Chapter 25
25
W hatever the extent of her people’s involvement with these fae, Aven was determined to figure it out.
Her head spun, her gut refused to settle, and her mind conjured several fantasies to counteract the tale Cillian had spun. Even when he showed her the evidence: a six-inch scar at the base of the Darkroot.
No one could answer, or would, when she asked how King Fergus had made it this far in the first place. The fighting had already been ongoing for years by the time her father arrived here. Had he used their distraction against them?
More than anything, she wanted to confront her father and force him to explain. She wanted to hear, from his mouth, what really happened. Thinking about seeing him caused heat to spiral through her and her gorge to rise.
The idea to steal from the Darkroot could not have suddenly burst to life in her father’s head. It had to have come from somewhere or someone. Maybe another noble or one of the warbands who had openly discussed ways for humans to harness magic.
She had no way of knowing without a crystal ball to peer into the past.
The next several days were spent alone in the library—as alone as someone in her position could be. There were always watchful eyes and ears around her to ensure she stayed in line. Nora remained close until she grew bored of waiting for Aven to finish her research and close the books.
There was too much to learn and, she felt, no time to do so.
All her life, she’d been fed a combination of lies and truth. The humans and the fae had never gotten along, that much was correct. She read about it in their books.
The fae, it seemed, were no better at capturing the entirety of the situation than the human historians she’d seen carrying around their journals.
She found nothing about the start of the conflict. Nothing to give her the smallest clue about what prompted the disagreements between their peoples.
But she did find a single written notation about her father, a prince when he first began his quest into Mourningvale to learn about the depths of their magic.
He came in the night to steal that which is most precious to us and, we fear, our secrets with it.
They were right.
He’d managed to work their secrets against them.
There was a chance the words were a lie, but Aven felt them in her heart. Only one person could answer her questions, but she’d never see her father again.
She pushed the book shut with trembling fingers and sat staring at the wall until she lost track of time. Her worry bled through into everything else.
She hadn’t started the war. Its inception was not her responsibility, and yet, she had the opportunity to finish it permanently if she went through with this marriage.
She rocked back in her chair and studied her hands, her knees bobbing up and down.
Life would not be terrible with Cillian at her side. Aven knew that much. She found him agreeable, charming, and handsome. Intelligent and determined and, yes, sweet. Those were all admirable traits. She’d simply never seen marriage in the cards. It hadn’t even been their intention to leave her alive—she’d only survived because she wasn’t in the castle that day. Her sisters would have been better suited to stand at his side. They deserved this chance, this life—or any life at all. The thought of it left a bad taste in her mouth.
Rather than leaving the book on the library table, Aven clutched it to her chest on the way back to her room. Nora intercepted her in the hallway.
“Are you finished with your reading, Miss Aven?” Nora chirped.
Aven nodded dully. “I think I need to rest for a little bit.”
“Would you like me to bring up food for you? You skipped lunch. Perhaps some fruit tea?” Nora fell into step beside her, vibrating with unrestrained energy. Probably at the thought of being useful instead of dismissed.
The weather outside looked perfect through every passing window, but Aven shook her head again. The thought of something hot and sweet churned her stomach more.
“Nothing for me, thank you, Nora.” Her words came out bland and heavy, spoken out of a sense of politeness rather than any real desire to engage. “You have the afternoon free. I don’t need anything.”
Nora said nothing as she trailed behind Aven up to the suite, a little disappointed, but did turn down the bed and lay out a change of clothes. As solemn as she’d ever been.
Aven deserved none of it. None of the kindness or consideration, even if Nora only did her job at the behest of Cillian. Outside of those first few days when they’d sent Roran after her, she’d been treated fairly. She’d been given clothes, food, as much freedom as a woman in her situation was allowed.
Any fae prisoner in her shoes would have been executed immediately in Grimrose. Of that, she was sure.
When she closed her eyes at night, she saw the humans strung up on those poles again. She saw them set on fire and heard the crackling of the flames over their flesh.
In her dreams, they were silent, and they stared her down with a sense of menace and loathing, blaming her for not saving them. For three straight days, Aven woke covered in sweat, her hair and nightdress plastered against her clammy skin, and her heart racing.
Sometimes in those dreams, she saw her father in the crowd as well. He stood beside King Donal, and the two monarchs laughed at what had become of their people.
What they’d done.
Aven woke on the fourth day resolute. She’d always done what she felt necessary for her part. Why should it change now? If anything, she bore more responsibility. None of this was her fault, but someone had to atone for it.
Cillian waited for her in the parlor where they normally took their lunch, a full spread of food stretched out between him and her empty seat. She burst into the room, and he stood so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor.
