Chapter 8 Paeonia
?PAEONIA
Why was she stupid enough to make a bargain with a fae? She wondered if she even possessed the ability to say no at all. If Rowan’s offer hadn’t enticed her, could she have rejected him?
Her hands slid into the locks of her hair, shoving it away from her face as she ran through the winding garden. She maneuvered her way through a row of strawberry tart trees, their crowns to her shoulder, the leaves whipping against her face.
“So, now you’re scared to be out at night, desperate to get back inside the safe confines of your room?” Rowan called from somewhere in the distance, making sure to coat his words in untamed ridicule. “This could have been avoided.”
She fell to her knees as she heaved through the embrace of the last row of trees.
Rowan’s loud steps from behind made her scurry back to her feet.
He had been so covert before—so hidden and quiet—that she wondered if he was being loud on purpose to fluster her, to send her whirling in a frantic spiral, letting her know he was trailing her with rapacious ease.
Her hand seized a plinth supporting one of the many statues lingering throughout the garden as she turned a corner, using it to keep her upright, then to help propel herself forward.
She squinted, the soft glow of the candles in the castle’s windows ahead letting her know she was getting close.
“You had no problem trespassing in my gardens two nights ago,” he called.
She could tell he was getting closer by how slick his voice felt in her ears.
“Willing to be hunted by wolves. And now you’re frightened of me?
” He laughed into the night, and Paeonia’s steps faltered at the duplicity.
“I kill those big bad wolves you were too foolish to recognize as trouble, and it’s me you’re frightened of? ”
He was purposefully scaring her, chasing her, hunting her, and he tried to play it off as Paeonia being ungrateful.
When he spoke again, his voice sounded no closer than before, and she wondered if he was keeping his distance on purpose. “Run, little flower.”
As if the gods were against her, she tripped over a root that slithered out of the dirt, arching like a bridge.
She yelped, catching her weight on her palms. She tried to stand, but the roots were too fast. They snaked around her ankle, holding her down.
She fell to her backside and tried kicking them off, whimpering as their grasp tightened.
She glanced at the silver eyes looming closer. “Let me go!” she called. Was this the kind of terror Barth felt when she unknowingly summoned vines to tear him away from her?
Rowan had stopped running. Instead, he strolled amongst the shadows, stopping just a few feet away from her. She swallowed roughly.
“Did you think you were the only one with an affinity to plants?” he said.
All the air left Paeonia’s throat. She stopped writhing against the roots. The shadows created a monstrous gleam that shrouded Rowan’s ethereal, yet dangerous, features.
She blinked several times before her lips parted. Her fingertips clung to the cold dirt, digging them in deeper, the grime catching under her nails.
Her lips moved to say something, her tongue rising, but nothing came out. Her eyebrows cinched together, and she looked at her lap, shaking her head, her curls bouncing against her back. “I…I don’t understand.”
Rowan looked like he wanted to take a step closer, and she tilted her chin to watch him. His hand twitched by his side, and suddenly, the roots retreated into the dirt with a sharp thud. She instinctively rubbed her ankles before crawling to stand.
They stared at one another, Rowan several feet away, cast almost entirely in darkness, the wind bristling past their legs and through their hair.
“Run,” he finally spoke.
Paeonia gulped, and Rowan gestured his head forward. “Run before I decide to call the roots back and have my way with you.” On cue, roots began to slither out of the dirt again, just enough to taunt her.
Paeonia couldn’t turn around fast enough, her face surely ruddy from more than just the chill air. Whatever lesson he was trying to instill, she learned. She just wanted him to stop.
She yelped, dodging a root springing out of the dirt beside a tree she passed.
Another sprung out of the ground, the flowers it shook dropping petals on the cold grass.
Then one sprang up on the path before her, and she jumped with frantic shock, thwarting it just in time. She let out a pained breath.
She finally spotted the entrance of the castle, ascending the steps two at a time, crashing against the glass door. She turned the handle, pulled with all her might, but the door was locked. “Bastard!”
One of the roots of a nearby tree clawed through the dirt and rose so fast she hadn’t been able to move in time. It stroked her cheek, and she screamed in sheer horror. Rowan chuckled somewhere back in the garden.
