Chapter 16 Paeonia #2
She prayed he had been too far away to hear Rowan’s words. She nodded, grateful when he didn’t pry further.
I didn’t want to fuck my last gardener.
That one simple sentence, meant to get under her skin, had made her shiver.
Her entire body flamed hot, like she might explode if Rowan was to give her one last glimpse.
If he touched her, she’d shrivel away to ashes.
She let the cool breeze chill her, her hand pressing against her cheeks, her breathing steadying.
She thought she might panic just as she imagined she would if Barth had been the one to say those words to her.
But Rowan speaking them didn’t seem to pain her gut in quite the same way.
If she was foolish enough, she might even have thought she was interested in the idea. She feared for her sanity.
He hunted you in his own gardens! the voice inside her head said. Yes, but he never harmed me—only scared me.
Was she truly defending this male? Still harboring hope that even his malicious words had truly good intentions?
She spun to face Castor, her eyes wide, shoving down her sinful thoughts, quickly walking back to where she left off. “Back to work, shall we?”
The sun began to set, and Paeonia wiped her hands on her skirts, careful not to accidentally cut the stem of another flower, before going inside for dinner.
She figured Rowan would either rush her meal or storm off—that is, if he was even at dinner at all—since the sun was dangerously close to the horizon.
She sat at the table, Rowan lounging back across from her. She loaded her plate in silence, and Rowan appraised her, not eating himself.
“Why do you turn into a…” Her words echoed as they broke the silence, his eyes slicing over to her almost instantaneously. She reeled back, his dark gaze making her not want to continue her question.
“Go on. Ask whatever it is you seem so keen on figuring out.”
She frowned. “You know…turn a bit untamed at night?”
He laughed and sat forward, his anger at her from earlier dissipating, but she could still see the darkness in his eyes. In the way he held himself. “That’s one way to put it. Curse of being a fae, I’m afraid.”
“So, all fae shift?”
He let out a huff. “No.”
She bit her lip. Every answer from him sounded painful. “Then why do you—?”
“I turn into a wild beast, Paeonia, as retribution.”
Her eyes flickered to him. What terrible thing could he have done to earn this as his penance? She pushed the potatoes around on her plate, his stare too heavy to meet. “And do I…” She dropped her fork. “Do you know why I have this”—she gestured her hand around—“connection to the garden?”
Rowan absently rolled one of his sleeves like this conversation couldn’t be any more tedious for him. “Don’t be foolish,” he quipped.
Paeonia’s head jerked slightly, her shoulders straightening.
When she didn’t speak, Rowan tried again. “I suppose it is rather difficult to admit the truth to oneself. I know I’ve dealt with that.” He turned his attention more promptly on her. “Who was your mother, Pae?”
She entirely abandoned the shame of the nickname she usually hated over the surprise at his question. “My mother?” Her hand instinctively clutched her locket.
Rowan waited, stilling in his chair.
“I don’t remember her very well.” It pained her to admit that, wistfully staring at her plate of picked-over food. “She was a merchant. That’s how my parents met.”
“Merchant of what?”
“A…flower peddler.”
He raised an eyebrow at her and hummed. “I don’t think you’re of pure human blood.”
Paeonia supposed that thought had crossed her mind. After accepting that her prowess wasn’t all fabricated, she wondered if she had been fae-touched. If she was similar to Rowan in ways she never would have imagined.
Rowan remained silent, and Paeonia was eventually forced to meet his gaze. He gestured his chin forward. “What’s in the locket?”
Her fingers grazed the golden metal of it, sliding over to the key, then back to her lap. “I’m not sure. It won’t open. I never dared to bring it to a blacksmith—too afraid they might break it. It’s just so fragile…and the last thing I have of her.”
The image of her mother had begun to wither away years ago; just speaking of her now made her feel more alive. Made her feel real, not like a ghostly memory.
“I no longer have any remnants of my mother,” he said, his fingers softly tapping against the table. “Nothing but a faded portrait.”
“I’d love to see her,” Paeonia added gently.
Rowan let out a breath through his nose. “You probably would have liked her. Strong-willed as she was, she had a far gentler side than her children or husband.”
“What about your father?”
“He was not a righteous being.” Rowan scoffed. “He’s been gone for many years.”
Gone. That word reverberated in the back of her mind.
“My father,” Paeonia began, “is the most wonderful man I know. I couldn’t imagine living without him. On those lonely nights where I cannot stop thinking about how sick he has become—” Her words clipped, swallowing a deep breath to keep her tears away.
Rowan let several seconds pass between them. “I could open it for you.”
Paeonia’s grip on her mother’s locket tightened. “I can’t risk it breaking.”
