THIRTY-THREE
brYNDIS ASHGLO
Iron burns the skin of a faerie. Do not threaten them with iron. They will respond with violence at their first opportunity.
The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper
My shoulders ache as I pull back on the taut string, and it sings against my ear.
My palm hurts, bruised from hours pressed against the smooth wooden bow.
The coolness seeps into my skin. I remembered the feel of the bow from my lessons back home the moment Sloan handed it to me. It felt familiar. Safe. Mine.
I take a moment to steady my breath, the rise and fall of my chest matching the rhythm of my controlled heartbeat.
My target stands proudly in the distance, nestled amidst the trees that surround Odhran’s house.
Sloan, ever the diligent instructor, has meticulously placed numerous targets, each one positioned farther from me with each passing day.
He’s helped me test my limits, saying our limits are only as far as the borders of our ambition.
My eyes fixate on the small red sphere at the centre, clearer when I narrow my gaze.
“Are you going to ignore me forever?” a deep voice rumbles from behind, breaking my concentration.
Cinnamon and peppermint invade my senses.
I draw the string back, the tension spreading through my shoulders, before I raise the bow in perfect synchrony.
Exhaling, I let the arrow soar through the air, slicing through the stillness of the early evening.
The white feathers adorning its end make it easier to track its trajectory, and I miss the target.
“How many times do I need to say I’m sorry?” he asks, stepping closer. “Talk to me, Bryn. Scream at me. Hell, draw blood if you must, but please, I implore you, stop ignoring me. Your silence is torture.”
I remove another arrow from my quiver, feeling the smoothness of its shaft under my fingertips. With a quick and fluid motion, I raise the bow. The string slaps against my arm as I pull it back, creating a low hum in the air. Both arrows miss my target. Everything inside me buzzes with annoyance.
I reach behind my back, my fingers brushing against the leather quiver, bringing forth the familiar click of an arrow against the wooden bow. It’s feather-light, perfectly balanced in my grip. “Bryndis,” he whispers. Ignore him.
Inhale. Draw. Lift. Release. The smoothness of the movement opposes the tension in my muscles, the strain in my shoulder blades.
I reach behind me for another arrow, and my hand meets his, warm against my skin.
Startled, I jerk back, my muscles protesting the abrupt motion.
When I turn to face him, my eyes burn with anger threatening to consume me.
The last time we touched I had hoped for some form of relationship, had asked for his help only to be denied.
Now I allow his touch to ignite the fire I’ve tried to tame through weeks of training and let my hatred of him burn me alive.
I despise him for not helping Selma. For not helping me free Laoise, or even promising to try.
I detest him for sinking his teeth into me and revealing the monster I am inside.
The one who wasn’t repulsed by the action but excited.
“Leave me alone,” I snap, my voice sharp with frustration.
“No,” he asserts, his grip firm on my arms. The contact intensifies the heat of my anger. “I’m afraid I’m not able. Not anymore, at least not until you give me something true.”
“If I recall, you owe me a truth,” I retort, attempting to shake off his hold. “If you’re going to be two-faced, at least make one of those faces pretty.”
“Alright then,” he grumbles. Odhran’s strong frame tenses, his shoulders drawing back as he closes his eyes.
The air around us seems to still for a moment, holding its breath.
“There lies great power in a name. It can be a blessing and a curse. Knowing a faerie’s full names gives you power over them, so too, knowing mine, my fate is in your grasp.
” He grows quiet, watching me as if waiting for me to respond.
“No one knows my full name. Not my pretentious family. Not my friends. It’s something we choose for ourselves when we come of age. ”
“What makes you think I care?” I glare back at him, heart pounding in my ears.
“Odhran Cian Delaney,” he says, each syllable pronounced clearly so that I can’t get it wrong.
He’s the son of Queen Aila, wife of King Darragh, and the biological son of the late King Carrig, the heir to the throne of Geimhreadh, and a general to the armies of Samhradh.
He’s the most powerful man I know, and now I have his name.
In a single statement, he lays himself bare. I know it’s no small thing, and that I’m expected to reciprocate in some way. A part of me wants to surrender to my warring emotions, to the attraction and desire that consumes me whenever he’s near; the other part wants to see him suffer.
I turn from him, my muscles tensing as I remove the last arrow from my quiver. The sound of leaves rustling in the wind fills my ears, echoing the turmoil within me.
I shoot the arrow straight at the target in the trees ahead. The bowstring hums in my hands, the vibrations reverberating through my fingertips.
“I understand,” he says with a cold edge to his voice.
“You don’t need to like me. Honestly, it’s better for you if you don’t.
” The dimly lit courtyard fills with tension as he continues, “You can hate me. Hurt me if you must, but please stop avoiding me. It’s torture.
Tomorrow night is Eamon’s coronation, and I won’t be there to protect you.
But I would very much like your company before then. ”
“I don’t need you to protect me,” I breathe.
My throat closes. It’s forbidden for a faerie to keep his or her subjects from attending the coronation.
If he keeps me here, he’ll be punished by those under his protection being removed from his charge.
I slip the leather strap over my head, leaving it on the small wooden bench next to my bow, its tip nestled into the soft sand.
I push past him toward the door. His fingers close around my wrist, keeping me here.
As if time stands still, I’m taken back to Sloan’s demonstration a week ago.
Instead of pulling against Odhran’s grip, I follow Sloan’s instructions.
Pivot. Free. Turn. Strike. Four commands. Four swift actions.
My movements are fast, effortless, honed.
I pivot my arm around his grip, slipping out of his hold before he has time to frown.
