tightened. “She slaughtered her lover for the ring, for the keys. She will do far worse to attain them now that they are on the playing board again. And once she has them … My queen will make herself a god.”
“So?” The knife remained too close to Aelin’s neck to risk attacking.
“It will destroy her.”
Rowan’s rage stumbled. “You plan to get the keys—to keep them from her.”
“I plan to destroy the keys. You give me your Wyrdkey,” Lorcan said, opening the fist he’d held against Aelin’s abdomen, “and I’ll give you the ring.”
Sure enough, in his hand shone a familiar gold ring.
“You shouldn’t be alive,” Rowan said. “If you had stolen the ring and fled, she would have killed you already.” It was a trap. A pretty, clever trap.
“I move quickly.”
Lorcan had been hauling ass out of Wendlyn. It didn’t prove anything, though.
“The others—”
“None of them know. You think I trust them not to say anything?”
“The blood oath makes betrayal impossible.”
“I’m doing this for her sake,” Lorcan said. “I’m doing this because I do not wish to see my queen become a demon herself. I am obeying the oath in that regard.”
Aelin was bristling now, and Lorcan closed his fingers around the ring again. “You’re a fool, Rowan. You think only of the next few years, decades. What I am doing is for the sake of the centuries. For eternity. Maeve will send the others, you know. To hunt you. To kill you both. Let tonight be a reminder of your vulnerability. You will never know peace for a single moment. Not one. And even if we don’t kill Aelin of the Wildfire … time will.”
Rowan shut out the words.
Lorcan peered at Aelin, his black hair shifting with the movement. “Think it over, Princess. What is immunity worth in a world where your enemies are waiting to shackle you, where one slip could mean becoming their eternal slave?”
Aelin just bared her teeth.
Lorcan shoved her away, and Rowan was already moving, lunging for her.
She whirled, the built-in blades in her suit flashing free.
But Lorcan was gone.
After deciding that the slices on her neck were shallow and that she was in no danger of dying from them, Rowan didn’t talk to her for the rest of the journey home.
If Lorcan was right … No, he wasn’t right. He was a liar, and his bargain reeked of Maeve’s tricks.
Aelin pressed a handkerchief to her neck as they walked, and by the time they reached the apartment, the wounds had clotted. Aedion, mercifully, was already in bed.
Rowan strode right into their bedroom.
She followed him in, but he reached the bathroom and quietly shut the door behind him.
Running water gurgled a heartbeat later. A bath.
He’d done a good job concealing it, and his rage had been … she’d never seen someone that wrathful. But she’d still seen the terror on his face. It had been enough to make her master her own fear as fire started crackling in her veins. And she’d tried—gods damn it, she’d tried—to find a way out of that hold, but Lorcan … Rowan had been right. Without her magic, she was no match for him.
He could have killed her.
All she had been able to think about, in spite of her kingdom, in spite of all she still had to do, was the fear in Rowan’s eyes.
And that it would be a shame if he never knew … if she never told him …
Aelin cleaned her neck in the kitchen, washed the little bit of blood from her suit and hung it in the living room to dry, then pulled on one of Rowan’s shirts and climbed into bed.
She barely heard any splashing. Maybe he was just lying in the tub, staring at nothing with that hollow expression he’d worn since Lorcan had removed the knife from her throat.
Minutes passed, and she shouted good night to Aedion, whose echoing good night rumbled through the walls.
Then the bathroom door opened, a veil of steam rippled out, and Rowan appeared, a towel slung low across his hips. She took in the muscled abdomen, the powerful shoulders, but—
But the emptiness in those eyes.
She patted the bed. “Come here.”
He stood there, his eyes lingering on her scabbed neck.
“We both are experts at clamming up, so let’s make an agreement to talk right now like even-tempered, reasonable people.”
He didn’t meet her gaze as he padded toward the bed and slumped down beside her, stretching out over the blankets. She didn’t even reprimand him for getting the sheets wet—or mention that he could have taken half a minute to put on some clothes.
“Looks like our days of fun are over,” she said, propping her head with a fist and staring down at him. He gazed blankly at the ceiling. “Witches, dark lords, Fae Queens … If we make it through this alive, I’m going to take a nice, long vacation.”
His eyes were cold.
“Don’t shut me out,” she breathed.
“Never,” he murmured. “That’s not—” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I failed you tonight.” His words were a whisper in the darkness.
“Rowan—”
“He got close enough to kill you. If it had been another enemy, they might have.” The bed rumbled as he took a shuddering sigh and lowered his hand from his eyes. The raw emotion there made her bite her lip. Never—never did he let her see those things. “I failed you. I swore to protect you, and I failed tonight.”
