“I’m sorry that we couldn’t warn you about Seamus,” my mother says, sighing over the rim of her wine glass. “We wanted to reach out, tell you everything; but we were worried of what he might do if you knew. We thought we could keep you out of it by leaving you in the dark.”
“It’s okay, mom. I get it.” I shrug. “And I figured it out in the end, didn’t I?”
Honestly, nothing could ruin my mood right now. I’m safe, I’m warm, I have a belly full of red meat, and I’m sitting across the table from my parents. Alive. In the flesh. How many times have I dreamed of this very moment, thinking I would never get to see it happen?
“He wasn’t always been like he is now,” my father mutters through a mouthful of food. “Seamus and I were actually good friends once, back in training. But then…”
“Clíodhna.” I whisper the word, and my father nods.
“She helped him see the good in the Unseelie. For a time, Seamus was even on our side. We would stay up late in the the Làidir dorms, talking about how it would be us that would end the feud between Slayborn and Unseelie. A future for himself that she could be a part of.
“When she died, he lost an important part of himself,” Dad continues. “He blamed her father. Gentry. All of the Unseelie. In his mind, he’s convinced himself that they’re a danger to the rest of humanity. That they need to be systematically wiped out. He’s likely killed more Unseelie woman and children than Gentry’s people have Slayborn combined.”
And I shook the man’s hand. I feel a little bit sick at the thought. But more so, I’m pissed. Pissed that Seamus lied and manipulated me, and pissed that I let it happen so easily. But with my parents here, alive, ready to fight by my side—I truly believe that we can take the fucker down.
“It’s not just Unseelie he’s killed, either.” My mom’s voice is suddenly quiet, barely more than a whisper. A wet sheen glistens in her eye, but she doesn’t cry. She’s never been one for crying. But I know that she’s thinking about her mother. Meemaw.
One of the first things she had done after getting to the Unseelie Court was ask if grandma was here too. She even glanced around, as if Meemaw might pop out of the woodwork, smile on her face and freshly baked shortbread in hand. I hadn’t been able to break the news to her. In the end, Castor had done it for me. She said nothing, but I could see it in her eyes that something inside her shattered.
“He’ll pay for what he’s done, dear.” My dad clasps my mom’s hand, face earnest. “We’ll give that fuck a proper fight, won’t we, Berk?”
“Language,” my mom chides, but there’s no sincerity behind it.
“He’s right, mom,” I tell her. “All the people he’s killed—Slayborn, fae, the Dublin massacre, Meemaw—we’re going to make sure they didn’t die for nothing. We’re going to end this war once and for all.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Winter Solstice
I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life for this moment. And somehow, I still don’t feel even remotely ready.
I tug on my Unseelie armor, my deep blue second skin, and on top of that, the dark, scaled leather of my Slayborn breastplate. My daggers are strapped to my side, and slung across my back, a sword that’s just a little bit too heavy for me. Still, the weight of it is kind of comforting. This thing could definitely slice clean through some necks. Except for the Dullahan riders, obviously. I get the pleasure of stabbing those fucks in the face.
When I make my way down to the main hall, the entire Court is bustling with activity. Soldiers pushing their way through the crowd, picking up arms, toasting each other, getting in their last few minutes with wives and girlfriends all too publicly. Civilians barricading their homes, battening down the hatches, packing up what little belongings they can manage. Mothers herding wide-eyed children to the safety of the Court’s dungeons.
I grab a drumstick from a stall as I pass, steaming hot and roasted to perfection. I could use the protein. But when I raise it to my lips, I realize I’m not hungry. In fact, there’s a pretty good chance I’ll ralph if I try eating anything.
My nerves are raw, frayed, the adrenaline pumping relentlessly through my system. I shove the drumstick at a passing soldier and snatch his half-finished beer instead, ignoring his protests as I continue on my way. I down the beer in one long gulp, tossing the mug aside when I’m done.