He shook his head, his curls dancing over his forehead. “Magic, remember?” he added.
He could open it with magic. Her mind whirled. “Okay,” she finally mustered, a tiny smile forming on her lips.
“I’ll take it to the Night Market. I can go tomorrow if you’d like.”
She gave him a suspicious look.
“There is a jeweler there,” he said, fluttering his hands in the air. “He can open it.”
“What about your magic?”
“My magic does not quite work in the same way. I could find some ways to open it, but not gently. Not keeping it in one piece. My magic is more…brutal than that. More umbrophilic.”
“Umbrophilic?”
“I can control the trees. Can sprout roots. Can see through their interconnected webs. My magic is intertwined with the dark. That’s how all Grim magic is.”
“Oh.”
Rowan’s expression sank. “But, if I’m to do this for you, I’ll need something in return.”
“What?” She hoped it didn’t have something to do with his admission earlier—an admission she assumed he just said to shock her, which he accomplished.
She could always turn down the bargain, right?
Unless he decided to force her. He had mentioned that first day that he was under no obligation to act with any sort of morality.
“Stay another month.”
She almost choked. “What? Why would you even want that?” She squinted her eyes and shook her head; she couldn’t wrap her mind around why Rowan would want her for another month.
He snarled, and she sat straighter. “No matter how long you keep me here, I’m not going to—” Her words slipped, unable to finish the sentence.
“Not going to what?” he asked, tilting his head as if he didn’t know exactly what it was that stumped her speech.
She glared at him. “What do you need from me? Just,” she sighed, “tell me.”
His tongue darted to wet his lips, his eyes flaring when he caught her tracing the movement. “To tend to my garden, of course.”
She gave him a sharp look, dampening her blush. She didn’t believe him.
“Has it occurred to you that maybe I’ve grown to enjoy your company?”
She scoffed, and Rowan let out a low chuckle.
She’d have to let the idea of opening this locket go.
She let it sit in her chest. The possibility, the hope, had always grown there, but maybe it was time to release it.
She couldn’t risk another month away from her father with his condition worsening by the day.
She barely knew if she had this month, let alone another.
“Hm,” he hummed, as if he could read her thoughts—as if he anticipated this response from her. “Then, perhaps we can bargain something else.” He made a silly gesture, like he was pondering. “You could marry me.”
Now she really did choke. Her eyes fluttered several times, the irritation gone, replaced by a cold chill. “Marry you?” Her words grew deathly quiet. “I can’t— I won’t— We can’t—” She shook her head, images of their wedding night flashing in her mind.
“Paeonia,” he said firmly, halting her spiral. “I will not force myself upon you. I am not marrying you for that, regardless of my admission earlier.”
“But, then, why?”
“Marriage. Lust. Love. They all can exist as separate facets. I need your hand to help me fulfill another bargain of my doing.”
She shuddered. “But, marrying you will keep me here far longer than one month!” She wouldn’t accept. Wouldn’t agree to another foul bargain. “And plus, that hardly seems an equal trade. My hand just to open a locket?”
He stood from his seat, adjusting his dark jacket embroidered with silver threads. He moved to the window, gazing outside. “Your hand to open the locket, and,” he emphasized, “to kill the Eldritch.”
Her fingers dug into her thighs, her mind reeling. Could killing the Eldritch save her father? It would stop the forsaken from ailing the townsfolk, that is, if Rowan had been telling the truth. The possibility of saving her father was something she knew he was aware she couldn’t turn down.
Unfair. He wasn’t playing fair. She pursed her lips. There was no way she could turn Rowan down. She had to save her father. After all, she already planned to marry Barth to appease her father; how was Rowan any different?
“You will still only be required to stay here ‘til the month is up.”
She traced his silhouette as he turned from the window. “You know I can’t refuse that,” she whimpered.
His features hardened. “I’m s—” He cleared his throat, then shook his head. “It was not my intention for you to be the one captured in my web. It shouldn’t have been you.”
She sucked in a sharp breath as he stalked toward her, rounding the table, leaning against it beside Paeonia.
“I need to hear you say it,” he said. He spun his finger in a tight circle, a ring appearing between his index finger and thumb, conjuring it from the air.
The ring had a golden band and a tiny pink jewel at the heart of it.
The setting sun gleamed off the gem, and Paeonia’s eyes flicked to meet Rowan’s.
“Okay,” she finally mustered. “I’ll marry you.” There was nothing she wouldn’t do to save her father.
Rowan reached for her hand, and she let him take it. He slid the ring onto her finger, the metal hot, glowing softly like her locket did that first night, and his white teeth shined as he smiled. Though, something fake—something sinister—lingered in his expression.