“Aven. Good morning.”
She still felt like a half-wild beast compared to his elegance and refinement. He looked every inch the royal she was not as he slowly fell back into his chair and gestured for her to sit.
Her stomach growled at the assortment of food weighing down the table, although her head swam with the finality of the decision she’d made. The golden-haired prince only watched her and waited, the first rays of the sun burnishing each strand.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I agree,” she said in a rush. Ready to get it all out there before something inside of her hesitated. There would be no hedging. “To try things out with you. Not necessarily an official engagement, but I’d like to see how a relationship between us would work.” She worried her hands, looping her fingers together. “Officially.”
Cillian took a beat to answer her.
“You know you don’t have to choose between us,” he said, his tone casual but his eyes watching her carefully.
Aven’s mind wandered. She knew fae nobility had different rules—sharing partners wasn’t taboo like in her kingdoms. She could technically marry both brothers, and the thought made her skin flush. For a brief, wild moment, she imagined them both, Cillian’s cool touch, Roran’s burning fingers, their contrasting energies creating something… overwhelming.
Her breath hitched.
She had thought about it, briefly.
But no, it was ridiculous. Cillian was like water—cool, calculated, gentle. Roran was fire—intense, unpredictable, dangerous. To expect them to share her would be more than selfish. It would dishonor them both.
“I want it this way,” she said, her voice steady. Final.
Cillian’s smile told her he’d seen right through her—every hesitation, every unspoken thought—but his eyes fixed on her face, rounded with something very close to relief. “I’m glad to hear it. Now please sit, and let’s have breakfast together before we discuss this further.”
Discuss it, rationally, like some kind of business deal. Laughter lifted her spirits and disappeared before she voiced it out loud. It was a business deal.
Her heart raced in her chest, and she willed it to slow down before it made her lightheaded. Especially when Cillian stood again without waiting for her to do as he’d asked. Without waiting for anything before he swooped her into his arms and spun her in a circle.
A breathless chuckle eventually escaped before he set her down on her feet.
“Do you have any idea how happy you’ve made me?”
“I’m not sure why you would be happy,” she countered.
Cillian grabbed her hands and stroked his fingertips across her knuckles. First, he lifted her right palm to his mouth to press his lips to her skin. Heat caressed through her from the touch heading straight between her legs. Maintaining eye contact, Cillian brought her other hand to his mouth to kiss it as well, slowly, tenderly.
Her heart pounded for an entirely different reason.
He was strong, his lips soft and smooth. Aven glanced down at the hands he held to get herself under control. Her breathing got shallow, her skin tight and hot, the longer he held her. Especially when Cillian’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. Something contracted in her lower abdomen, and when he tugged her against his chest, she did not hesitate. Not when the heat shifted from him into her, and back again.
Everywhere their bodies touched went sultry and tingled.
This time when he kissed her, he kept the contact light and exploratory, pulling back to check her reaction. When he found no hesitation, he shifted his head and deepened the touch. Kissing her passionately, reverently.
Her arms lifted to wind automatically around his neck as he pulled her closer still, crushing her to him. His palms splayed across her lower back and gripped her hips. They might have let the touch go on forever. She twined her fingers through his hair and crushed those silken strands until Cillian groaned.
The sound was music to her ears.
No one had kissed her this way. Not any of the farmer boys she’d tugged to her to experiment. None of the soldiers who thought it might be a challenge to tame her. None of them sparked this deep exhilaration to life in her.
Cillian broke the kiss too soon, his hand solid against her back. “It’s going to be a very busy day.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is cause for celebration! We need to make sure preparations are in order.”
She allowed him to take her hand again and pull her out of the parlor through the rest of the palace. “This isn’t an actual engagement,” she reminded him. Her lips felt bruised in the most delicious way.
He appeared too thrilled to pay anything but half a mind to her protestations. “We should have a parade.”
Aven wasn’t sure if he said it to her or to himself.
“Oh, yes, a parade is definitely in order. It’s been too long since our kingdom had such a cause to come together this way. We need to show you off!” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “This next step toward ending the war deserves a production to assure the people they have a reason to hope. Allow me to do this, please.”
“I don’t think I’d be able to stop you,” she said with a chuckle.
Cillian tucked her under his arm while he called for several of the fae in the palace who would be responsible for seeing his will done. She watched him plan the parade in near silence, staring up at this man she felt like she was only beginning to get to know.
He took every opportunity to touch her, going so far as to place numerous kisses on top of her head.
Within a week, he had everything in place for the parade to kick off at noontime.
