Page 23

Aemyra woke from a fitful sleep when the mattress dimpled.

She had tossed and turned until the candle burned out, contemplating how she would kill Fiorean but never quite deciding on a plan of action. With her magic still blocked, she was no match for a Bonded Dùileach even if she had a weapon.

Eyelids flying open as the bed creaked, she lifted her cheek from the pillow to see Fiorean climbing in beside her.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

Cursing herself for falling asleep in the first place, she clutched the sheets up to her chin.

“It is considered bad luck for a groom to sleep apart from his bride on the night of their wedding,” Fiorean said gruffly, his hair unkempt.

Aemyra looked up at the golden light of dawn that was already streaming through the windows. “But it’s already daybreak.”

Fiorean stopped trying to get comfortable and stared at her. “Are you always this dim-witted in the mornings?”

Aemyra tried to wriggle away from him as he plumped up the numerous pillows and leaned back on them.

“If the servants arrive and find us sleeping apart, then they will take that news to my brother. I wouldn’t like to imagine what would be in store for either of us then.”

The way he was so casually burrowing into the bed disturbed her and she shifted to the far edge of the mattress. Fiorean reached over his head and pulled his shirt off, throwing it into a crumpled heap on the floor.

“Clearly you are committed to making this as realistic as possible,” Aemyra said, still clutching the sheets to her bare chest.

“Purely self-interest, I assure you,” Fiorean replied, tucking one arm behind his head, looking the picture of ease.

Aemyra allowed herself a glance at his torso. It was just as lean and muscular as his legs, but there were numerous scars that littered his body. Some were nothing more than long-healed silver lines, others angrily pink and swollen, and there was one large shiny burn reminiscent of Adarian’s.

Inclining her head, she asked, “Is that from Aervor?”

Fiorean followed her gaze and huffed a laugh. “If Aervor had shot his fire at me, I wouldn’t be lying here beside you.”

“Pity,” Aemyra said.

Fiorean tilted his head. His facial scars were already covered by his unbound hair, but Aemyra had the feeling that the movement was habitual. Aside from the burn, the largest scar on his body traversed several ribs.

“Where did you get that?” Aemyra asked, not caring if it was too personal, since he had just muscled into bed with her.

“My father,” Fiorean said stiffly.

Unwilling to feel pity for the man in the bed beside her, Aemyra replied, “You must have deserved it. My father only struck me when it was necessary. He wouldn’t do harm without good cause.”

Fiorean smirked. “Draevan? The man who tried to kill my mother and her entire court when she traveled here from ùir? Clearly you don’t know your father as well as you think you do.”

“I know him better than anyone.”

Fiorean peaked an eyebrow. “Really? You two were so close when he stayed in Penryth and you were forced to hide in the slums of àird Lasair with the rabble? I don’t know how you don’t hate him for making you endure that.”

Aemyra glared, fisting her hands into the sheets to stop herself from strangling him.

“My father had perilously few options, thanks to your father’s madness over male succession. And I don’t resent my years spent in the forge. I learned a lot about respect and humility. Lessons you clearly could have benefited from.”

Fiorean was smirking.

“I know plenty about respect, and duty, and honor. But a prince does not have much need of being humble. Certainly not when he is the most powerful Dùileach in Tìr Teine.”

He allowed his fire to snake around his forearm, like Aemyra needed another reminder of how vulnerable she was, lying in bed with him.

She leaned forward, eyeing the flames. “Tell your mother to give me back my magic and I’ll soon prove you wrong.”

Fiorean’s green eyes were dancing in the flames, and he took his time studying Aemyra’s face.

“Your little display at the temple was impressive, I admit. But no un-Bonded Dùileach has outstripped a Bonded Dùileach. Ever.”

Swallowing the truth with difficulty, Aemyra replied, “You don’t deserve your gift, or your dragon. You turned your back on the Goddess who blessed you when you began worshipping those hate-filled zealots. You might not be able to wear the pendant, but I hope Brigid curses the lot of you.”

Fiorean let his flames wink out, his expression darkening.

“Don’t pretend to understand this family after spending a few nights in the caisteal, Princess. You’ll only embarrass yourself,” he drawled.

Aemyra’s temper spiked. “I understand enough. You have all forsaken the Goddesses to follow the Chosen. You disrespect the women made in her image and you slaughter innocent children. ”

Her voice broke on the last word and Fiorean leaned toward her threateningly.

“Did I disrespect you last night?” he growled, his eyes dropping down to her bare collarbone. “Or did I spare you more indignity?”

