Chapter 20
Lor
Ithrew down a card, and Cillian groaned, slamming his own cards down as we played in the parlor, where we met every week.
“Well, I’m out. Thanks for that, Lor.”
Ambrose and Wolfe sat across from me at the round table, both of them studying their cards. I couldn’t help sneaking glances at the faerie, remembering the way he’d held my wife during the dance, the way she’d gazed up at him, so happy, so free.
She’d loved him once. I didn’t know if she still loved him, but I suspected he loved her.
It was none of my business . . . except Aoife had saved my life.
She could’ve let Ronan kill me in that dungeon.
My death would’ve solved every one of her problems, and she wouldn’t have been to blame.
But she’d saved me. Not only that but she’d saved me using the magic she hated.
Unlike the other Fair Folk, Aoife never used her magic, and Fargus had told me she’d always hated it, hated using anything that came from the godwitches.
And she’d done the one thing I couldn’t do and let the community decide. She’d set me free from having to make that decision myself.
My hand flexed, a tingle shooting through it at the feel of her pinky brushing mine, of how we’d just sat there side by side, barely touching.
The vine next to me poked me in the ribs, and I jumped.
I looked over at the sentient creature as it rose up like a snake, pointing to the cards in my hands.
“Vine,” Nevan warned from the other side of the creature. “Be patient.”
The creature belonged to Nevan’s wife, Enid, the demi-godwitch of monstrous plants. This was her own creation, a python vine that acted more like a snake than a plant. And somehow, Nevan had convinced us to let it join in for our card games.
“Sorry,” I said, clearing my throat and turning my attention to my cards.
“You’re distracted.” Cillian pointed a finger at me. “You’re never distracted. You always win. It’s actually really obnoxious.”
Wolfe heaved a sigh and laid down his hand. “Are we playing cards anymore?”
“Yes,” I said at the same time as Vine shook its head “no.”
“Is everything okay?” Nevan asked, peering at me through his round spectacles. “You do seem a little distracted tonight.”
“Does it maybe have to do with your wife?” Cillian asked with a raised brow.
“No,” I said at the same time as Vine nodded “yes.”
I slammed my cards down, the table rattling, everyone’s eyes widening. “There’s always something wrong between me and Aoife. It’s nothing new.”
“But something has you rattled,” Wolfe said, staring at me with his dark brown eyes, assessing and sharp.
“Yes. No. I—” Fuck.
“Is your plan not going well?” Cillian asked. “I heard she attended a council meeting the other day.”
“Did you two have a disagreement afterward?” Wolfe asked.
“Not exactly. Aoife did something nice for me.”
Cillian barked out a laugh. “That’s why you’re rattled? Because your wife was nice to you?”
Vine formed into a question mark with its body.
“I don’t know. I can’t figure her out. I don’t understand what she wants. Well I know what she wants,” I said. “She wants to get rid of me. Rule on her own, but then I can’t understand why she did what she did.”
“Which was? . . .” Ambrose asked with a raised brow.
“She just helped me in a difficult situation. She didn’t have to. She could’ve walked away, but she stepped in and helped. And then, afterward . . . we didn’t argue.”
Cillian choked on the wine he was drinking, and Wolfe reached over to bang on his back.
My younger brother cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but did you say that you and Aoife didn’t argue? You were in the same vicinity.” He gestured with his hands. “But you didn’t fight?”
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.” I couldn’t help the edge to my voice. “It’s not that astounding, is it?”
“Kind of,” Nevan said, and Vine nodded in agreement.
“Maybe your plan is working?” Wolfe asked.
“What plan?” Ambrose asked, sharp gaze landing on me.
“Lor is trying to show Aoife that the best way forward is to work together, that they can get along and rule side by side.”
“Well that’s interesting since Aoife is planning the opposite.” Ambrose tipped his head, his thick blue hair perfectly coiffed, not moving at all.
“I know,” I said.
“She told you?” Ambrose asked with wide golden eyes, the same shade as Aoife’s.
A pang of jealousy shot through me that clearly she’d told Ambrose.
Their relationship had always bothered me, even though it shouldn’t have.
I’d told Aoife ours was a marriage of convenience, nothing more.
If she wanted to engage in a relationship with someone else—she could.
I didn’t actually know if that’s what was happening, but either way, she’d confided in Ambrose.
I huffed. “She didn’t tell me in so many words, but after that edict we got from Castle, I’m not surprised.”
“She doesn’t want to get rid of you, Lor,” Ambrose said in a quiet voice.
His words sucked the breath from me. “She told you that?”
He laughed. “Course not. But I know her. And I also know that Aoife admires you, even if she won’t admit it.”
“She views being married to me as another form of enslavement,” I said.
“Yes, that’s true,” Ambrose confirmed, and suddenly my mouth tasted like ash.
This was ridiculous. She’d done one nice—albeit huge—thing for me, and what? I hoped that everything would change? Of course it wouldn’t. Of course she was still trying to get me to cede my crown.
“But,” Ambrose said, “nevertheless she does respect you. It’s the way she talks about you.” He peered at me. “I think deep down she knows what you’re doing is good, that you are good, but she won’t admit it.”
“Why?” Nevan asked the question I couldn’t.
I hated getting these pieces of my wife from other people or overheard conversations. I wished that Aoife was the one telling me these things. Not one of her lovers.
Ambrose gave a sad smile. “Because she’s scared. If she admits that you might be a good king, then where is her place?”
By my side, I wanted to say, but I didn’t dare.
That was the kind of thing my brothers would use as fuel, that Ambrose would use.
I couldn’t have it getting back to Aoife.
The only reason things had felt different lately was because she thought we were both playing the same game.
It made no sense, but I knew it was true.
She relaxed more around me thinking I was trying to oust her as queen.
“She’s always been alone. Aoife the slave was made by Fairwitch. Aoife the Warrior Queen was made by the Fair Folk. Aoife the queen of Fairwitch was made by . . .”
“By me,” I said softly, wanting to kick myself for not understanding how that might feel.
Meera burst through the door to the parlor room, followed by Fargus, his wings flapping as he hovered over the cat.
“We have a problem, Your Majesty,” Fargus said.
“What is it?” I stiffened.
“Your wife is drunk,” Meera said.
“Why is that my problem?” I asked.
The cat jumped up onto the table. “She’s passed out in Ceri’s dress shop, and I don’t think she can walk home.”
“She’s at Best Dressed?” Cillian asked, nose wrinkling.
I rubbed my temples.
“I can get her,” Ambrose offered.
I shot to my feet. “No.” Aoife was my wife, and I would be the one to take care of her, even if she hated me for it.