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Fiorean accompanied her back to their quarters and softly closed the door behind them.

“Let me see your wound,” he said, gesturing toward her arm.

Aemyra turned so that her back was to him. “I’ll need your help to get out of this dress first.”

Fiorean hesitated before she felt his deft fingers loosening the buttons. She pulled the green satin sleeves down and extracted her right arm easily, the limb bare in the candlelight, and eased the fabric off her shoulders.

“Why is it wherever I go in this bloody caisteal, I end up injured?” Aemyra hissed through her teeth as the sleeve finally came away and she sat down on the bed, the bones of her corset digging into her hips.

“Probably something to do with your pigheadedness,” Fiorean muttered.

Taking her forearm between his hands, he brushed his thumb over the smear of dried blood from the split skin. “It will take longer to heal now, and the scar might be larger, but it just needs to be cleaned.”

“I can do tha—”

But before Aemyra could rise from the bed, Fiorean had crossed to the ewer and poured water into the basin. Bringing it back over, he knelt beside the bed and Aemyra snatched the cloth away.

“I said I can do it myself,” she snapped, dabbing at the tender skin.

Gritting her teeth, she tried to ignore the throbbing pain shooting up her forearm. Fiorean’s fists clenched in the sheets on either side of her thighs.

“When my wife is wounded, I will care for her,” he said, voice dangerously low, emerald eyes thrown into shadow with the fire at his back.

Aemyra glared at him, holding the cloth out of reach with her good arm. “I am wife in title only, and I assure you I am perfectly capable.”

“You’ve made that abundantly clear,” Fiorean retorted, making a swipe for the cloth and succeeding in taking it from her. “But I am not so heartless that I enjoy seeing you in pain.”

He held her arm firmly, but his touch was gentle. Watching as his capable hands cleaned the blood from her skin, Aemyra fought the urge to snatch her arm away.

“Is that why you smashed my head into the ground outside the inn?” she asked, taking savage pleasure in the way his jaw tightened. “Am I expected to believe you never wanted to cause me pain when you almost cracked my skull open?”

Fiorean withdrew his hands from her skin. “I repaid in kind the blow you dealt me in the harbor.” His eyes lifted to where the garnet was resting against the injury on her bare chest, just above her corset.

“You were trying to kill me.”

“No, I was attempting to incapacitate you.”

Aemyra tried to pull her arm away, but he held fast. “By shooting arrows at me?”

“My aim is not so poor as yours. If killing you had been the objective, you never would have reached the docks,” Fiorean replied, his face shadowed.

“So the plan was always to capture me,” Aemyra said, her tone clipped. “No doubt you believe your treatment of me outside the inn was a mercy.”

“Weren’t you there with the sole intention of killing me?” Fiorean asked, his voice scarily calm.

Aemyra stiffened. “I should have let you finish the job, being married to you is an infinitely worse fate than death.”

When Fiorean’s face shuttered, Aemyra couldn’t help the way her pulse stuttered. She prayed he couldn’t feel it under his capable fingers.

He rose to his feet, throwing the cloth back into the basin with a splash. “I don’t think we’ll need to put another stitch in.”

Aemyra moved her arm experimentally, feeling it throb dully.

“No, it will heal on its own,” Aemyra agreed, wondering why her words sounded so stiff.

Fiorean turned to wash his hands in the basin and Aemyra refused to feel sorry for what she had said. She wanted to hurt him. She needed him broken and begging for her to spare his life after what he had done.

She fixed her gaze on Fiorean’s back. His auburn hair hung straight past his shoulders, and he was draped in shadows from the fireplace.

Reaching up to clutch the pendant around her neck, she felt the small ridges of the black diamonds that now encircled the large garnet and frowned.

She had guessed that his guilt over the death of her family was prompting him to care for her. Now Aemyra pondered if she might be able to use that to her advantage.

Holding the dress to her chest, she padded across the thick rug toward him.

“Fiorean. I am more than capable of protecting myself,” she said, fiddling with the necklace. “I, you see, I do—”

Her words halted as Fiorean turned to face her. Silhouetted against the flames in the fireplace, he looked unsettlingly godlike with his tall frame. His eyes were fixed on her face as he waited for her to continue.

“I might be a hostage here, but I am not powerless,” she stated stubbornly.

Her words hung in the air between them.

Fiorean unclipped his dagger from around his fèileadh and extended it toward her.

“Here.”

Not understanding, Aemyra’s mouth dropped open as the prince willingly offered her a weapon.

“Take it.”