“I will not sit here and thank you for not raping me. I don’t care what scrap of conscience you possess that stayed your hand—but I will never forgive what you did to my family,” Aemyra said, throat thick with unshed tears.

She would not cry in front of him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

He glared right back at her. “You are lucky that your father forced you to grow up away from this court. You would never have survived it.”

Aemyra glanced down at the scars littering Fiorean’s body and found herself disappointed that no one had finished the job.

“Just like Fergys and Lachlann failed to survive it?” she spat. “Tell me, who is poisoning the children? Because you and I both know it wasn’t me.”

Fiorean refused to answer, fisting his hands in the sheets until they began to smoke.

“When I have my magic back, you will not survive me,” Aemyra finished.

Fiorean pushed himself up to a sitting position, his face inches from Aemyra’s. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise,” Aemyra replied, refusing to cower under his glare.

She could feel his breath against her cheek, and she pushed herself up to her elbows, not liking the advantage he had by towering over her. The sheet slipped slightly, revealing the top of her breasts, and Fiorean’s eyes followed it.

A soft knock sounded at the door and his eyes dragged slowly back up to her face.

“Enter,” he barked, his emerald gaze penetrating.

The door opened and the first of the servants hurried in with breakfast and water for washing, eyes downcast.

It was a good thing too, because Aemyra was about to throttle him with her bare hands and damn the consequences.

After a moment’s hesitation, Fiorean pulled away from her, ripping the sheets off of himself. Aemyra averted her eyes as he strode purposefully out of the bedroom and into the antechamber.

Now that a servant had seen them abed, he seemed eager to put as much distance between them as possible.

Aemyra was still seething with rage. She had to get out of this room and find one of Draevan’s spies. Orlagh had often gotten information from the kitchens—perhaps she could start there.

Before she could dress, Margaret entered the room and Aemyra paused. There was something arresting about the young woman’s face—a quiet power that still lay dormant perhaps.

“Princess?” Margaret asked quietly, bobbing a curtsy.

Aemyra gritted her teeth at the incorrect title but refrained from snapping when dimples appeared in the other woman’s brown cheeks, dark freckles betraying her youth.

Clearing her throat, Aemyra got out of bed. “Margaret, I don’t believe we had time to be formally introduced yesterday.”

Another shy smile. “Please, call me Maggie. Mother Katherine has appointed me your chaperone.”

Eyes narrowing, Aemyra swept her gaze over Maggie. Registering the tight curls already escaping their pins, the sage green dress stained at the hem.

“I’m no fool. I know when I am being managed,” Aemyra said.

Maggie blushed as the servants stripped the bed and she spotted the ruined sheets.

Fiorean chose that moment to reenter the room.

“She will be no match for your delightful charm, dear sister,” he said, in possibly the kindest tone Aemyra had ever heard him use. Unfortunately, he reserved none of it for her. “You are expected to accompany me on a public walk later.”

“I would rather you fed me to your dragon,” Aemyra snapped back.

Fiorean’s eyes glittered. “Don’t put ideas into my head.”

His boots thundered heavily on the floorboards as he left, having exchanged the traditional crimson fèileadh for his usual black tunic and breeches. His hair was left unbound and shining down his back.

As Aemyra yielded herself to the ministrations of the servants, she wondered how he could possibly seem so calm. She had been humiliated, abused, and ridiculed. Her internal thoughts were a complete mess.

“You should eat, my lady,” Maggie said, inclining her head to the tray of fruits and pastries that had been brought up with the bathwater.

Aemyra’s stomach growled, but she turned away from the table. “I find I have no appetite this morning.”

The servants exchanged a pitying look and chivied her in a motherly way toward the tub. Shivering in the chill air, she noticed the way Maggie was absentmindedly stroking the curve of her belly and glancing at the tray.

“By all means, help yourself,” Aemyra said.

Stepping into the deliciously warm bath, she pondered Fiorean’s code of honor. Why would it stop him from violating her when he clearly hadn’t a single shred of remorse after killing her family?

Sighing, she rested her still tender head on the back of the tub, feeling exhausted.

“I know it must be painful, my lady. The salts will help,” one of the servants muttered, her eyes on the dark bruises that circled her upper arm from Evander’s grip.

Aemyra let them come to their own conclusions, pretending she needed the milk and salts they were adding to her bathwater. There was no ache between her legs, no pain deep inside of her. Just sheer confusion and irritation that while his fèileadh still lay discarded on the floor, Fiorean had taken the knife with him.