There stands a statue, carved in marble. A fae woman with sharp, pointed ears and long flowing hair. She must have been beautiful in life. The statue looks new, but honestly, it’s hard to tell in a place like this.
“Her name was Clíodhna.”
I wasn’t expecting the voice that speaks from behind me. I let out a yelp, stumbling backward and instinctively reaching for my blade. Of course, it isn’t there. There’s no way that this dress could hide a knife. I mean, it can barely hide my tits.
Gentry stands tall, quirking an eyebrow as he waits for me to scramble to my feet. I dust myself off, quickly adjusting my dress to make sure that nothing accidentally fell out during my tumble.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Gentry tells me, though the slight smirk on his lips says otherwise. “You disappeared from the ball. As host, it’s my duty to keep an eye on my guests.”
“Don’t worry,” I snap, folding my arms across my chest. “I’m not gonna steal the silverware. Just needed some fresh air is all.”
“That’s something you won’t find much of down here.” Gentry looks almost sad as he trails a hand across the leaves of the tree next to him. “This here is the last vestige of what this place once was. It takes an immense amount of power to keep it alive, but...I find the effort worth it.”
Gentry plucks a flower, and before I can protest, another immediately sprouts and blooms in its place. He gives it a deep sniff before offering it up to me.
Never take gifts from a fae.
I take the flower, stroking the petals as it sits in my lap. When I glance up, Gentry isn’t looking at me anymore. He’s staring up at the statue, a strange look on his face.
“Who was she?” I ask him, nodding at the marble woman. “Clíodhna. Was she your wife?”
“My sister,” he says. “A Leanan sídhe. A lover of mortal men. She fell in love with a Slayborn, of all people.”
He doesn’t need to tell me who. I can see it from the scowl on his face, the deep anger flaring up in his eyes. “Seamus.”
“Yes,” he says, giving me a solemn nod. “Seamus Blake. He loved my sister, and she him. You can imagine how my father took the news when he found out. He forbade Clíodhna from seeing the Slayborn boy again. He tried everything to get her to listen—he bribed her, goaded her, locked her in her room for days—nothing worked. And so eventually, he became desperate. He did the only thing he could think to do to stop her.”
“He...killed her?” I ask, my voice quiet. Gentry glances at me over his shoulder, a look of horror across his face.
“Of course not,” he growls. “Seamus may be willing to kill his own blood, but not us. No. My father lied. Deceived her. He told Clíodhna that Seamus was dead, killed by the Dullahan in a scuffle. Clíodhna was heartbroken. She stayed in her room longer than when he had locked her in there. Refused to eat. To sleep. To bathe. And eventually, her heart could take the pain no more. So she plunged a knife into it.”
“You sister killed herself?” My tipsy mind is having trouble wrapping itself around the information. Seamus, boinking an Unseelie? That couldn’t possibly be true. He hates the Unseelie. My mind spins.
“My father was never the same afterward.” Gentry leans against the tree trunk next to him, propping himself up with one arm. “Neither was Seamus. Each blamed the other for Clíodhna’s death, and each vowed revenge. And neither ever got it.”
I scoff. “I don’t know. Seamus seemed to make out pretty well.”
“And what has it done for him?” Gentry asks sharply. “The woman he loves is still dead. No amount of Unseelie blood will change that. But Seamus will continue seeking his revenge, murdering those he thinks murdered her. He doesn’t understand that his bloodlust will never be satisfied. Revenge is a never ending cycle, Berkeley.”
“Hypocrite. You said yourself that you’ve killed for revenge.”
Gentry’s eyes narrow as he appraises me. Suddenly, I feel naked before him—though in this getup, I suppose I may as well be.
“I have, yes,” he says, staring me hard in the eye. “When I was younger and more reckless, I slaughtered countless innocents. And for what?” He lets out a laugh. Harsh. Humorless. “A lie. I didn’t avenge my father. I didn’t ease my pain. I just repeated the cycle.”