Aemyra hardly dared to reach for the hilt of the blade. Aervor might have been responsible for Lachlann’s and Pàdraig’s deaths, but Fiorean had been responsible for his dragon.

He read the mistrust on her face well enough.

“This isn’t a trick. I want you to be able to protect yourself. Seeing you like that tonight…” Fiorean’s eyes closed briefly. “Let’s just say the damsel in distress look doesn’t suit you.”

Brow furrowed, Aemyra reached between them and gently grasped the hilt of the dagger, curling her fingers around the worn leather. Leaving the scabbard in his hands, she unsheathed it. The blade glinted in the light of the fire, a faint smear of blood still lingering on the steel. Straightening, she twirled it with a flick of her wrist.

“It is a good blade,” she said with a shrug. “But mine is better.”

Fiorean seemed to be containing his smirk, knowing that she was too proud to admit that any other blacksmith’s work could ever be better than her own.

Her arm felt complete again with a weapon in it, and Fiorean was looking at her like he approved.

Suddenly, she realized that she had everything she wanted. A weapon, and an unarmed prince standing in front of her with no witnesses.

Fiorean seemed to come to that conclusion in the same moment Aemyra did.

Her grief rushed to the surface, so intensely that it threatened to choke her. She would never see Lachlann’s sweet face again, Orlagh’s soft hands could no longer heal, and Pàdraig’s deep singing voice would never again hum through the forge.

She tightened her grip on the dagger so hard that her hand began to shake.

Fiorean took one step toward her.

“Do it,” he breathed, his expression one of pure despair.

She wanted to. She wanted to close the distance between them and plunge this blade into his neck. Wanted to watch as he bled onto the carpet and the life left his eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” Fiorean asked quietly, taking another step until he was standing directly in front of her.

With a swift movement, Aemyra had the blade pressed against his throat and Fiorean made no move to defend himself, his arms held loosely at his sides.

“You killed my family,” she hissed.

He made no reply, so she removed the dagger and shoved him, the bodice of her dress falling around her hips. The hard thrust to his shoulders had him staggering backward, the thick wool of his fèileadh swaying. As his knees hit the settee behind him and he fell, Aemyra leaped upon him, pushing him back into the cushions.

She pressed the blade once again to his throat, so that he dared not swallow.

“You killed my baby brother. I helped bring him into this world, changed him as an infant, rocked him to sleep,” Aemyra choked out as the tears began to fall. “Tell me why you let it happen. Tell me exactly what you did so I can decide whether you live or die.”

She loosened the pressure of the dagger just barely, her arm shaking, and Fiorean began to speak, his emerald eyes trained on her face.

“Sir Nairn found your family as they were escaping through the city gate. Evander ordered their execution if they refused to disclose your whereabouts,” Fiorean said carefully. “Kolreath and Aervor were on the battlements and a hundred score guards were crammed into the space.”

A dangerous expression crossed Aemyra’s face, and she felt Fiorean bring his hands up to rest against her corset. As if he wanted to steady her.

“They gathered to watch the execution of a child, ” Aemyra hissed, gripping the dagger so tightly her fingers were numb.

“I tried to negotiate with my brother. I tried to convince him that they would be better as hostages, but Pàdraig…” Fiorean paused, as if rethinking the wisdom of what he was about to say. “He tried to fight his way to the boy.”

A low whimper left Aemyra’s lips, and she added a hand to Fiorean’s throat underneath the dagger, willing to strangle the life out of him before slitting it.

“He was tortured in the square by Sir Nairn to make your mother talk. She did not break.”

Aemyra closed her eyes and swore a new vow to Brigid. Sir Nairn had altogether too much blood on his hands.

When Fiorean hesitated, she nodded for him to continue.

“When Pàdraig took down three guards by himself, Evander gave the order to the executioner to behead him,” Fiorean said. “Evander was…unstable, and Kolreath was clawing at the battlements. Aervor felt the tension in the air and loosed his fire toward the body as the axe fell. I didn’t intervene, thinking it would spare your mother and brother the horrific sight of the beheading. I never saw the boy, or the firebird, until it was too late.”

“You allowed your dragon to fire into a small courtyard where a child was present. What possessed you to be so reckless? Dragonfire burns hotter than anything else in this world, even our magic cannot protect us from it.”

Aemyra’s voice had raised to a yell and Fiorean lifted his hands from her hips, pressing them across her mouth to get her to stop, clearly worried about someone overhearing and sending a guard up to their rooms.