Aven pulled at the long sleeves of her high-collared gown, the material somehow itchier than anything else she’d worn.
“Stop fidgeting,” Nora hissed. “You’re going to draw attention.”
Nora had taken great pains to do Aven’s hair in an intricate curling monstrosity around her face, tendrils spiraling down her spine as well. Fresh flowers had been woven into the design with their petals a pure white to match the pearls at her ears and the base of her neck. She’d been scrubbed, primped, and painted like a doll. Nora prided herself on the finished picture, but Aven didn’t feel like herself.
How many more times in her life would she have to put on these charades?
Too many, if today’s spectacle was any indication.
Cillian had taken her agreement to heart and done his best to fill her week with over-the-top displays of his joy. Perhaps it wasn’t the joy of being with her, necessarily, but the ending of this terrible war.
As she told herself.
The dates had been lovely and planned to perfection. Cillian delighted in the details. He was a person who saw fifteen steps ahead, twenty. He always knew exactly what would please her—from dancing to dinner to more horseback rides through the territory.
They listened to musicians and picked wildflowers. They joined the chefs down in the kitchen, neither one of them sure how to cook, and both of them covered in all manner of flour, grease, and odd stains by the end of their dinner.
Everything led up to today’s parade and the culmination of their week of courting.
“You’re hardly able to breathe in that getup,” Roran hissed at her ear.
Aven pressed her hand against her stomach and prided herself on her ability to face forward rather than turn to him in surprise. “It’s nothing I haven’t been forced to wear before,” she hissed back.
“See? Look at the verbiage you’re using. Forced to wear. You can act like you’re thrilled by this arrangement all you like, but I know my brother.”
“I suppose you’re going to tell me that you know me as well.”
Roran countered with a snicker before he asked, “Don’t I? I know all your dinners and dates might look nice on the surface, but you’re not the type of woman to enjoy those things long term. They’re sweet, and you feel seen because you’re not used to the sweetness of them, but pretty soon they will lose their luster, and you’ll realize you are only pretending.” He leaned in closer, and his breath tickled her ear. “You need action. You need to move. You need blood pumping in your veins to feel alive.”
Aven shivered. But she didn’t correct him. “What are you doing here?”
Her shoulder tensed, bunching, and the movement in the tightness of the corset stole her breath. Roran was wrong.
He didn’t know her the way he claimed to.
“I’m here to celebrate, just like the rest of them. Do you object to my presence?”
She almost laughed at him. But for some reason, joking felt as far away from her as Grimrose. Something heavy pulsed inside of her—a thought or a presence she didn’t want to look at too closely.
Up ahead, the lines of carefully groomed horses tossed their heads and nickered in anticipation of the start of the parade. She and Cillian would be at the tail end of the procession for everyone to see.
The main spectacle.
She edged away from Nora to put distance between herself and Roran. He moved with her, and unfortunately, that put him right in her direct line of sight.
He looked good. Too good. He wore a dark fitted coat and leather riding pants, the silver of his short hair stark against the shadows. Unlike his brother’s polished appearance, there was something untamed about him, from his open collar to his worn boots.
“Aw, that’s it, isn’t it?” Roran crooned. “You would rather I stay hidden and out of the perfect picture of your life. Why is it, little princess?”
She willed her face to stay blank. “I don’t have time for your mind games.”
He snarled, a small sound of annoyance, and followed her through the crowd. Away from Cillian. Away from the horse, saddled and polished and primped as much as she’d been.
“It’s because I’m not going to pull the punches for you, and deep down, you not only appreciate it, you respect it,” he filled in for her. “I’m going to tell you exactly what I think because it’s what you need to know.”
“I have no respect for you.” She avoided his gaze. “You’re a bastard, Roran.”
“At your service.” Roran paused, close enough to grab her if he chose.
“I’m not sure what you want. You taunt me mercilessly, and yet I’m doing everything I can to ensure peace between our people. I agreed to try things out with Cillian. Isn’t it enough?”
Roran’s hands clenched, and he flashed white teeth at her. He stalked closer still and loomed above her until she swallowed hard at his presence. “I hate to see you watering yourself down for anyone else.”
“Why?” she pressed.
A sharp whistle cut through the air before he had a chance to answer, and Aven wanted nothing more than to take the horse and run. To get as far away from this place and those brothers as possible. She pinned her arms to the side as the first acts of the parade motioned forward.
Roran watched her too closely when she straightened and hustled back to where she needed to be. Her corset impeded movement. Eventually, she made it back to Cillian, who nodded encouragingly at her.
Through it all, she stole looks at him, like they were two magnets rotating around each other, struggling for a way to come together and finding none.