“Rowan, it’s fine—”
“It’s not fine.” His hand was warm as it clamped on her shoulder. She let him turn her onto her back, and found him half on top of her as he peered into her face.
His body was a massive, solid force of nature above hers, but his eyes—the panic lingered. “I broke your trust.”
“You did no such thing. Rowan, you told him you wouldn’t hand over the k
ey.”
He sucked in a breath, his broad chest expanding. “I would have. Gods, Aelin—he had me, and he didn’t even know it. He could have waited another minute and I would have told him, ring or no ring. Erawan, witches, the king, Maeve … I would face all of them. But losing you …” He bowed his head, his breath warming her mouth as he closed his eyes. “I failed you tonight,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry.”
His pine-and-snow scent wrapped around her. She should move away, roll out of reach. Don’t touch me like that.
Yet there he was, his hand a brand on her bare shoulder, his body nearly covering hers. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she whispered. “I trust you, Rowan.”
He gave her a barely perceptible nod.
“I missed you,” he said quietly, his gaze darting between her mouth and eyes. “When I was in Wendlyn. I lied when I said I didn’t. From the moment you left, I missed you so much I went out of my mind. I was glad for the excuse to track Lorcan here, just to see you again. And tonight, when he had that knife at your throat …” The warmth of his callused finger bloomed through her as he traced a path over the cut on her neck. “I kept thinking about how you might never know that I missed you with only an ocean between us. But if it was death separating us … I would find you. I don’t care how many rules it would break. Even if I had to get all three keys myself and open a gate, I would find you again. Always.”
She blinked back the burning in her eyes as he reached between their bodies and took her hand, guiding it up to lay against his tattooed cheek.
It was an effort to remember how to breathe, to focus on anything but that smooth, warm skin. He didn’t tear his eyes away from hers as she grazed her thumb along his sharp cheekbone. Savoring each stroke, she caressed his face, that tattoo, never breaking his stare, even as it stripped her naked.
I’m sorry, he still seemed to say.
She kept her stare locked on his as she let go of his face and slowly, making sure he understood every step of the way, tilted her head back until her throat was arched and bared before him.
“Aelin,” he breathed. Not in reprimand or warning, but … a plea. It sounded like a plea. He lowered his head to her exposed neck and hovered a hair’s breadth away.
She arched her neck farther, a silent invitation.
Rowan let out a soft groan and grazed his teeth against her skin.
One bite, one movement, was all it would take for him to rip out her throat.
His elongated canines slid along her flesh—gently, precisely. She clenched the sheets to keep from running her fingers down his bare back and drawing him closer.
He braced one hand beside her head, his fingers twining in her hair.
“No one else,” she whispered. “I would never allow anyone else at my throat.” Showing him was the only way he’d understand that trust, in a manner that only the predatory, Fae side of him would comprehend. “No one else,” she said again.
He let out another low groan, answer and confirmation and request, and the rumble echoed inside her. Carefully, he closed his teeth over the spot where her lifeblood thrummed and pounded, his breath hot on her skin.
She shut her eyes, every sense narrowing on that sensation, on the teeth and mouth at her throat, on the powerful body trembling with restraint above hers. His tongue flicked against her skin.
She made a small noise that might have been a moan, or a word, or his name. He shuddered and pulled back, the cool air kissing her neck. Wildness—pure wildness sparked in those eyes.
Then he thoroughly, brazenly surveyed her body, his nostrils flaring delicately as he scented exactly what she wanted.
Her breathing turned ragged as he dragged his stare to hers—hungry, feral, unyielding.
“Not yet,” he said roughly, his own breathing uneven. “Not now.”
“Why?” It was an effort to remember speech with him looking at her like that. Like he might eat her alive. Heat pounded through her core.
“I want to take my time with you—to learn … every inch of you. And this apartment has very, very thin walls. I don’t want to have an audience,” he added as he leaned down again, brushing his mouth over the cut at the base of her throat, “when I make you moan, Aelin.”
Oh, by the Wyrd. She was in trouble. So much rutting trouble. And when he said her name like that …
“This changes things,” she said, hardly able to get the words out.
“Things have been changing for a while already. We’ll deal with it.” She wondered how long his resolve to wait would last if she lifted her face to claim his mouth with her own, if she ran her fingers down the groove of his spine. If she touched him lower than that. But—
Wyverns. Witches. Army. Erawan.
She loosed a heavy breath. “Sleep,” she mumbled. “We should sleep.”
