Chapter Twenty-Two #3
Conrad inhales sharply, his eyes flooding with sudden panic, and all the color which had leached from his face now comes rushing back to shade his cheeks a violent pink. He looks as though he’s about to stammer a protest and ruin everything.
So, forcing softness into my smile, I lean over and kiss him quickly, softly, on the corner of his mouth.
It is as chaste a kiss as was ever shared between two people, but it seems to startle him.
He stiffens, blinking at me as his lips part.
Then his fingers catch my cheek before I can pull away, and his eyes fall to my mouth.
“Conrad—” I start, but he swallows the rest of my words as his lips crush against mine.
Startled, I stiffen . . . then slowly melt, my bones trembling as I take in a thousand sensations at once: the warmth of his skin, the softness of his lips, the scent of whiskey and juniper, his hand clutching my hand, his strong, nimble fingers knitted with mine—
And his mouth, Fates, his mouth, pulling at my lip with his teeth.
I forget the queen. I forget the fae. Every thought in my head frays down to nothing until I am an empty void hungry for more, desperate to be filled.
All the fantasies my enchanted mind dreamed up minutes ago come thundering back, possessing my limbs.
My free hand grabs hold of Conrad’s coat and drags him closer, as my tongue scrapes his teeth.
He gasps against my lips, and the sound snaps my mind back to attention.
I jerk back, my skin blazing and my hand going to my cheek, feeling utterly disoriented.
Conrad stares at me, his lips swollen. I look away, unable to bear the honey-gold fire in his eyes. Feeling the gazes of all the fae, I cover my face with my hand in attempt to hide my mortification.
Morgaine watches, eyes glinting. “Well, well. That was a kiss, indeed. She is small, Connie, but there is fire in her. She’ll bear strong children.”
“Oh,” I breathe, my voice high and tight.
Conrad’s face turns scarlet. He sinks back into his chair, his grip on my hand going limp. But he attempts a smile for Morgaine’s sake, until she turns away again and he flashes me a brief apologetic look.
“As the newest Lady of Ravensgate,” Morgaine says to me, taking the seat on my other side, “you of course will have certain obligations. Which I am sure your betrothed has informed you of.”
“He has . . . hinted,” I reply carefully.
“You know of his duty to Elfhame and to me?”
I nod mutely. Play along, play along, but do not give your own secrets away.
“You know he must stand watch over the stone circle for the duration of his life, as his father did, as his children will?”
I swallow, glancing at him. His face is pale; he does not seem to be breathing. He will not look at me.
“Of course,” I whisper.
“We should probably go back,” says Conrad gruffly. “It will be morning soon, and though my absence might not be questioned, Miss Pryor’s certainly will.”
The faerie queen studies me a moment longer, then nods. “Go then, dearest Connie. Take your bride and have joy of her.”
He rises, but Morgaine suddenly reaches out and grips his chin in her hand. She leans toward him, her eyes locked with his. “Just remember, your first duty will always be to me.”
My stomach roils as I think of Lachlan, his hands tracing along my skin. You are my little witch. I found you first.
What is the nature of Conrad and the queen’s relationship, exactly?
Is he more like me than I could have imagined?
The muscles in Conrad’s jaw tighten; he meets her gaze steadily. “Always, my queen.”
She finally releases us, smiling slyly. Conrad pulls me down the platform and out of the circle, as fae whoop and toss flowers and leaves on us.
“Hurry,” he whispers in my ear. “And whatever you do, don’t look back. Eyes on me. You’re not out of danger yet.”
He drags me away by our bound wrists, as if worried Morgaine will change her mind.
I can only run with him, still angry, but much preferring his company to the fae.
We hurry through the strange root village and up a narrow stair that ends at the queen’s palace.
He knows the passages well, taking every turn without hesitation.
Doors and corridors and stairs flick past, Conrad breaking into a full run now, and I pant to keep up.
“That was some very fine acting back there, Miss Pryor,” he growls. “Where does a schoolteacher learn to kiss like that?”
Acting. Yes, I was certainly acting. I snap back, “If you recall, sir, I kissed you once and would have left it at that. You kissed me the second time.”
“Lucky for you, or you’d be a mindless puppet by now, dancing for Morgaine’s entertainment. She wanted a show, and I gave her one.”
“Oh, is that all it was? A show?” I scrub at my lips and glare at the back of his head.
He turns to me so suddenly I nearly walk smack into his chest. “Why?” he asks, his tone dangerously low. “Did you want something more?”
His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, enough to give away that he is mocking me. I knot my hands into fists and lift my chin. “Of course not.”
With a snicker, he turns and continues walking.
The bloody-minded arse.
At last we burst into a round room with an open floor; in the wood walls are set a series of alcoves, each one holding a large circular frame of silver, as if they once held mirrors.
But they are all empty and covered with cobwebs now, except for one, in which is set a smooth pane of murky glass.
It reflects not our own faces, but a watery image of the stone circle in the wood.
This is the anchor, I realize. The place the portal ought to have led me when I followed Conrad through.
“Go on,” Conrad says roughly.
I put a hand on the glass and find it soft as jelly. With a little gasp, I pull it out again, but Conrad has no patience for my dawdling. He steps through, yanking me along. We burst out into the dark forest, the ring of stones all around.
“Conrad North!” I shout, panting. “I demand an explan—”
“Quiet, lass,” he replies, and he raises a small spellknot twisted between his fingers. I realize it’s a sleeping spell at the same moment blackness swims up and swallows me whole.