Chapter 13
13
We enter through the servants’ entrance.
Just get upstairs , I tell myself. Make it to the sanctuary of your room before you shatter into pieces.
I risk a glance back at Kiaran lingering on the threshold. His expression remains impassive, but I wonder if he glimpses the cracks in my composure, threatening to split me open and spill all my broken edges onto the floor between us. Wordlessly, I take his hand and draw him inside, up the stairs to my private rooms. My bedchamber door clicks shut, the gunshot retort of it jolting through my bones.
We regard each other silently across the bedchamber washed in moonlight, the only sounds the soft tick of the clock and our breathing. We’re a grim picture. Dried blood spatter streaks the sharp angles of his face. Mine, his, our victims’—it hardly matters anymore.
“Wait here,” I finally rasp, my voice barely a whisper.
I slip into the adjoining water closet and brace my hands on the basin, the porcelain cold beneath my clammy palms. Alone at last, I risk a glimpse of my reflection in the looking glass. My eyes are flat and haunted, smudged by lingering shadows. With harsh swipes, I scrub the crusted blood from under my nails, but nothing scours away the memories creeping at the edges, threatening to drag me down.
Composure , I order myself. Kiaran is waiting.
I straighten my spine, smooth my expression into impassivity, and step back into the bedchamber.
Kiaran has his back to me, surveying my private sanctuary. I wonder what conclusions he’s drawing about my character based on the surroundings. My desk is a disaster of ledgers, curiosities, and novels piled high, always on the verge of toppling over. The bed linens are twisted and rumpled, untouched since I lurched out of them this morning.
It’s chaos. Like me.
“Find anything interesting?” I ask, resisting the urge to tidy the linens in a useless bid for dignity.
“Your living quarters are more...demure than I was expecting.”
My lips curve. “We get to compare rooms tonight. While I’d enjoy a rack of knives on display, I have to hide all the pointy things that could cause accidental stabbings. The maids object strongly when I leave blood-coated daggers strewn about.” I tug open the bureau drawer, fishing around until I produce a loose shirt that belonged to my late father. I toss it at Kiaran. “Here. Unless you prefer looking like a blood-soaked warlord for the purposes of intimidation.”
He turns the fabric over in his hands. “Whose is it? A lover’s?”
I arch an eyebrow at the unexpected question. “Are you asking about my bedmates now? How forward of you.”
His eyes glint like metal. “You asked about my proclivities.”
Ah yes. Well, he had me there.
“Did I? It must have slipped my mind.” I gesture to the garment. “Wear the shirt, burn it, fashion it into a lovely cravat, tear it with those broad shoulders of yours. I don’t care.” I point toward the washroom. “There’s water in the pitcher if you want to clean up. It won’t do if the servants find random bloodstains all over my furniture.”
Without another word, he brushes past me and disappears into the washroom. The door clicks shut, and I hurry behind the dressing screen and strip out of my filthy clothes. Gooseflesh pebbles my bare skin as I don my simple cotton nightdress.
By the time Kiaran emerges, I’m the picture of poise. But beneath the surface, the claws are out. The ghosts stirring, as they always do in the small hours when I’m alone.
Kiaran crosses the room on silent feet and braces his hands on the windowsill, surveying the dark street below. His shirtsleeves are rolled up past the elbows, displaying lean muscle and the intricate tattoos swirling across his forearms—vines filled with wicked thorns. “It’s quiet outside. Get some rest.”
Rest . As if such a thing exists for me anymore.
“Will you stay?” I ask.
He gives a curt nod, face still turned away. “Until morning.”
I turn back the heavy velvet bedcovers and slip between the smooth sheets. I stare at the shadowed ceiling, trying to hold the twisted memories at bay through sheer force of will. But they creep nearer, summoned by the stillness.
Slick blood congealing on alley stones. Bruising fingers crushing my throat. Cruel fangs sinking deep to pierce flesh and veins.
A violent shudder wracks my frame. Kiaran abandons his place at the window and approaches the bedside, his steps soft on the floorboards.
“Cold?” he asks.
“Freezing.” A truth, if not the whole of it.
Kiaran tugs the quilt higher over my shoulders. On some reckless impulse, I grasp his wrist before he can pull away. Beneath my desperate grip, his skin burns fever-hot. I wonder if he can feel the too-fast stutter of my frantic pulse.
He slowly turns his arm in my grasp, sliding his fingers to encircle my wrist. “What is it?” he asks quietly.
“Lay here with me awhile.” The words slip free before I can swallow them. “Just for tonight.”
Kiaran goes motionless against me. For one agonising moment, I’m certain he’ll refuse, wrench away in disgust, and abandon me without looking back.
But then he sighs. “Just this once.”
Carefully, he stretches out on the mattress facing me. Close enough that I can see the silver limning his irises, fracturing the violet. He smells clean and wild all at once.
“You froze earlier,” he says in a voice as quiet as falling snow. “Is that what happened with Thalion? How he got those bruises on your neck?”
My heart trips into a frantic rhythm in my chest. I shut my eyes tight, willing back the memories clawing their way to the surface. Slick blood and grasping fingers and bruising force—
You’ll break so exquisitely.
“Yes,” I finally breathe.
Kiaran must feel me trembling. Slowly, he slides his arm around me, palm pressing gently between my shoulder blades. His other hand comes to rest flat just over my heart.
“Look at me, Kameron,” he whispers.
Something fractures deep inside me. This feels far too intimate already, his hands searing my skin through the thin barrier of my nightdress. He’ll see all the cracks and broken edges. The wounds that never fully healed.
I force my eyes open to meet his solemn gaze. I find no judgement there—only calm patience.
“Breathe,” he says softly.
I try to inhale, but my lungs are locked in place. The air comes in ragged fits beneath the steady pressure of his palm.
“Again.” His thumb smooths a hypnotic path along my rigid spine. “Slow and deep this time.”
Another fractured inhale, longer. The vice around my chest eases by agonising increments as we breathe together. In and out. His hand remains against my back, solid and steady, an anchor tethering me against the building panic. Its claws retract by degrees, ghosts slinking back to rot in the dark.
“That’s right,” he murmurs. “Good lass. Just keep breathing for me.”
The quiet praise sparks a hazy sense-memory from months ago. After that horrific night, Kiaran whispered those exact words to me as he laid my ravaged body on this bed. As his hands worked to knit my mangled flesh together.
Keep breathing, Kameron. That’s it. There’s my good lass. Just breathe for me.
I cling fast to the present. The steady rise and fall of our breaths. His searing heat sinking into my skin. The improbable fact that Kiaran MacKay now lies in my bed, holding me through the small hours as if I’m something fragile. Something worthy of care.
“What would the fae think if they knew you were here, comforting their mortal enemy?” I say when I trust my voice again.
“Best not to tell them. I have a reputation as a ruthless leader to maintain.”
“Of course. We wouldn’t want anyone questioning your dedication to wanton violence.” I watch him, this fierce fae stretched out in my bed. “Is it everything you dreamed? Spending the night in the Falconer’s bed?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes my hand and brushes his thumb over his mark. Everything inside me goes quiet, my body arching toward his. Heat blooms from that point of contact, coiling under my skin.
“Mm. That feels nice,” I whisper before I can think better of it.
“Just this once.” He sounds like he’s reminding himself. “Go to sleep.”
But I don’t listen. In my haze—my desire for more—I slide my leg against his, relishing the warmth where we touch.
“How are you doing that?” I ask breathlessly. “A trick of the servant’s mark?”
Kiaran goes very still again. When he speaks, power infuses his voice. “Sleep. Now.”
The command sinks into my bones and drags me under.