Gentry leans his head back against the tree, closing his eyes. The pale light around us reflects off of his skin, almost making him seem to glow. His white hair, carefully slicked and styled at the beginning of the night, has fallen into loose waves around his face. He looks too young to be a king—too young to have these hopeless burdens weighing him down. Everyone expecting him to pull the impossible out of his ass every time something goes wrong.
I don’t want to admit how well I can relate to that. I can’t help but wonder if this place—the Court—feels like it’s full of ghosts. Just like my parents’ house did. I wonder if having all of these people here, Unseelie or not, is like living with a thousand strangers.
“I can never right the wrongs that I’ve done,” Gentry sighs. “But I can spend the remainder of my days as King bridging the divide between Slayborn and Unseelie. I can dedicate myself to peace. And I’m glad that I have you by my side, Berkeley.”
I have no idea why the fuck he would be. I’m a wreck. A mess. Shoes missing, hair frazzled, slightly too tipsy to hold myself upright. Gentry watches me closely, eyes sharp. Expression raw. I don’t miss the way that his eyes flicker down my form—his granite mask giving way to something deeper. Something darker. And though I know I should leave, make some hurried excuse to get back to Castor, I’m drawn to him. A moth to light. Oxygen to a flame.
Gentry watches me silently as I approach, perfectly still. Just another statue in the garden. But when I get close enough, I feel it—the heat radiating off of him, seeping into my skin, searing into my veins. I’m still feeling bold, the wine driving each clumsy movement. I’m sure Gentry must be appalled, disgusted—but he makes no move to stop me.
“Gentry,” I mutter. I enunciate every syllable, trying to hide the slight slur to my words. It doesn’t work. “Did you leave me this dress?”
“You’re my guest,” he says simply. We’re close; almost too close. I can feel his breath against my skin, just as hot as the rest of him. “I couldn’t have you attending the ball in your armor. Why? You don’t like it?”
“No.” My voice is hoarse, heady. Barely more than a whisper. “No, I don’t. It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s the height of fashion, I’m told,” Gentry says. His eyes travel downward, following the bead of sweat that drips down my neck and over the swell of my breast before disappearing down into my dress. He takes in a sharp breath, eyes growing dark. “I have to admit,” he continues, his voice dropping an octave, “you do wear it well.”
This close, he looks less human than ever. His features are just a little too sharp, his pale ears knifing their way through his hair. His doublet is loose, slightly open at his chest, clinging to the lean muscle I know is hidden beneath all of those layers. My mind slips, and I can’t help but wonder what else is underneath. What it would take to find out.
Before I can think it through I’m reaching for him with a trembling hand, my fingertips just barely grazing against the rough fabric of his doublet. I expect him to stop me. Fight me. Have me arrested. But he just stands there, perfectly still, watching me as carefully as you’d watch a wild animal approaching. Wary. On guard. No doubt people don’t touch him like this. He’s an Underelf. Hell, he is the Underking. I could lose a hand for this.
I push my luck. Looking up, I meet his eye, gauging his reaction. I splay my fingers out, pressing my bare palm against his chest. I don’t so much see it as feel it: the slight hitch of his breath in his throat. His hands flex and curl at his side, so tight that his muscles begin to turn white.
“Berkeley,” he growls. Not Slayborn. Not Miss Gallagher. Berkeley. “What do you think you’re doing?”
It’s like a fucking light switch. Suddenly my mind c
omes flaring to life again, and I draw my hand back away from Gentry like he burned me. God, I’m an idiot. What in the hell do I think I’m doing? Men like him don’t want girls like me. Thugs. Lowlifes. Overblown assholes like Castor. These are the men who want me. But Gentry? The goddamn Underking?
“Shit.”
It’s my eloquent getaway line as I scramble back, head whipping around the garden like someone might have seen me. I start to walk away, moving as fast as I can while still maintaining my dignity, though I’m thinking that ship may have already sailed. I hurry forward, stumbling on the grass a few times, not sure where I’m going other than away from Gentry.
But I don’t even make it out of the garden before I feel a gentle grip on my arm. “You didn’t answer my question, Berkeley.”
His voice is deep. Harsh. Almost scolding.