The attack is just hours away now. The sun is still low in the sky, but already it shines through the roofbox and into the upper chambers of the tomb. The Veil is down—it’s strange, but while I didn’t notice it when it was there, I can definitely feel its absence. It’s like the air is too thin. Not enough oxygen in the room.
I spot Gentry on the far side of the chamber talking to a group of elven guards. Just who I’ve been looking for. Every time I’ve tried to talk to him since our little...rendezvous in the garden, he’s been staunchly avoiding me. Even during the briefing yesterday, he barely looked my way as he outlined our method of attack.
The plan that has me sitting at the back of the fray like a useless lump while Castor, my parents, and Gentry attack head-on once the sentries sound their alarm. It had been my parents’ idea, and Castor immediately hopped onboard. I expected Gentry to at least try and argue my case, but he just sat back and let them talk about me like some sort of kid who needs babysitting.
Like hell I’m going to let them risk their lives while I sit back and watch.
The closer I come to the group, though, the more my resolve to chew the Underking out wavers. It’s not the gaggle of armed guards standing around Gentry—they’re not going to attack me, and even if they did, I’m pretty sure I could take their pretty little elf asses. No, it’s Gentry himself.
Standing there suited up in armor, all solid plates and hard lines. And underneath, lean muscle straining against the material, warm and solid. I can’t help all of the dirty places my mind is going to, especially not after the other night; the way his body pressed against mine, his hands digging into my skin, his hard length thrust up against my belly.
Come on, Berkeley. Now is not the time for this.
If not now, though, when? There’s a pretty good chance that one of us is going to die today. And good God, do I want to see that man naked before I die. From what I’ve felt, he’s packing some serious heat downstairs.
Gentry catches my eye, giving me a slight nod as I approach. His hair is pulled back, drawing out the angular features of his face in the flickering lamplight. He looks sharp. Dangerous. Deadly. Delicious.
“Miss Gallagher,” he says. “You look flushed. Are you feeling well?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I tell him, waving a dismissive hand. “Just a lot of people in here, you know?”
I mean, it’s not entirely a lie. It feels like its a thousand degrees in the hall, the entire room drenched in the scent of sweat and urine and other smells I don’t really want to get into. Of course, the only thing that I can really concentrate on is how close Gentry is standing to me. Honey and cedar almost mask the greasy stench of fear around us.
“It’s alright to be scared.” Gentry’s hand drops to the small of my back so smoothly that none of the fae around us seem to notice. He leans in, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “You would be a fool not to be.”
“I’m not scared,” I hiss, drawing back from him. “I’m pissed.”
He glances downward, a disapproving frown across his face. “You shouldn’t be drinking before a day like this.”
“Wha—no, not that kind of pissed. I’m angry. Enraged. Hacked the fuck off.”
At this point, some of the elves are starting to glance our way. Gentry grits his teeth, glancing at them from the corner of his eye. “Miss Gallagher, I—”
“You what? Said nothing when my parents volunteered to put themselves on the goddamn front lines? Kept your mouth shut like a pussy when they volunteered me to go join the nosebleed section?”
At this point, other fae are openly staring. A weedy little Slayborn girl, loudl
y belittling their king. Their heavily armed, impossibly strong, Unseelie of a king. Seamus might be a murderous fuck, but he’s still right. I really do need to think things through. Giving Gentry lip when we’re alone is one thing, but in front of his people?
He stares at me hard, his silver eyes darkening. He’s going to make an example out of me, I know he is. He’s going to beat me. Whip me.
Spank me.
Jesus, what is wrong with me?
With a snarl Gentry grabs me by the upper arm, surprisingly gentle considering the violence behind each movement. The entire hall is oddly still as he drags me out the door with him, but the ruckus starts back up as soon as it swings closed.
The hallways are cool and quiet, only the occasional page scurrying by, delivering weapons and food and messages to and fro. Gentry tucks us back away in a corner out of sight, impatiently brushing away the strand of hair that’s come loose across his face.
