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She’d sold out within an hour.

And Saoirse had missed it.

A loud thud at her table startled Saoirse enough that she spilled her drink. She cursed, ready to explode on the arrogant Fae who thought they could waltz over to join her. A male more than likely, but when Saoirse looked up, her world froze anew.

Not a male. Not a male at all. The female before her straddled the stool and settled herself across from Saoirse with a wide grin plastered across her face. Ocher eyes that were warm and gentle, yet also haunted in a way she couldn’t grasp, sparkled with mischievous amusement. Shoulder-length chestnut hair that carried all the hues of a majestic sunset hung loose around her angular face.

Saoirse swore she’d been struck by a dream.

“If you’re going to gawk, you could at least say hi.”

“Hi,” she breathed, waiting for the exquisite mirage before her to vanish.

The female giggled and it was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard.

But Saoirse realized she’d misunderstood when the female pointed a long, tan finger toward the bar. “You’ve been staring at her since you sat down.”

She’d been caught, but Saoirse didn’t bother looking at Màili again. She cleared her throat, hoping to sound relaxed and flirtatious. “And I suppose you’ve been watching me?” Gods, her heart was hammering in her chest.

The female shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” She reached for her drink and it was an effort not to stare at the way her throat curved. At the pulse, the delicate skin, the scars . . .

Saoirse took a breath to steady herself then made a show of swirling her drink. She glanced at Màili once, then back.

“Well?” the female prodded.

“Friends,” Saoirse said. The female’s smile faltered and Saoirse inclined her head toward the bar. “She declared us friends.”

The female took another drink and brushed her hair away from her face. Her cheeks were tinged pink and her eyes carried a gentle haze to them. Saoirse wondered if the female had been watching her, drinking her own liquid courage before she’d approached. Or perhaps she’d simply seen her and stopped. Maybe it was pity.

The female raised her hand to call for more drinks. “If we’re going to talk past lovers, we need the proper material.”

Saoirse couldn’t stop the smile that pulled from the corner of her mouth. She’d talk about anything if it kept this female at her table. “You’re quite a forward one.”

The female paused for a moment, then batted her eyes. “Oh I’m sorry, do you prefer dainty and meek?”

Saoirse laughed. “Not in the slightest.” I prefer you. “It’s just not something I’m accustomed to.”

“Well,” the female said, pausing to take two drinks from the waitress, “perhaps that’s where your love life has gone wrong.” She handed Saoirse one then took a long drink from her own, grimacing while she swallowed. “Gods, this is nasty.”

Saoirse laughed again, loud and full. “Then why in the blazes are you drinking it?”

The female glanced around. “I assume for the same reason everyone else is.”

Saoirse signaled the waitress. “There are better things.” Then she held her hand across the table. “Saoirse.”

The female took her outstretched palm with a firm grip. “Zylah.”

Saoirse’s gaze locked onto the scars around her wrist. “You’re one of the half-breed refugees.” Her scent was off though. A mix between two nations. Pádraigín perhaps?

“And you’re a pureblood from Brónach.”

“And yet you still came over.”

Zylah shrugged. “Maybe there was something inviting about you.” The female didn’t hide the way her eyes roamed over Saoirse’s body. “And I’ve been alive long enough to know not everyone from Brónach agreed with the way the High Lord ran things. I’ve seen the worst in purebloods, but I know the best is still out there.”

Lived long enough. Saoirse noted the words. Perhaps this female had inherited long life from her Fae parentage. From her appearance, Saoirse had thought she was no older than twenty, but if she possessed a longer life span, there was no telling her age.

Something else caught her attention then, her mind addled by the alcohol coursing through her system. The High Lord. She said it so casually like she—shit. Zylah didn’t know who Saoirse was and why would she? As a slave she’d never seen the inside of the royal estate. Being in the war camp, she’d likely never set foot in Nàdiar at all.