He swallowed again, slowly peeling himself away from her and strode to the closet to dress. Honestly, it was an effort not to leap after him and rip that damn towel away.
Maybe she should make Aedion go stay somewhere else. Just for a night.
And then she would burn in hell for all eternity for being the most selfish, awful person to ever grace the earth.
She forced herself to put her back to the closet, not trusting herself to so much as look at Rowan without doing something infinitely stupid.
Oh, she was in so much gods-damned trouble.
CHAPTER
53
Drink, the demon prince coaxed in a lover’s croon. Savor it.
The prisoner was sobbing on the floor of the dungeon cell, his fear and pain and memories leaking from him. The demon prince inhaled them as though they were opium.
Delicious.
It was.
He hated himself, cursed himself.
But the despair coming from the man as his worst memories ripped him to shreds … it was intoxicating. It was strength; it was life.
He had nothing and no one, anyway. If he got the chance, he would find a way to end it. For now, this was eternity, this was birth and death and rebirth.
So he drank the man’s pain, his fear, his sorrow.
And he learned to like it.
CHAPTER
54
Manon stared at the letter that the trembling messenger had just delivered. Elide was trying her best to look as though she wasn’t observing every flick of Manon’s eyes across the page, but it was hard not to stare when the witch snarled with every word she read.
Elide lay on her pallet of hay, the fire already dying down to embers, and groaned as she sat up, her sore body aching. She’d found a water skein in the larder, and had even asked the cook if she could take it for the Wing Leader. He didn’t dare object. Or begrudge her the two little bags of nuts she had also nabbed “for the Wing Leader.” Better than nothing.
She’d stored it all under her pallet, and Manon hadn’t noticed. Any day now, the wagon would be arriving with supplies. When it left, Elide would be on it. And never have to deal with any of this darkness again.
Elide reached for the pile of logs and added two to the fire, sending sparks shooting up in a wave. She was about to lie down again when Manon said from the desk, “In three days, I’ll be heading out with my Thirteen.”
“To where?” Elide dared ask. From the violence with which the Wing Leader had read the letter, it couldn’t be anywhere pleasant.
“To a forest in the North. To—” Manon caught herself and moved across the floor, her steps light but powerful as she came to the hearth and chucked the letter in. “I’ll be gone for at least two days. If I were you, I’d suggest using that time to lie low.”
Elide’s stomach twisted at the thought of what, exactly, it might mean for the Wing Leader’s protection to be thousands of miles away. But there was no point in telling Manon that. She wouldn’t care, even if she’d claimed Elide as one of her kind.
It meant nothing, anyway. She wasn’t a witch. She’d be escaping soon. She doubted anyone here would really think twice a
bout her disappearance.
“I’ll lie low,” Elide said.
Perhaps in the back of a wagon, as it made its way out of Morath and to freedom beyond.
It took three whole days to prepare for the meeting.
The Matron’s letter had contained no mention of the breeding and slaughter of witches. In fact, it was as if her grandmother hadn’t received any of Manon’s messages. As soon as Manon got back from this little mission, she’d start questioning the Keep’s messengers. Slowly. Painfully.
The Thirteen were to fly to coordinates in Adarlan—smack in the middle of the kingdom, just inside the tangle of Oakwald Forest—and arrive a day before the arranged meeting to establish a safe perimeter.
For the King of Adarlan was to at last see the weapon her grandmother had been building, and apparently wanted to inspect Manon as well. He was bringing his son, though Manon doubted it was for guarding his back in the way that the heirs protected their Matrons. She didn’t particularly care—about any of it.
A stupid, useless meeting, she’d almost wanted to tell her grandmother. A waste of her time.
At least seeing the king would provide an opportunity to meet the man who was sending out these orders to destroy witches and make monstrosities of their witchlings. At least she would be able to tell her grandmother in person about it—maybe even witness the Matron make mincemeat of the king once she learned the truth about what he’d done.
Manon climbed into the saddle, and Abraxos walked out onto the post, adjusting to the latest armor the aerial blacksmith had crafted—finally light enough for the wyverns to manage, and now to be tested on this trip. Wind bit at her, but she ignored it. Just as she’d ignored her Thirteen.
Asterin wouldn’t speak to her—and none of them had spoken about the Valg prince that the duke had sent to them.
It had been a test, to see who would survive, and to remind her what was at stake.
Just as unleashing shadowfire on that tribe had been a test.
She still couldn’t pick a coven. And she wouldn’t, until she’d spoken to her grandmother.
But she doubted that the duke would wait much longer.
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