“You cannot talk to me like that in front of my Court,” he says, his voice a growl. “You’re lucky I don’t have you flogged.”
So he was thinking about whipping me. I can’t stop the involuntary flare of heat that rises between my legs.
“Respect is a two-way street, buddy.” I stand tall, shoulders squared, while Gentry cages me against the wall between the hard muscles of his forearms. Even hunched over like this, he still towers over me.
“You think I don’t respect you?” Gentry scowls down. “Trust me, girl. If I didn’t respect you, I wouldn’t be wasting my time speaking right now.”
There’s something about his tone—deeper than normal, hoarse, strained—that makes me do a double-take. I study his face a little bit closer. He still looks angry, with pupils blown, sharp brows furrowed, lip curled in challenge. But there’s something else there as well. The way his fists furl and unfurl at his sides, the way his body stands rigid. The way his eyes dart down to my lips, a quick flash of silver.
“Why aren’t I at the front with my parents? With your guard?” I murmur, licking my lips. He glances downward again, exhaling sharply.
“Because I’m selfish,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you in the front lines any more than your parents do. Your kind...they’re so easy to kill. Snuffed out in an instant. I don’t want that for you.”
“But I’m not going to get my shot at Seamus standing on the sidelines.” I take a chance, reaching out and placing a hand against Gentry’s chest. His breathing hitches under my touch, but he doesn’t protest.
“I’ve met many in my time,” Gentry says softly. “Fae, human, Slayborn. And never has one made quite the...impression on me that you have.”
I chuckle. Swallow hard. “Yeah? I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a good thing or a bad thing.”
“Neither am I.”
His lips come crashing into mine, his body pushing me against the stone wall behind us. The breath is knocked out of me, and when I come up for air, Gentry takes the opportunity to thrust his tongue into my mouth, delving deeper and deeper with each renewed attack. His name escapes my lips as a sigh and he lets out a vicious growl, shoving my thighs apart with one knee.
I can feel his arousal grinding up against me even though the thick fabric of his armor. In one swift motion I drag my hand down his front and grab the length of him through his trousers, teasing him in firm, steady strokes. He breaks away from my lips and his head drops forward, each heavy, ragged breath that he takes hot against the curve of my neck.
“Berkeley,” he groans, his hands traveling to my thighs, my ass, the curve of my breasts. I start to fumble for the fastenings of his trousers, movements quick and clumsy, but it’s like the motion snaps Gentry out of a trance. He grabs my wrist, pushing my hand away from him and taking an unsteady step back.
“I forget myself,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. He smooths his hair back, glancing up and down the hall around us. Not another soul in sight to see that humiliating rejection. Thank God.
“Fine, whatever.” I scoff, hoping I don’t sound nearly as hurt as I feel. This—this right fucking here—is why I don’t let people get close. Why hit-it-and-quit-it is always the best approach to men. And you know what? Gentry isn’t any different. Sure, he’s got a nice ass, but most of the others have, too. What more is there to him than raw, unadulterated power? Inhuman strength, an almost unnatural beauty?
“Berkeley, you know as well as I do what a bad idea this is.” Gentry shakes his head, still struggling to get his breathing under wraps. “I have a duty to my people. And being seen with a human, a Slayborn, no less—”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. Can’t be seen fraternizing with the likes of me.” He’s right. Of course he is. He’s been consistently, obnoxiously, maddeningly right since I met him. I try to shove him back, but Gentry doesn’t move. “Move,” I snap, poking him in the shoulder. “We might die in a few hours. And I’m sure I can find some other willing dick to penetra—”
“No.”
He hisses the word out. Sharp. Vicious.
God, do I want him.
We attack each other again, his lips on my mouth, my neck, my collarbone, every inch of skin that my armor leaves exposed. It feels wrong; almost sinful. I can’t get enough. I can feel the sweat beading up on my forehead, dripping down and soaking into my armor, and all I want to do is tear it off, to feel the cool chill of the tunnel, to feel Gentry’s hands running over my bare skin, to feel his chest brushing against mine, feel him settling in between my legs.