She quickly surveyed the exterior wall, her eyes locking on the lattice climbing the side, thick ivy vines weaving through it.
She had no time to think when she grabbed onto the ivy, heaving herself upward.
It took her several tries, but she managed to get a few feet off the ground.
When she glanced down, she didn't spot Rowan anywhere.
She climbed atop the roof of one of the many awnings, righting herself as she stood just below one of the second-story windows, a breeze sweeping through her hair.
She grabbed the sill and clawed her way inside, her nails digging into the wood, splinters slicing her fragile skin.
Her foot slipped, and she yelped, straining her muscles to cling to the castle.
She steadied herself before pushing the rest of the way and tumbling onto the rug.
She rolled onto her back and caught her breath, her chest rising in rapid repetitions.
A shadow spread over her, her vision darkening, the sconces on the wall whooshing out.
Rowan towered above her. She almost didn’t believe her eyes—how had he managed to get here so fast?
It was as if the halls changed and moved to spite her but shifted and expanded at Rowan’s command.
She couldn’t tell if he was giving her that cynical grin.
Couldn’t make him out in the shadows. He just shook his head.
She quickly rolled over and got to her feet, coming in line with Rowan’s chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her with his claws.
She thought he might be forgiving, had taught her her lesson, would leave her be.
But after their silent standoff, he finally loosed a breath and closed the distance between them.
Paeonia had no chance to shake him off before he tossed her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing—like she really was just a little flower.
“Put me down!” She slammed her fists against his back.
His hand tightened on her thigh where he held her, and Paeonia whimpered, thinking of the time Barth had slid her skirt up, stroking the softness of her thighs.
She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting Rowan’s claws to dig into her supple skin, but they never did.
He just held her securely, his fingers never roaming any further.
He growled low in his chest when she let out a little sigh of relief.
He strolled into her room, plopping her down on her bed. She floundered as she righted herself. By the time she turned around, Rowan was shutting her door, speaking in a husky voice. “Do not come out again at night, Paeonia. I do not want to harm you.”
When he closed the door completely, she never heard it lock. He knew she wouldn’t risk what just happened again. He had her right where he wanted her, malleable clay in his hands. Leaving it unlocked was more insulting than if he had latched it shut.
She surprised herself when she shouted out at him. “No? So chasing me around the garden at night—locking me outside—that was you not wanting to harm me?”
She never heard a response.
She shoved off the bed in anger and stormed over to her mirror.
She had tiny cuts from the branches whipping her face, her hair had leaves stuck in it, and her dress was muddy and ripped.
Her hands were sore from the splinters of the windowsill.
She shed her dress from her body, groaning and grunting in vexation.
Forgotten tears streamed down her dirty cheeks as she ripped the leaves and twigs from her hair in aggressive tugs.
She had never thrown a temper tantrum before, but she thought it must feel like this. She huffed loudly, spinning on her heels and collapsing into the bed, tucking herself under the covers. She could still feel the radiating heat from where his hands had touched her.
Then she did something that surprised her. She laughed.
She laughed and laughed, echoing into the darkness of her room.
Her heart raced in her chest. This was the most chaos she had ever experienced.
The most thrill. The most her nerves and mind had ever spun.
And so she laughed, the sound grating as it mixed with her frustration, coming out in a distorted guffaw.
Then the fireplace sprung to life, heating her desolate room.
When morning came, she glared at her door, her arms crossed, a fresh dress draped over her silhouette. She had debated not going down for breakfast—not going to the garden at all today—but her growling stomach had proven to be very convincing.
“He’ll be waiting, dear,” Ren said from beside her.
“I don’t care.”
Ren tsked. “Now, don’t be like that, child.”
Paeonia whipped her head at Ren, her soft expression on her stone features jarring. “He hunted me last night! Chased me through the gardens!”
Ren began dusting one of her wardrobes. “But did he harm you?”
Paeonia’s jaw unhinged. “No, but I’m sure he wanted to.”
“And, what did he say?” Ren hummed faintly.