Page 91 of The Legacy of Ophelia
The way he said my name trickled along my spine, sending goose bumps down my arms. He rarely called me anything other thanBountyorhumanor sometimes a colorful creation likeyou fragile mortal.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about him choosing now, within these tightly pressed walls, to let those syllables roll along his tongue in time with the hum in my chest. He waited for my response, his lips parted on a breath, and for a brief moment of insanity, I wanted him to say it again.
Damn not-immortal fae, probably distracting me with some sort of magic I’d never heard of.
Regardless, I shook off the fascination and blinked sweetly up at him. “You can put it outside?”
Lancaster raised a brow. “You want me to sleep on the porch?”
“Or I can.” I shrugged.
“No,” he answered instantly, those dark eyes burning into me with some primal instinct I didn’t understand. “I will sleep out there, Bounty.”
Back to that one now. Good.
“Watch out for violent creatures.” I hummed as I busied myself with our packs and searched for food. “You never know who may try to harm you.”
He mumbled something beneath his breath that sounded an awful lot like, “I think the most dangerous thing to me is within these walls.”
And for some reason, it stung. We may have been natural enemies, meant to hunt one another down to our baser instincts—and he may have been the most arrogant and insufferable prick I’d ever met—but I’d thought we’d come to an understanding.
Attempting to smooth over our situation—because wewerestuck together in here whether we liked it or not—I said, “Thank you for what you said in there. For admitting Ritalia’s involvement and stating your true purpose here.”
“You did good today,” he said.
“Thank you.” For some reason, that praise mattered.
“And I meant what I said in there.” Lancaster swallowed, his hair wavering around his sharp-featured face. “I am tired of being controlled by her. My entire family has been.”
His family? “Mora?”
“Mora.” He paused. “My mother.”
Those dark eyes snared mine, my feet rooted to the wooden boards. “What happened to your mother?” I whispered.
The silence stretching between us was desperate and somber. For some reason, I needed to know. Needed to understand howLancaster had become the Hunter and who birthed him to be so. He was severely subdued, a wave of sadness pressing upon him at just the thought.
“I’m sorry?—”
But he cut me off. “My mother was a great female, but no one cared about that.” He appeared to be choosing his words carefully. “They cared about her for the same reasons they care about me. About Mora.”
“Power,” I breathed. I could taste the word on the air. Taste the ugliness it derived in the world.
“And blood,” Lancaster added.
I didn’t know what he meant by that exactly, but fae power was honed in their bloodlines, and magic as strong as his and Mora’s meant that their mother must have been unearthly powerful.
I wanted to ask more, to put together the pieces of this adversary because maybe then I could understand.
But Lancaster averted his stare, and the spell between us broke. He moved about the cottage, arm brushing mine and sending unwanted tingles through my skin at the connection. It had to be the Bounty instinct. The scent of iron and flowers was nearly unbearable, and my chest was humming.
I searched the room for something to say. Opening the top dresser drawer, I found a collection of children’s storybooks and games.
“At least we have entertainment,” I commented.
Lancaster only grunted.
We spent the day in tense silence inside the cottage, the windows thrown wide and books and cards at our disposal. When night fell and Lancaster retreated to the porch, I lifted the curtain to peek out the window.