My cupped palm strikes his ear, sending compressed air straight to his eardrum.
He hisses in pain, but I don’t care. Using his momentary disorientation, I ram my knee into the side of his thigh, sending him to the ground.
I watch as this tall, muscular, immortal general falls onto the sand at my feet.
The tension in my jaw releases, replaced by the warmth of satisfaction.
I don’t need his name to bring him to his knees.
Yes!
Aed’s voice reverberates in my ears. “Do not gloat! It is not…”
Odhran knocks my feet out from under me with the swipe of an arm.
The world tilts around me before the air leaves my lungs in an ungraceful oef.
Light spots flash behind my eyes for a second too long.
He’s on top of me, straddling my hips before the world comes into focus.
“She has teeth,” he grumbles, flashing his lengthened cuspids and blackened eyes.
“Perhaps I’ll let you sink them into me. ”
My body tenses beneath him, my heart pounding. Anger, like molten lava, burns through my veins as he lowers himself further, bringing his head closer to mine. The smirk on his face is one of victory, and I hate it.
I am not weak.
Aed growls in agreement.
My hand balls into a fist, and I strike, aiming for his throat. He catches my hand before it delivers its blow.
“Mo Stóirín,” he breathes, pinning both of my hands above my head. His pupils dilate, darkening his piercing grey eyes. His lips part, and he inhales slowly.
“Get off me,” I hiss through clenched teeth, wiggling underneath him and inching upward.
“Or what?” His smile is slight, softening his expression.
Thrusting my hips into a bridge, I watch him tip forward onto his hands.
As swift as before, I snatch my wrists from his grip, snapping my arms to my sides.
He falls onto his elbows, his abdomen flattening against my cheek.
I turn my head away just in time. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I climb the tree that is Odhran.
There’s no time to think. No time for embarrassment.
No time to breathe as I knock his arm out from under him.
Climb. Knock. Trap. Roll.
My heart hammers in my chest as I use my hips to buck him off. Our roles are reversed when I look into his eyes and the shock widening them. “Or I’ll make you,” I hiss, leaning forward as I push my elbow into his throat.
I stand before he does anything but cough, dusting the sand off my pants and shirt.
Odhran clears his throat. “Not bad.” His voice is rough, but there’s an unmistakable hint of pride in his tone.
“Not bad,” I huff before turning to face him. My heart still hammers in my chest, fluttering below my skin.
“You need to carry a weapon. Let’s see if you know how to wield it.
” As he speaks, he reaches toward his side, his leather creaking.
The scent of burning flesh wafts toward me, my nose twitching in discomfort.
In his palm is an iron blade, the metal glinting in the low light.
He holds it out for me to take, and I do.
A raw red imprint remains on his skin, the shape of the blade now firmly in my grip.
A part of me relishes in seeing him hurt, but another part of me, the more dominant side, feels remorse.
I hate it. I hate that despite my anger, I can’t truly hate him.
“Draw your weapon,” he commands. “Show me where you need to strike.” Memories of the faerie in the woods flood my mind, the warmth of his blood on my skin still vivid. Without hesitation, I press the tip of the blade below his ribs. The metallic taste of anticipation fills my mouth.
“Some things are hard to forget,” I say, retracting the blade. A mixture of pride and guilt dances across his features.
“Now, if I was too close,” he says, closing the distance between us, causing my blade to dig into his leather armour. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Over eager, are we?” His laugh lacks amusement.
My knuckles whiten as I grip the blade. As I stare into his eyes.
As his scent washes over me like a tsunami.
“Fine,” I relent, dropping my hand. Odhran presses against me.
My breathing hitches, and my heart races.
Every nerve ending in my body tingles with his proximity, the wild beating of his heart matching the rhythm of my own.
“Here,” he murmurs, his hand wrapping around my wrist, guiding the tip of my blade to his back, right to his kidneys.
As he does, the warmth of his breath brushes against my skin, causing a shiver to run down my spine.
My senses heighten, capturing the rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of him mingling with the musky scent of leather.
“It was never my intention to hurt you, Bryn.” His confession is a rumble against my skin, like thunder dancing between clouds.
“I would do anything for you. I’ll free every damn human in the realm, but my oath to Darragh prohibits me from doing so.
That oath expires when my brother ascends the throne.
Give me time.” Fae cannot lie, I remind myself.
They can skate around truths, can twist stories, and can shape their sentences into beautifully crafted omissions, but they can’t lie outright.
Not directly to your face in one straightforward statement. This isn’t a lie.
Like glass shattering, so does my resolve. My lips part when I look at his, soft and full. Warmth floods my senses, and I’m suddenly achingly aware of every inch of his body against mine.
“I believe you,” I breathe, sinking my teeth into my lower lip.
“One truth?” he asks. His words are a warm whisper over my skin.
“One.” I hold my breath.
“What do you want most?” His thumb brushes over my wrist before releasing me.
My gaze flicks to his as though it were the first time seeing him. Not a general. Not a prince. Not the heir to the throne or even a faerie. It’s as if I’m seeing him, Odhran Cian Delaney, the man, for the first time and craving nothing more than to possess him in every way.
“Right now…” I swallow. “You… on your knees… for me.” We might only have this moment. After the coronation, we’ll go our separate ways, as we should.
His mouth seals over mine, kissing me with a primal hunger I can’t explain.
He tastes better than I remember. His hair is soft when my fingers entangle in it, like silk sliding through my grasp.
The touch of his hands, possessive and consuming, roams down my body, igniting a trail of fire within me.
He lifts me off the ground, and the world around us fades, leaving only the intoxicating rhythm of our kiss.