“What does it look like?” I snap. “I’m leaving.”
I refuse to look at him. I don’t want him to see the flush on my cheeks, the shame in my eyes. He asked me to be a soldier. And commanding officers? They don’t fuck their soldiers.
But Gentry refuses to let me hide from him, instead cupping my cheek and tilting me to face him. I didn’t realize how close he was to me. Each breath that he takes brushes against me, his scent overtaking me. Honey and clover. Cedar and spice.
He smells even better than his wine does.
“You’re not leaving,” he mutters, steel gaze flickering back and forth between my eyes. “You’re running.”
Anger flares up inside of me, unbidden. “I am not,” I snap, whipping around to face him, “running.”
Gentry leans in, his nose just a hair’s breadth from mine. “Prove it, then, Slayborn.”
I don’t stop. I don’t think. I never do.
In one motion I rise up onto my toes, crashing into Gentry. The second our lips make contact, all thoughts evaporate from my mind. I lean into the kiss, deepening it, and Gentry responds in kind. I can tell that he’s trying to be gentle with me, delicate, but whatever control he has, he’s losing it fast. While normally calm and calculated, his movements are becoming rushed. Frenzied. His long fingers wrap themselves around my hip, hard enough to leave a bruise, while his other hand drags its way through my hair.
He tilts his head, leaning into me, pressing his tongue into my mouth. I have to fight a moan as he presses me backward, until my shoulders hit the rough bark of the tree behind us. His hips pin me against the trunk, grinding against me, and this time I can’t hold back the gasp. I can feel him thrust up against my thigh, hard in his trousers, straining for release. Straining for me. The thought sends a shockwave jolting through my system, sharp and electric, every nerve alight as his hands begin to explore the bare skin exposed by my dress.
I grab his doublet and pull him harder against me, pushing my chest to his and driving my tongue into his mouth, running my hand between us—over his arms, his chest, and then, down to the hard length between his legs. He grunts at the contact, breaking away from the kiss and moving to suck along the skin of my neck. He moves a hand from the small of my back, sliding it over to the thigh exposed by the slit up my dress.
His hand is hot against the creamy skin, leaving a searing path behind it. He digs his fingers into the supple flesh there, his teeth nipping along my collarbone. They travel higher and higher, fingertips just barely slipping under the edge of my dress, ghosting over where any proper lady would be wearing panties. Gentry’s growl turns to a groan in his throat when he realizes that there’s nothing there.
Nothing in our way.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
That single word sends the endorphins flooding through my brain, the adrenaline crashing through my system, awakens some deep, animal part of me that always needs more, more, more. I fist a hand in his silver-blond locks and drag him against me, desperate to feel more, the only thing driving me the insatiable, senseless hunger growing in my core.
I run a hand down his tunic, down toward the hard length pressing into me, and I feel his breath all but stop. I give him a single, slow stroke, and suddenly he’s alive again, his hands everywhere all at once, memorizing every inch of me in hurried, clumsy motions. His hand returns between my legs, a rough finger leaving a trail up my thigh, touching, teasing, higher and higher, until—
“Ahem.”
Gentry and I both freeze, me still tangled in his arms, his head still bowed against my neck. He doesn’t let go of me but looks up, an expression of near-rage across his face as he scans for the interruption. I don’t look. I can’t.
Because I already know who I’m going to see standing there, and I can already guess the expression on his face. Spoiler alert: it’s not going to be a pleasant one.
Sure enough, when I finally dare to lift my head from the safety of Gentry’s chest, I turn to see Castor standing beneath a tree at the edge of the garden. Though Gentry makes no move to step away, I disentangle myself as quickly as I can, stepping back and giving Castor a nervous smile. The picture of innocence. Like I wasn’t just caught dry-humping the Underking.
“Castor,” I say, forcing a laugh even though there’s nothing remotely about this conversation. “What’s up?”
He looks between the two of us, eyes narrowed. When they land on me: betrayal. When they land on Gentry, though—I’m surprised that the Underking doesn’t burst into flames right there. Castor touches the knives at his hips, taking a slow step forward. Gentry straightens just a bit, nudging me behind himself before his hand moves to rest on his own blade. Castor pauses for a moment, just staring. Thinking.
