Chapter 22 Lochlainn
LOCHLAINN
Broke.
Hell’s tits and teeth, she feckin’ broke the lock!
My lock.
My Lockbinding—my fucking magic!
The lass has the manners of a drunk pooka with the touch of a tits-wearing ward breaker. Albeit, very nice tits at that.
I should be furious. I am furious. But feck me sideways.
Carwynn tore through my power like it was nothin’. Snapped it like a bloody twig!
Didn’t expect much when I first put eyes on her. My spies overheard Faelad mutter a kingdom-rattling prophecy and a name: Carwynn. Thought it was all bullocks.
I—I’m impressed . . .
Though less impressed with Finley’s attachment to her. The boy should know better. Never mix business with pleasure.
Gobshite.
Then again, could I really blame him? Took me all of two pints and a few hours of working with her that first night before my self-control went arse-up.
Something about her—it drew me in. A fun little encounter. One that, sadly, shouldn’t be repeated. Especially now with her Da, adoptive or not, being the Lord of feckin’ Loveland. He’d already been on my radar—sniffing around Luckland, having secret councils with Faelad. Nosy bastard.
But fated fucking souls, she’s got a cursed clever gift. More so than he said—than he let on.
Eejit.
The arse thought he could play me. Thought I’d nod along like some puppet strung up in shadows. But I’ll cut the strings before he ties the noose.
She’s expendable, is she? Aye. And I’m a feckin’ Brownie with a tea cart. No, she’s obviously more than that. Much more.
They think I’m playing their hand.
Good. Let ‘em. They forget, I’m the bloody dealer. Always have been. Always will be.
And now, I thought I’d bet on the right horse. But seems there’s a wildcard with tits galloping down the track. Luck have mercy, I do love a good wildcard.
The tits are just a bonus.