NINETEEN
brYNDIS ASHGLO
While all faeries are capable of compulsion, they are unable to compel each other, for it works only on humans. There are ways to prohibit compulsion, one of which is keeping rowan berries or red verbena on your person.
The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper
The warm glow from the fire touches my already burning skin. I’m grateful for the bandages wrapped around my chest, making the thin white material a little less revealing.
I clear my throat. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Yes, you did,” he interrupts, turning to face me. “Don’t lie to me, Slìbhìn. Join me.” Odhran sighs, closing his eyes and leaning back against the couch, facing the fire once more.
Pulling on the hem of the shirt I’m wearing, I round the end of the C-shaped couch, stubbing my toe and stumbling forward.
I mumble curses under my breath, but he doesn’t notice.
To my surprise, Odhran’s feet are bare when he rests them on the matching ottoman in front of him.
The action is too normal, almost making him seem human—unlike the monster I saw in the ballroom hours ago.
A more comfortable outfit replaces his formal attire, soft black pants in place of his slacks and a long-sleeved charcoal tunic instead of his buttoned shirt.
“Your glass is on the floor. It would be wise not to kick it like you did the couch.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He can’t see me, but I don’t care. There’s enjoyment to be found in the indulgence of one’s loathing. I never got to act on my emotions back in the manor, and I refuse to suffer the same here.
A plate rests atop a cushion two seats to his left, a half-eaten peach and a small golden knife laying atop it.
“I know what you are thinking. It is not wise.”
“I don’t care for wisdom. He needs to pay for what he’s done,” I answer.
Exhaling, I cease my attempts to force the shirt below my knees and square my shoulders, approaching the object of my desire at a steady pace.
Softly and soundlessly, I lift it, holding my breath as I do.
It doesn’t scrape against the plate, nor does it clink its rim.
The knife, despite its size, is heavy. Pure gold.
“You need to trust me,” Aed warns, but I ignore him. I don’t know if I trust anyone fully.
He filled my glass with a liquid I’m unfamiliar with.
Unlike the wine in my father’s cellar, this is amber.
Raising it from the floor at his feet, I swirl it in the glass, breathing it in.
Its smell is pleasing, yet strong enough to steal my breath.
The action buys me time to study him and decide where to sink my blade.
“Have a seat.” His eyes are still closed as he leans against the velvet backrest of the long curved couch.
“What makes you think I want to?” I challenge, hiding the blade behind my back and jutting my chin out in mock confidence.
He opens his eyes, staring at the fire in front of him.
Odhran’s grip tightens around his bottle, his jaw set and tense.
“Don’t play games with me. I’m not in the mood.
You heard what we were saying. You must have questions.
If you want answers, sit.” With an exaggerated sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose, then rolls his head back again, shutting his eyes.
This is what I’ve been waiting for. An opportunity to strike without anticipation. I’ve never killed, or even so much as wounded, anyone before. At least not on purpose. My eyes survey the room. There’s a first time for everything.
“Fine,” I answer, sounding as stubborn as before. Closing my fingers around the small hilt of the knife, I tighten my grip. It’s now or never. My pulse drums in my neck as I stalk toward him, leaving my glass on the floor next to the ottoman. I move between him and the hearth.
“Do not be rash, young one. We do not have a plan laid out yet.” Aed’s warning sounds annoyed. “Tell me, where will you run to once that blade sinks into his flesh?”
“In any direction you point me to.”
“Not yet.”
I ignore him, approaching my target, the tall and broad-shouldered immortal prince.
My grip tightens on my weapon as Odhran’s eyes remain closed.
He took me against my will. He had me leave behind my mother’s belongings, the only reminders I have left of her.
He forced me to hurt Declan. He forced me to forsake Laoise.
Odhran stole everything from me. He deserves this.
Standing in front of him, I hesitate, my lack of experience shining through.
I take a moment to study his face. Strong jawline.
Wide and defined chin. Sharp cheekbones below thick brows that are gently angled but appear almost straight.
Long lashes fall over the dark lining around his eyes, as if he’s applied kohl.
Something tells me that he didn’t—that this is his true and unmasked appearance.
Lethal and dramatic. He’s just as handsome as the first time I caught his gaze, so handsome he most certainly can’t be trusted.
My gaze lowers to his throat, his Adam’s apple and the soft hollow between his collarbones. I swallow, flexing my fingers around the heavy metal hilt.
“Whenever you’re ready,” he hums. There’s no need to calm my racing pulse; it stops altogether.
Without further thought, I lunge at him, aiming for the thick vein pulsing steadily along the right side of his neck.
My chest hollows. Without a sound, my hand fisted around the dagger collides with warm, soft skin.
My elbows ram into him, our bodies brought flush with one another.
His bottle falls to the floor beside him, shattering to pieces with a deafening crack.
He grips the backs of my thighs, drawing me to him with force.
