The Falconer (The Falconer #1)

Chapter 7

7

Blood pounds in my ears as I fling open the curtains, desperate for fresh air to purge the stench cloying the bedchamber. My hands tremble, nearly ripping the heavy drapes from their rods in my haste to pry the window open. The frigid night wind whips my hair as I gulp down lungfuls of icy air.

I release a shaky exhale and part my lips. “Kiaran.”

His name leaves me in a half plea and half command. Since that night three months ago when he marked my palm, Kiaran has answered this summons after every bloody encounter. Dealt with the aftermath whenever I called.

I turn from the window, listening. Waiting. Silence answers, broken only by the tick of the mantelpiece clock. Seconds crawl past, each more unbearable than the last.

Then, the air shifts against my back. A caress redolent of pine and woodsmoke and sea.

He came.

I fix my eyes on the floral-patterned wallpaper, following the roses climbing thorny vines. If I look at Kiaran right now, after everything that just happened, something vital inside me will shatter. So I listen to the slow cadence of his breath and pretend my hands aren’t still shaking.

“I appreciate you coming so quickly.” I’m proud my voice comes out steady. Neutral. As if this night were any other, the events unfolding within these walls inconsequential.

“I sensed distress through the mark,” he says simply.

No trace of concern or curiosity in his smooth voice. Just a calm statement of fact, emotionless as cut glass.

Just a master checking in to make sure his servant wasn’t about to die.

“Ran into trouble tonight.” The words scrape raw up my throat. “I need your expertise.”

I should say more. Thank him for showing up when I called into the dark, even if it was only out of obligation. Apologise for the cadavers marring an otherwise pleasant evening. But voicing any of that aloud might crack me open, because I killed a monster who tried to break me, and I feel nothing like victory.

Just empty. Hollowed out.

Silence falls, weighted and thick. I feel the intensity of Kiaran’s gaze flaying me bit by bit. Dissecting the disorder like a knife parting silk. The toppled armoire, sheets tangled and torn halfway off the mattress. The pungent copper reek of blood. And, of course, the bodies—the corpse of a nobleman now slumped beside the bed, throat ripped out. The fae’s body cooling on the stained carpet.

A topography of the chaos Kiaran claimed always made it so easy to find me.

But the most damning thing is the mottled bruises on my throat. The mirror to my left shows me the coloured imprints of fingers, each one an accusation. Proof of hesitation. Of failure. Marks that might as well be sins scrawled across my skin for him to read.

Hesitation is what kills Falconers. My mother’s stern lessons echo from the grave, ruthlessly ingrained.

I nearly paid that price tonight.

“Nothing to say?” I rasp when the stillness becomes unbearable.

Kiaran’s voice holds all the warmth of a scalpel. “The bruising will fade by tomorrow.”

I exhale slowly. Of course. Plain words stripped of judgement or deception, the mess cauterised. He does detachment better than most—clean and clinical as any physician’s diagnosis. Remorse would require him to care.

Steeling myself, I risk a glance over my shoulder. The mask he presents to the world never cracks or bleeds, his thoughts bolted away behind that cold facade. Now, his fathomless gaze finds mine across the dim room, weighing and measuring but revealing nothing.

I hate him at this moment. For remaining untouched while I come undone. For that flawless control when I’m barely clinging to the ragged edges of mine.

“Thank you for that assessment,” I say, infusing the words with cold civility. “I’m glad to hear I’ve avoided permanent damage this time.”

I turn away, reaching up with trembling fingers to pluck pins from my hair. It tumbles down my back in messy copper waves. I strip off the gloves next, tossing them onto a nearby chair. Piece by piece, I shed the trappings of civility until only the woman beneath remains. Bruises and flayed heart laid bare.

“Can you glamour me?” I ask. My voice comes out hoarse. “He tore through the magic Derrick put on me. Just...hide the bruises. And take care of the bodies. Make Lord Hepburn seem natural, not like this.”

Fabric whispers as Kiaran closes the space between us. I go still at the press of his fingers curving around my shoulder. The request is unspoken—he needs to see. Needs to catalogue the full extent of the damage. I go still as he turns me to face him, bracing for the clinical assessment about to follow.

“Look up,” he murmurs.

I obey, focusing on the ceiling. His touch is gentle even while his eyes trace the mottled skin at my throat, missing no telling detail. Taking stock with a predator’s attention for weakness. He’s close enough that I catch his rain and open sky scent, underscored by something wild and untamed. This inspection is intimate in a way that leaves me exposed, stripped down to the sum of my scars. Laid bare.

Just a woman, tired and struggling.

So very breakable.

