Page 23 of Ashes of Betrayal

Upon spying him, the fae hound rose smoothly to her feet.

Her golden gaze glinted then, disturbingly like Bree’s, and he knew he’d been followed. And when the fae hound’s tail started wagging, he snarled a curse. Heart kicking against his ribs, he cut a glare over his shoulder. His wife was, indeed, just a few yards behind him.

He whirled around to face her. “Get—”

“Tell me whom you’re hunting, Cailean,” she cut him off, a husky edge creeping into her voice. “Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t,” he grunted. “And it’s none of your Gods-damned business, anyway.”

Heat flared in Bree’s tawny eyes. “Pig-headed bastard,” she muttered.

“Deceiving bitch,” he shot back.

Their gazes fused, and the fury that simmered like a pot on the boil inside him started to spit and bubble. His patience had reached its limit. “Go,” he ground out. “Before an iron blade lodges itself in your throat.”

The words were vicious, but he was desperate now. He needed her to leave.

He didn’t need any distractions in his life—especially now he’d finally picked up Eilig’s trail—especially from the Shee spy who’d made a fool out of him.

A heavy silence fell before Skaal gave a low whine. The sound was almost pleading, and it made Cailean grind his teeth.

The moments drew out, and then Bree’s lovely face veiled. It was like watching the sun slip behind a cloud. A shadow fell over the glade where they stood.

Bree’s throat bobbed then, the only sign his words had wounded her. Stepping back, she pulled her cloak around her. And then, without another word, she turned and disappeared into the trees.

Her departure was so abrupt, so swift, that Cailean blinked, staring into the dark firs.

Behind him, Skaal whined once more.

Raking a hand through his close-cropped hair, Cailean cast the fae hound a glower. “Disloyal beast,” he growled. He then turned away and moved over to the fire pit. A stack of kindling and firewood sat next to it, ready for this evening’s campfire. Hunkering down, he withdrew a flint from a pouch on his belt and focused on coaxing the dry tinder into flames.

However, when he marked the slight tremor in his hands, he stilled. This was new—a sign that more than just anger seethed inside him this evening. His wife’s reappearance had torn open a wound that had just started to scab, and he was raw in the aftermath. “The Mother’s tits,” he muttered. “What has she done to me?”

11: IRON CIRCLE ME

CAILEAN WANTED TO saddle up the following morning and ride as if a host of pike-wielding powries were pursuing him. He needed to get away from the devious Shee female he’d wed, and from his dangerous response to her.

But he wasn’t leaving Rothie just yet.

After a restless night—during which he’d lain by the glowing firepit, one hand on the hilt of his dagger—Cailean rose in the early dawn. Stepping over the ring of salt he’d scattered before retiring—for it was wise to take precautions when sleeping rough, especially in the wild north—he slaked his thirst with a few gulps of ale and kicked dirt over the smoldering embers of the fire.

Leaving Feannag saddled and ready to go upon his return, and Skaal to keep watch over his stallion, Cailean strode back into the fort.

He emerged cautiously from the woods, bracing himself to find Bree waiting for him.

But she wasn’t.

He was both relieved and unsettled by her compliance, although his gut told him, he hadn’t seen the last of her. His wife was as stubborn as he was. She wouldn’t give up that easily.

Smoke wreathed up from turf roofs, blending with an iron-colored sky. The air was damp and cold, yet he paid littleattention to the weather. Instead, his thoughts were on the mission he’d set himself.

Where had Eilig gone? Three roads struck out from the fort. The first led south to Doure—this was the highway he’d recently traveled, so he ruled that one out—while the second stretched northeast to Cannich, and the third led up the coast north to Harra.

Harra. Cailean’s stride faltered. He hadn’t been back to his birthplace since childhood. But if Eilig had led his band there, he would return. Heat kindled in the pit of his belly then. It would be fitting to face that shitweasel in the place where everything had kicked off all those years ago.

As he approached the gates, Cailean’s gaze settled upon a grisly sight: a head upon a pike. The mercenary’s expression was set in a grimace, his once coppery skin ashen in death. Flies were buzzing around his mouth and nose.

Cailean’s lips thinned. He wasn’t sorry he was dead, for he’d been tempted to end him the day before. However, the sight of the mercenary’s head reminded him that he’d drawn far too much attention to himself.

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