“Your parents,” he finally says, hand dropping from his knife as he looks toward me. “They’ve arrived.”
Chapter Twenty
Out of the Morgue
I remember the day they called me in to identify the bodies. And the heads. Bright, pink cheeks a sickly pale gray. Lips dry and withered. What were once brown and hazel eyes, clouded over and faded to blue. Changeling or not, I saw my parents lying dead there on those tarps. Felt each regret. Each lost opportunity. They would hit me when I least expected it sometimes, day after day, year after year. The fact that the last memory I would ever have of them would be their cold, lifeless gaze.
But now...all I can do is stare. Ruddy, flushed cheeks. Chapped—but pink—lips. Bright eyes, both sets staring at me with the same mirrored wonder. They stand past the threshold of the hall, hands clasped together, both outlined by the stark darkness beyond them. Like a photo, frozen and framed for all eternity. And then—
“Berkeley.”
I haven’t heard my mother’s voice in four years. Four years. And I had been so sure that I would never hear it again. She sounds just the same as I remember: a strong, lilted voice with just a bite of Irish to it. And when she speaks, suddenly, it’s all real.
“Mom!”
I choke the word out, rushing at the two of them. I don’t care if its a trap. I don’t care if its a mirage, changelings, the apparition of a fetch come to haunt me. I could die happy, swapping that gray, lifeless final memory for this.
I run at her, throwing my arms around her and burying my head in her shoulder. She still smells like lavender. I can feel her hand stroking the back of my head, soothing nonsense spilling from her lips, but I don’t hear any of it. All I feel is the warmth, the comfort of her arms, just like I did when I was a weedy little kid. I break away so that I can wipe the snot on my sleeve instead of on hers. And when I look up, my dad has his arms held wide as well, brow raised.
I launch myself into him next, nearly knocking him over in the process. He huffs out a laugh as he catches me, arms wrapping around my torso and drawing me in for a bear hug.
“Aw, little chit,” he says, chuckling. “I’m so glad to see you again. Though I must say, I’m no fan of your fashion choices these days.”
He takes a step back, throwing a pointed look toward my gown—or, I guess, my lack thereof. Christ. I should have thought to change before rushing down here. I’m sure I flush br
ight red, and my father seems pleased with himself. Mom gives him a small slap on the shoulder, though, shooting him a glare.
“Berkeley, ignore your father,” she says. “You can wear whatever you please.”
I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the way she teases Dad, just like she used to when I was a kid. Maybe it’s the way he gives me that secret eye roll the instant she turns her back. But whatever it is, I feel it winding its way from my chest and up through my throat, turning into a slight prickle in my eye.
It’s all just so...normal.
“Berkeley, sweetheart. Are you okay?” My mother steps forward, brows knitted together. Genuine concern.
A sob wracks its way through my chest, working its way from my gut and straight to my vocal cords. It’s too much. It’s all just too damn much.
Am I okay?
My mom is alive. My dad is alive. And I’m standing here with them.
“Yes,” I whisper, another rogue tear trailing down my cheek. I barely even manage to choke the word out. I grind my fists against my eyes, wipe the wetness from my cheeks, but the tears just won’t stop. Every time I look at my mother, my father—compare those milky grey eyes I saw to the bright ones before me—a new wave starts all over again. Mom reaches up, wiping away a tear trembling at the corner of my eye.
“Berkeley, honey,” she says. “I want to hear everything.”
“Ah, Gentry. Even as a lad, I could tell he would make a great king. Of course, I didn’t think it would happen so soon.”
My father cuts into the steak in front of him, biting into it like he hasn’t eaten in days. Who knows? Maybe he hasn’t. I nudge the mashed potatoes his way, and he gives me a small nod before digging in.
It’s like they never left. Just another family dinner. Of course, we never had food like this at home. The Unseelie sure as hell know how to cook. Gentry even managed to have a burger served up at my request, and I’ll be damned if it isn’t the best burger I’ve ever had.
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