Page 114 of Crown of Roses
Sick.
Fearghal was a demented asshole who took pleasure in torturing others. In leaving his mark, like he was an artist of the flesh. She would kill him, too.
A strangled gasp escaped her and Tiernan’s head snapped up.
The look on his face was nothing short of tempered rage. His eyes flashed, a menacing summer thunderstorm. His fingers closed into fists, leaching all the color from his knuckles. Every muscle flinched, pulled taut with restraint. His anger, or resentment, or whatever it was, made her shrink into herself.
Her knees quaked, unable to withstand the horror of her own reflection. “Now I really am a monster.”
The glittering tile rose up to meet her, but Tiernan was faster. In one swift movement, he caught her up in the towel and lifted her into his arms. “I will kill her for what she’s done to you.”
Tiernan carried her like she weighed less than air. He stalked out of her bedroom and into the passageway of white arches, bursting florals, and sparkling streams. Maeve peered over his shoulder at dumbstruck fae and servants alike who either averted their gaze or shoved themselves against a wall to get out of his way. He wound his way through a maze of palms and stopped in front of a wooden door before kicking it open.
Maeve glanced around the room. “Where are we?”
Soft, sage green colored the walls and glass doors were shoved open so their white chiffon curtains shifted and moved in the breeze. A large plumeria tree with bright pink and yellow star-shaped blooms stretched over the balcony, its intoxicating scent sweetly floral, yet oddly familiar. The plumeria. That was the tempting, flowery scent she detected whenever Tiernan was around. Palm trees. Warm sand. And plumeria.
A large and sumptuous bed with all white sheets and bedding stood in the middle of the room. A long desk was positioned against the opposite wall, and shoved to the side were pots of shimmering ink and a jar of paintbrushes. A guitar was in the far corner, propped up on a stand, and a black, floor-to-ceiling mirror stood opposite. Like hers, his ceiling was open to the skies.
“Is this your room?” Maeve tried again. She much preferred their banter over the unstable silence between them.
Tiernan set her down on the edge of the desk, and the towel slid to her hips. Mortified, she snatched at it, but his hand clamped down over hers. “Leave it.”
She watched as he grabbed two pots of shimmering ink. One was gold and the other was a shade of crimson flecked with magenta. He picked out three paintbrushes, a slender one with tiny bristles, and two others that seemed to be made for thick, precise lines. Tucking one behind his ear, he glanced over at her.
“Do you remember when I told you about my tattoos? How they cover my scars?” He grabbed an empty pot and began stirring the two colors together, mixing them to create an illustrious rosy gold.
“Yes.”
Tiernan set one brush down beside her on the desk, along with the pot of newly mixed paint. Then he started to roll up the sleeves of his shirt, cuffing them to just below his elbow, exposing the swath of tattoos crawling up his arms. “I’m going to cover yours as well. If you’ll let me.”
Maeve nodded, her voice lost to such a simple kindness.
Tiernan reached over and grabbed a rolling stool, then sat down before her. “Just…try and relax.”
“Okay.” It was slightly disconcerting having him positioned between her legs in such a manner, but he didn’t seem at all bothered, and she attributed his lack of nerves to having done this sort of thing before. It wouldn’t surprise her at all if he’d painted numerous females, and the thought left her wondering about all fae’s tattoos.
“No.” His voice was soft. “I don’t make a habit of painting females.”
He dipped one of the brushes into the ink and carefully set to work. He started on her legs first, and the rose-gold ink slid onto her skin like satin. Around each calf he followed the swirls, tracing them up over her knees, and then to her thighs. Gradually, Maeve eased back and braced both of her palms on the surface of the desk behind her. Tiernan switched brushes then, clamping one between his teeth, and dipping the new one in paint. Focused and intent on his work, he mirrored the slashed swirls along her hip and abdomen. She bent over as instructed, and he copied the long, and winding marks on her back.
“You have two scars on your back.” He lifted the brush from her flesh. “They look like crescent moons.”
“I’ve had them since I was little.”
“Do you know what they’re from?”
Maeve glanced over her shoulder at him. “No.” Whatever story she’d been told about them was probably another lie. The thought made her stomach turn.
“Hm. Go ahead and sit back for me.” Tiernan set both brushes aside, looking for the third one. “Support yourself with your hands, just like before.”
She did as she was told, and this time he grabbed a paintbrush with velvet bristles.
“The…” He cleared his throat and didn’t meet her eyes. “The scars here are more severe, so I need to work with a larger brush.”
“I understand.”
Maeve squeezed her eyes shut, and the unexpected shock of the soft brush against the underside of her breast set her eyes on fire with the threat of tears. Her cries were silent, and for herself, because she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Fearghal had ruined her on purpose. He’d been considerably more vicious when sculpting her breasts with his blade.
