Page 57 of Crown of Roses
Fever wrecked Maeve’s body.
It was more difficult than Maeve realized to discern reality from the shroud of memories haunting her mind. She drifted in and out of consciousness, slipping between a recollection of dreams and nightmares. At one point, she thought she may have awoken. But then she saw Saoirse, whose eyes were bloodshot, and whose pretty face was splotchy. But it was wrong, it was all wrong. Saoirse was crying.
Saoirse never cried. Ever.
The visions swirled and stormed as she was dragged under a blanket of darkness. Voices tried to lull her back. They were full of soft words, of endless promises, of hushed whispers. But haunting shadows crawled out from the corners, and their misty, death-like tendrils coiled around her like a snake ready to strike.
Then Casimir was there.
She blinked, but he blurred before her, like she was looking at him underwater. No part of him was clear. She could make out the color of his hair—rich, dark brown. He grabbed her hand, his warm brown flesh a harsh contrast to the pallid, sickly color of her own skin. She could see his mouth moving but there were no words coming out. And as quickly as he was there, she was gone.
In the far recesses of her lucid mind, Maeve knew her body was fighting the effects of the poison. She knew the vile substance had been siphoned from her system. Otherwise, she would already be dead. She was struggling, desperately fighting to survive. Every so often, a low thrum of music whispered past her, causing her blood to hum in response. A softly strumming guitar. The evocative melody tugged at her, urged her to return, and was accompanied by the deep rumble of an unfamiliar baritone.
Maeve reached for it. For the alluring song. She hauled herself through a thick fog of incoherency, past the fitful recollection of her youth. The ones swallowed by darkness, plagued by terror, and smothered until there was nothing left. Fingers outstretched, she groped for something to hold onto, anything to bring her out of this constant state of delirium. The music played again, except this time the notes sounded closer, just within her grasp. She grabbed hold and didn’t let go. She ripped through the realms, helpless while she watched the fractured remains of all she ever knew be torn from inside her. She was gutted. A blade of fire sliced through her stomach, then spread her open like an animal ready for slaughter.
A gasp caught in the back of Maeve’s throat and her eyes flew open. She thrashed, desperate to escape the pain, when a cool hand slipped over hers.
“Easy there, love.” Deirdre’s soothing voice coasted over her, and she gave her a gentle pat. “You’re not alone, I’m here.”
Maeve blinked, unable to look away from the woman who held a wet washcloth to her forehead and brushed her damp hair back from her face. She shuddered as the remnants of fever fled her body, leaving her chilled and drenched with the foul scent of her own sweat. Her muscles seized and ached, and pain came in swells of nauseous, bile-filled waves.
“W-water,” Maeve croaked, her throat stuffed with grit and sand.
“Of course, dear.” Deirdre bustled over to the vanity and grabbed a blue glass pitcher, then poured a small cup of water. She brought it back to the bedside, and slid one arm around Maeve’s back, carefully easing her into a sitting position. “Slow sips.”
Intense throbbing pulsed at Maeve’s temples, but she forced herself to take in at least a few drops of water. The cold shock of it caused her stomach to flip, and dizziness slammed into her so hard and so fast, it stole her breath.
“Just a couple more sips,” Deirdre crooned, “and you’ll start to feel better.”
Maeve might’ve believed her if at that very moment, Tiernan hadn’t tore into her bedroom.
His dark sweep of hair seemed to steal the shreds of sunlight. He wore slate pants and a shirt the color of fresh berries. The top buttons were left open, revealing the golden swirls of tattoos that crawled along his neck. He was terrifyingly beautiful and Maeve’s gut clenched. Or maybe it was the water. But then his stormy eyes narrowed at Deirdre. “You didn’t tell me she was awake.”
Deirdre patted Maeve’s forehead with the washcloth. “Her eyes have only just opened, moh Rí.”
Old Laic again. King. My King. She never heard him addressed by the title, but at the moment, it was the last of her worries. Because her head felt like dozens of razor-sharp talons were raking down the inside of her brain. She winced and clutched the bed linens to keep herself from toppling over.
“Leave us,” Tiernan demanded.
Deirdre crossed her arms. “With all due respect, my lord, she’s still fighting symptoms of the poison and is not yet healthy enough for—”
But Tiernan’s face shadowed, and a distinctive chill crept into the air.
“Now,” he growled.
Deirdre scowled and huffed, clearly peeved by her High King’s request. She sent him one cold glare before glancing back over her shoulder and making eye contact with Maeve. The look on her face was nothing short of pity, but she left the room, and shut the door soundly behind her.
Maeve sucked in a shallow, trembling breath. Her skin was slick with the stink of illness and fever. Her body was weak, having been ravaged by poison. She wouldn’t be able to defend herself if she tried.
Tiernan stalked over to the bed and glowered down at her. His gaze flicked to the cuffs binding her wrists, and when he spoke, it was the rumbling sound of thunder. The threat of summer and the fury of its storms. “You’ve been keeping secrets from me.”
Maeve shook her head but the violent movement was a mistake. The room spun around her in a flurry of colors. Her pulse jumped and her insides quaked.
Tiernan snatched her chin and forced her to look up at him. “What do you mean, no?”
“You—” Maeve heaved. She slapped his hand away, hurled herself toward the edge of the bed, and vomited.
“Fuck.”