His thumb sweeps over my pulse, and I swear he lingers there a moment too long before withdrawing his hand.

“The injuries should glamour easily.” Kiaran keeps his tone mild. His fingertips trace the silvered scars left from the vicious assault months before by the same twisted killer who marked me this night. “These too, I assume?”

I release a shaky breath. “Those too.”

Kiaran’s power washes over me, as intimate as any caress. He studies his handiwork, ensuring every livid mark blends into unblemished skin. He cuts an imposing figure clad all in black, dark hair tousled just shy of unkempt. The sharp lines of his profile hint at something feral beneath the illusion of civility. Yet his touch remains gentle when it finds my skin.

“Please don’t mention it,” I whisper.

“Mention what?” He moves on to the next bruise, focused on his task.

“Any of it.”

“Then I won’t.” Deft fingers trail down the curve of my collarbone, erasing the last faint bruises marring the skin there. “You have a knife on the floor. How did that happen?”

Heat steals up my neck to my cheeks. “He took it from me.”

Kiaran’s head tilts. No admonishment comes. “Distraction,” he asks evenly, “or too many petticoats?”

My lips twist, unable to summon even a ghost of a smile. “Neither. He was there that night...” I have to pause and steady my voice. “Three months ago. On the hill.”

Understanding sharpens Kiaran’s expression. His attention shifts to the body cooling at our feet with new clarity.

“Thalion.” Quiet rage simmers beneath that mild enquiry. “Which scars?”

I look away, shame and remembered fear curdling my stomach at the memories. “Does it matter? You killed the others. He and the other two who got away are mine.” Steeling myself with a harsh inhale, I meet his eyes again. “I didn’t know for certain they murdered my mother last year. But you did, didn’t you? That night you brought me home, broken and bleeding...you already knew.”

“I had suspicions,” he admits.

I nod, bone-weary. Grief and anger threaten to steal my voice. “I should be furious you kept it from me.”

He waits, silent. One dark brow lifts—a prompt rather than a rebuttal.

I sigh, the fight going out of me. “But you knew I would have done something reckless if I’d had even an inkling.” My answering laugh holds no mirth. Only bleak truth. “I doubt I would have survived a second encounter.” Voice low but steady, I say, “I thought your mark was supposed to keep them from tracking me.”

Kiaran examines the intricate, glowing symbol etched on my upturned palm. “There are other ways to track someone,” he says.

His thumb brushes over the mark, and I gasp as a mix of pleasure-pain blooms beneath my skin.

Sensing my traitorous reaction, his fathomless gaze lifts to mine again. Weighing. Measuring. Seeing far too many secrets.

Slowly, deliberately, his hand glides down to find the curve of my waist. I tense as his touch burns through the thin silk barrier.

“You need a small, flat knife to hide in a boning channel here,” he murmurs. His other hand slides across my ribs on the opposite side. “And here. For emergencies.”

He steps back, and cool air rushes in to fill the absence left behind. I release a shaky exhale. I swear I still feel those elegant hands on me even as Kiaran moves away.

“What about Lord Hepburn?” I ask. My voice hardly shakes.

Kiaran turns to regard the body. “How would you like me to stage his death?”

I shut my eyes against the rush of guilt. “Whatever seems most dignified. The poor man deserves that much.”

“Heart failure it is.”

Kiaran kneels at Lord Hepburn’s side, obscuring him from view as he begins weaving an illusion with practised skill. I watch his deft fingers stitch together this new tale, erasing all evidence of violence until Lord Hepburn appears unchanged. Anyone who discovers his body will find no clues to rouse suspicion, only an old man who might have passed peacefully in his sleep.

Satisfied, Kiaran shifts his attention to the mangled fae corpse between us. After a moment, he passes a hand over the corpse and tendrils of dark power extend from his fingertips, wreathing it in shadows. They crawl inward from every corner of the room, cocooning, ripping, tearing until only stray ash remains on the carpet. As if the body had been collected from a long-cold fireplace.

When it’s done, that ancient stare lifts to mine again in silent query. Gauging my reaction. “Was there anything else you required?”

The word makes me flinch. Required . As if this is business. As if my composure isn’t fraying by the second.

“No. We’re finished here,” I say. “My apologies for interrupting your evening.”

Kiaran lingers a moment more, searching my face. Reading the secrets etched into skin and bone.

Then, with a whisper of fabric, he turns toward the open window through which he arrived. “Kameron.”

I sigh. “What is it?”

“Tomorrow.”

One word layered with promise. I know what it means.

He will find me tomorrow night, and together we’ll hunt.

I nod curtly. “Tomorrow.”

We speak to each other in violence couched in vows. We always have.