“We didn’t know that the boy was a Dùileach and none of us saw him burn through his bindings,” Fiorean said. “I did what I could afterward to save your mother, to have her taken to the dungeons.”

Raising her eyes to the ceiling, Aemyra focused on the wooden beams as her eyes welled with tears.

She had further endangered Sorcha and caused Orlagh’s death over her desire to kill the wrong man.

Furious at herself, she fisted one hand in Fiorean’s hair, exposing the scars that ran from his temple to his jaw. When she pointed the dagger directly at his eye, he dropped his hands from her mouth.

“You tried to kill me and Adarian when we fled the temple,” Aemyra spat.

Fiorean’s eyes narrowed. “And yet I did not. I wanted you away from this caisteal, no matter what my mother counseled. I still believed that my brother could be shaped into a fair and decent ruler.”

“And now?” Aemyra growled, wondering if he still thought Evander could ever be redeemed.

He didn’t answer, and somehow that small cowardice was worse.

“You are a selfish, arrogant prick of a prince. You do not deserve your dragon, you do not deserve your title, and you sure as shit don’t deserve your life,” Aemyra hissed, the dagger a hairbreadth from his eye.

Fiorean was visibly sweating, his pupils trained on the point of the blade. “It might surprise you to learn that I agree with you.”

Curling her lip in distaste, Aemyra snarled in his face. “I hate it when men say whatever they think you want to hear the minute they lose their power. You might not have deliberately killed my family, but you stood by while three Dùileach lost their lives. Your whole family has turned their back on the Goddess and as a result Brigid has cursed you.”

Fiorean went still underneath her.

“Aemyra. Please. Calm down.”

She pressed the flat of her dagger against his cheek. “I assure you that no woman has ever calmed down after being told those words.”

Beads of blood were appearing on Fiorean’s alabaster skin, and Aemyra found that she rather liked the sight of it.

“Alfred stripped me of my powers, Katherine stripped me of my rightful title, and Evander stripped me of my dignity. Give me one good reason why I should spare any of you,” she asked.

“Because you don’t know the whole truth.”

Fiorean flicked his gaze down to the blade once and she begrudgingly withdrew it, keeping it level with his straight nose instead of his eye. Fiorean loosed a tense breath as she released her hold on his hair.

“My mother was raised in Tìr ùir, and if you think the Chosen are bad here, it is nothing compared to their tyranny there.”

“Then why did Katherine willingly journey here with Alfred? Why was he allowed to preach within this caisteal and spread such poison?” Aemyra seethed.

“My mother has been a devout believer since her infancy.” A dark look entered Fiorean’s eyes, but it was gone a moment later. “She is a product of the treatment she endured while she lived in ùir. When she married my father, she traded one life of suffering for another. She has many faults, but she will stop at nothing to protect this family.”

Gritting her teeth, Aemyra thought better of insulting Katherine and remained silent.

“When my brothers came of age, did you ever wonder why they chose to marry women from Tìr ùir?” Fiorean asked.

Aemyra shrugged. “We all assumed Katherine was trying to establish the True Religion here in Tìr Teine while raising the station of her friends and family.”

Fiorean shook his head, a risky move given that the blade was inches from his nose. “We were trying to get as many women out of that territory as possible.”

Shocked enough that she lowered the dagger slightly, Aemyra blinked as she tried to process this information.

“With each bride came her court. Ten ladies-in-waiting, five ladies’ maids, twenty servants, not to mention the seamstresses and cooks who traveled with them. Three marriages saved hundreds of women.”

Aemyra was shaking her head.

“Why not throw Alfred out of the caisteal, or go to ùir yourself and stop their tyranny, the—”

Because of Aervor, she realized. As a Bonded Dùileach, Fiorean was unable to leave Tìr Teine. As was she.

He was staring up at her with an unsettling expression and she steeled herself again. Fiorean was working his way past her defenses, and she would be damned if he gained the upper hand in this conversation. Katherine might love her family, but she still hated magic, and Alfred was never far from the dowager queen.

Aemyra’s hands were shaking, and she dropped the knife back to Fiorean’s throat.

“How do I know this is the truth? My father kept me hidden because he knew the king would kill me to keep Evander on the throne.”

Fiorean tilted his chin up away from the dagger as a bitter edge entered Aemyra’s words.

“Careful, Princess,” he said in a clipped tone. “You want to leave my vocal cords intact if you wish to get your answers.”

Aemyra pressed harder with the dagger. “Stop calling me that.”

That damnable smirk appeared on his face, and she hated that her gaze lingered on his lips.