“Such a hateful little thing. Have you come to finish me off?” he purrs. His words vibrate from his chest to mine. With my mouth agape, I look up, half expecting a waterfall of red, but there’s nothing, not even a scratch. “Nothing I own can hurt me. A very comforting spell indeed.”
“You don’t own me,” I hiss.
“No, Slìbhìn. I have no such compulsion.” His words are barely a whisper, his breath warm against my lips.
I pull back, but his grip on me tightens as he pulls me further into his lap. Here I am, straddling the man I meant to murder. My shirt—his shirt—rides up to my hips, exposing my white lace underwear. Horror consumes me.
“Let me go!” I demand, pressing my blade against his skin. I feel it scrape against him, can hear its grate against his stubble, but there isn’t so much as a droplet of blood upon it. Those piercing grey eyes remain fixed on mine.
“Say please.” The corners of his lips turn up. Bastard! Heat grows in the pit of my being. Anger, rage, complete and utter loathing. I allow the golden knife to slip from my fingers, letting it fall onto the couch with a dull thud.
“Fuck you!” I spit at him, allowing the venom of my hatred to saturate my words. Those two basic words that have become my default response to him.
“Certainly looks like you want to. Perhaps another night, I have a headache,” he murmurs.
I ball my hand into a fist. With all of my strength, I strike his jaw. Odhran’s head snaps to the side as I finally draw a droplet of crimson from his bottom lip.
“Bloody hell!” I mutter to myself in a rushed whisper.
White-hot searing pain shoots from my hand and up my arm.
I wince audibly, shaking my hand as though it’s caught fire.
Broken! My hand is broken! My knuckles burn as though I’ve put them in the hearth behind me.
I can’t open it or form a proper fist. I want to scream, but I don’t. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Odhran’s fingers close around my wrist, his lips touching my inflamed skin. It stings before it soothes. Every nerve ending in my body fires all at once. The air tastes of satin and summer rain.
He releases my wrist. “Better?”
“No!” I lie, narrowing my eyes at him.
“It’s not broken, merely bruised. You’ll live.
” His right hand joins the left at the back of my thighs, and for a moment, I forget that I don’t want this.
Fingers reach around the backs of my thighs, flexing against my skin, so close to the seam of my underwear, it would only take one movement of his index finger to slip beneath them.
My core tightens in response, my heart racing as my lips part.
I close my eyes, a vivid image coming to mind—golden hair and a smile so captivating that it could have been meticulously crafted by the devil himself.
I’ve seen this face many times in my dreams. It’s a face I know too well and not at all.
I gasp, free from my trance. “Let me go!”
“Say please.” His lips curve into a wicked smile, showing two faint dimples near the corners of his mouth. Honey-tongued and dangerous, that’s what he is. That’s what they all are. Deceptive monsters.
“I hate you!” My eyes burn. My ribs become too small for my lungs to expand. He glamoured me. My head still swims with the effect.
“Good.” Without another word, he releases me, and I climb off him without sparing a moment.
I don’t even adjust the stupid shirt I’m wearing as I rush toward the door.
The roaring of blood in my ears pushes me toward the dark hallway on the other side.
“I guess you don’t have questions, then?
” he asks, sounding utterly bored once more.
My steps falter, and I stop dead in my tracks, one hand braced against the open door beside me. I do have questions. Too many for a single conversation. But I’d rather die with them unanswered than spend another moment in his company.
“Go to hell,” I mutter, stepping into the dark.
“Already there, Slìbhìn.” His deep rumbling laughter fills the empty hallway, chasing shivers down my spine.
Asshole!
I reach my assigned bedroom faster than it took me to leave it. My heart pounds wildly against my ribs. My breathing is rushed, my head filled with curses—most directed at myself.
“You stupid, idiotic girl. You cannot ask for my guidance and dismiss it when provided. You could get yourself killed!”
“He wasn’t going to kill me!”
“Says a mortal without the faintest clue of where she finds herself or who she is surrounded by.”
“Just because I asked for guidance doesn’t mean I’ll turn into your puppet and do exactly as I’m told.”
“Maybe you want the prince’s hands on you?” he mocks, a cruel edge to his voice. “To slip his fingers beneath your underthings…”
“Shutup!” My heart pounds with anger.
“Tell me I am wrong.”
“I’m not talking to you. There’s no need to converse, so leave me be.”
Aed’s laughter is menacing as he slowly retreats to the back of my mind.
Stepping away from the door, I catch a glint of gold in my eye. I blink, forcing them to focus.
It’s a book. A book of Prussian blue or teal—I can’t decide which. The pages shine with a rich golden colour, and I rush toward it.
It’s heavy in my hands, and my fingers tremble as I open it. The discovery of the handwritten note inside isn’t a surprise, but tears burn my eyes, nonetheless.
I clutch my mother’s book to my chest and climb between the covers, more at ease than I was before, and fall asleep before I read a single page.