I can’t fucking take it anymore.
I unfasten my own trousers, letting them hang loose on my hips before flicking Gentry’s open as well. The instant he springs free I hear him growl against my neck, a deep, warning rumble that vibrates through my entire body.
“I don’t know that you’re aware of what you’re getting yourself into, Miss Gallagher,” he pants against my ear. “We don’t take such acts as lightly as your kind.”
I don’t break eye contact as I reach down, wrapping my hand around the length of him and giving a firm stroke.
“Are you gonna fuck me?” I purr, goading him. “Or do I have to go find one of your men to do it instead?”
With a snarl Gentry has me pinned against the wall once more, his lips against mine with almost savage fury. I bite down on his lower lip, drawing just a few droplets of blood. Gentry breaks free, wiping the blood away with the back of his hand before reaching down to steady my hips, wrapping a hand around himself and giving a slow pump. He positions himself before glancing up, almost as if asking permission.
I give him a shaky nod.
And then, a scream splits through the air.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Too Close to the Sun
It’s not the scream of some floozy being swooped up into a pair of arms, or some kids playing tag.
It’s a real scream. And then another tears through the air. And another.
“No. No.” Gentry’s head whips up from the crook of my neck. “Why didn’t the sentries sound the signal?” He springs back, wrestling his dick back into his pants, looking angrier than I’ve ever seen him. I’m not sure if it’s from the fact we seem to be under attack, or those navy blue balls he must be sporting. Maybe both.
I wriggle my pants up, dashing after Gentry as he sprints down the corridor. We follow the sound of screaming, the pitiful death throes and agonized groans coming from what I soon realize is the main hall. I draw my sword and run in after him, eyes sharp for the first threat to tackle.
I don’t know where to fucking look. Everywhere, people running, swords driving into soldiers and civilians alike. And gliding through the crowd, slicing down body after body in clean, precise motions, are the Dullahan.
Slayborn swarm in through the opposite entrance, dark armor glinting in the candlelight, swords raised high as they rush headfirst into the fray. They must have managed to break through the Veil while it’s down. I don’t want to think about what they did to our poor sentries.
I stick close to Ge
ntry at first. His guard is otherwise occupied—I see one lanced to a door on the far side of the room and another two, flailing their swords wildly to defend themselves as a headless rider slashes into them. Gentry launches himself at the Dullahan, lithe body twisting in the air as he jabs his dagger down in a smooth arc. He lands into a crouch at waist level, knife sticking out of the withered head in the creature’s arms. It shrieks, body collapsing in a smoking heap, and Gentry immediately rushes to help his soldiers back.
At first, I make to follow—but then I see him.
Standing there, lording over the bleeding masses in front of him, like he’s watching the races. The fucker even has the nerve to smile.
Not for long, he doesn’t.
I march through the crowd, slashing a rogue Slayborn out of my way, the obsidian-tipped blade cutting through him like butter. My sights never leave the self-satisfied smile in front of me. But a flash of bronzed skin and a mop of dark hair gets there first.
Castor has a knack for getting in my way. He makes a mad dash toward his uncle, knocking a group of three Slayborn aside like it’s nothing. Seamus never breaks his smile. He just raises his sword to meet Castor’s with a clang of steel-on-steel.
I’m trying to fight my way through the writhing throng, to help Castor, to get my hands on that murderous fuck—but then, I hear my name shrieked across the room. Even though I haven’t heard that voice much in the past four years, I would know it anywhere.
“Mom!”
I whip around to see her and dad, back-to-back as they fight off three Dullahan towering over them, dark blades snicker-snacking through the air. Though my parents are holding their own, I can tell that they’re wearing out fast, their movements growing slow and clumsy. Even they’re no match for three of the creatures.
“Hey!” I scream, waving my arms. “Hey, fucker! You suck your own dick with that mouth?”
Slayborn Page 15