“Kolreath is unstable,” Fiorean finally said. “He has been Bonded to more Dùileach than any other dragon in history and the threads of his mind are unraveling. We suspected that their Bond drove my father mad, and now I fear Evander is proving it true.”

Kolreath is mad?

It would explain why the Chosen had gained such power over the royal family. Three of the last five rulers had all been Bonded to the ancient beathach. Aemyra herself had been desperate to claim the golden dragon, Draevan had encouraged it…

Fiorean interpreted her shock correctly. “Being queen is about far more than riding a dragon and ruling your subjects. You still have a lot to learn.”

Aemyra hated his arrogance. She hated even more that he was right.

“Keep talking. I still think your blood would improve the look of these cushions.”

A small challenge entered Fiorean’s gaze, but it was gone with his next blink.

“Growing up in this caisteal, watching my father descend into madness…” Fiorean paused as if searching for the right words. “I told myself that Evander would be a better king. That all I had to do was wait until he could assume the throne. I was a coward.”

His hands were warm on either side of her face, and she loosened her grip on the dagger.

Fiorean was leaning into the blade. “I watched a blacksmith’s daughter light up the temple like a sign from Brigid herself and feared she would be the end of us. But after Aervor…”

Aemyra felt the calluses on his palms as they gripped her face. His hands had done terrible things, but so had her father’s.

So had her own.

Fiorean was gazing at her with such intensity that she dropped the dagger onto the cushions of the settee and did the only thing that made sense to her in that moment.

She yielded to him completely.

Not because she was trying to win his trust. Not because she saw it as a way in. But because she wanted to.

Fiorean saw the change in her eyes the split second before she moved, and he thrust his lips upward to meet hers in a devastating kiss.

His hands were already on her face, one wrapped around the back of her head to crush her lips closer to his own, the thumb of his other hand tracing the corner of her mouth.

Aemyra forgot everything other than the feel of him against her skin. With a guttural moan, his tongue snaked in hungrily.

Fiorean claimed her with the intensity of the fire he possessed, and Aemyra pressed herself against his chest, the top of her breasts spilling over her corset.

His touch was intoxicating, and he met every stroke of lust, each rage-filled kiss, with utter abandon. His tongue laved over hers, and desire pooled low in her belly as his arm snaked around her waist and pressed her more firmly against him, teeth grazing her split bottom lip.

She lifted her face to the ceiling, drawing a much-needed breath, and Fiorean redoubled his efforts, running his teeth along her jawline and trailing kisses down her neck. The golden brooch clipping his fèileadh over his shoulder scraped against the top of her breast and she gasped.

Fiorean approached kissing like he did sword fighting. A well-matched partner, attentive and focused, with a dangerous advantage over his opponent.

As his teeth sank down on her clavicle, she arched into him and ran her own fingers through his curtain of auburn hair.

She began to rock herself back and forth on his lap, the bunched satin of her dress rasping against his wool fèileadh. Fiorean moaned deep in his throat, his hands tightening on her hips, encouraging her. His tongue claimed her mouth again, and she felt the length of him begin to grow through the woolen tartan.

“Aemyra.” He moaned her name like it was a prayer and she swallowed the sweet benediction with her own mouth.

Suddenly, the door to their chambers burst open with a crash and Evander stumbled in.

“Brother, you’re missing your own—” Evander stopped short, swaying on the spot, his goblet of wine still held in his hand.

Aemyra broke away from Fiorean with an embarrassing sucking noise. Both of their chests were heaving, neither quite able to meet the other’s eye.

Fiorean swiftly hid the dagger underneath the cushions before his brother could see it.

Evander was grinning.

“I was going to say come downstairs and have fun but clearly you are having enough up here!”

Evander winked exaggeratedly at Aemyra, his crown lopsided, and she stifled the urge to wrap her hand around the dagger’s hilt and throw it directly at his face.

As if Fiorean sensed her thoughts, he wrapped his hand gently around her wrist.

“Would you take the hand of your king too?” Evander tilted his head drunkenly as Aemyra extracted herself from Fiorean’s grip. She pulled the dress up to cover her chest as if to stop Evander’s lecherous gaze landing upon her skin.

“They wouldn’t let me keep it,” Evander pouted. “I need you to bully a sense of humor into Athair Alfred. He’s such a sourpuss, Fiorean. He really is. Come back downstairs.”

Fiorean stood stiffly, tucking his shirt into his belt. With one last heated look toward Aemyra, Fiorean went with his brother.

Leaving Aemyra retrieving the dagger and wondering what in Hela’s shadowy realm she was doing.