Page 80 of Claimed By the Fae Lord

Gunnar raised an eyebrow. The corner of his lips turned down before he masked the expression behind the rim of his mug.

Liam chuckled. "I'll put in a good word for you," he promised. “Though I’m sure Father enjoyed playing guard overnight.”

She grinned cheekily.

"Mirrelle," I started, my throat tight with emotion, "I'm sor—"

"Raina, if you apologize one more time, I swear I'll get up from this bed just to kick your ass."

I sobered instantly, a giggle escaping me despite the seriousness of her threat. "Alright. Then I suppose I will say thank you instead. For protecting me so fiercely."

"Don't mention it." Mirrelle waved her hand dismissively, though the slight wince that followed betrayed the effort even that small gesture took.

"See how easy it is to say thank you to someone who stands between you and multiple attackers? Someone who risks their life to save yours?" Gunnar's tone was light, but there was challenge.

Mirrelle's ruby eyes darkened. Gunnar continued to sip his coffee slowly, his hazel eyes never leaving hers.

A smile threatened and I pressed my lips together. She really would try to kick my ass if I laughed right now.

Their banter was some twisted form of foreplay. But it fit them.

I wondered if I should be worried about that. Mirrelle could handle herself, yet there was something about Gunnar that seemed to worm its way under her skin.

A fit of coughing broke through my musings, and I turned to see Mirrelle clutching her belly, her face contorted in pain. In less time than it took for me to draw a breath, Gunnar was at her side.

He moved with a grace that belied his size, kneeling on the bed by her hip, a clean rag in hand.

"Here, dove, I've got you," he murmured, his voice gentle as he dabbed at her lips.

I stood frozen, watching as Mirrelle allowed him to care for her. Her surprise mirrored my own. Since when did the blood fae let anyone, particularly a male who'd just been the subject of her ire, tend to her so tenderly?

Gunnar looked up at Liam, all trace of softness evaporating from his expression. "Father is waiting for us at Speirhaus," he said, the command in his tone leaving no room for argument. "But I'll stay here for now."

Mirrelle rolled her eyes at his declaration, prompting a mischievous twinkle in Gunnar's own.

Liam nudged me to the door saying, “I’ll let him know where you are.”

I stood before Brahm, his presence as commanding as ever. The weight of my guilt pressed down on me, heavy as the rock that made up the mines.

“I’m sorry about the attack, Drótinn Brahm. I never actually thought they’d be rash enough to attempt it here in Ephandor.”

“Me, either, Raina. I suspect they believed by not killing any of the clan they could avoid my wrath. They were sadly mistaken. Though, I suspect they’ll eventually grow desperate enough they won’t be so careful about it.”

"I will leave Ephandor," I insisted. "I won't risk any more lives for my sake."

Liam's hand shot out, gripping my arm with silent intensity. His displeasure was etched into the hard line of his jaw. “No.”

"Leave?" Brahm's voice boomed through the chamber, echoing off the stone. "You think you can just walk away from those that mean harm? Who attacked you again and again? I don’t think so. Warriors do not walk away. My warriors fight those that mean us harm.”

I held my ground, though it felt like standing against a gale. "I’m not one of your warriors, Drótinn.”

Brahm stepped closer, his towering frame somehow managing to loom even larger. "Are you sure about that?" he challenged.

My chest tightened at his words, an unexpected warmth blooming. I didn’t answer.

“Now,” he went on, “as warriors of Ephandor, you’ll be rectifying your mistakes from last night.”

The weight of Brahm's stare was a physical thing, pressing down on us with collective disappointment. I focused on the pattern of stitching on his tunic until I found the courage to look up again.

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