Page 4 of Consumed
“And for me?” Eoin had grown delightfully bold in the last few months. He put his hand over mine, lifting his brow. “Have you brought me riddles or treasures today?”
My hand looked as weightless as a child’s compared to his—larger and calloused, shaped by years of labor. He was warm and coarse andalive,so unlike the marble sheen of my complexion. Though his touch had become familiar, the juxtaposition made my heart drum.
He was everything I was not, and where my sisters might find disgust in the contrast, I found delight. Flecks of greed entered his gazewhen he looked at me sometimes, and I treasured that, too. He prided himself on being the only villager with such asecretwaiting for him deep in the woods. His little niamh.
Day by day, I found I did not mind the concept—belonging to him.
“I do have something for you,” I said. “I will give you a tear.”
Eoin’s eyebrows pulled together. “A tear?”
I nodded, letting the woodwork rest in my lap so I might pluck at the base of his throat, where the glorious thrum of his pulse hummed, quickening. “If you accept it, you’ll not age a day,” I told him. “You’ll never grow ill, never bear weathered skin.”
My touch strayed to his cheek. He recoiled as though my soft skin had burned him. Shadows crossed over his handsome face, giving me pause.
“Keep your tear, little niamh.I would never want to make you weep,” he said, offering a shaky laugh.
Such compassion. So kind, my Eoin. But I knew fear when I heard it.
Fear was simply the natural order for humans when it came to entities far beyond their understanding. Fear meant power, meant respect.
Why did it wither me to hear it from him?
“I’ve thought of another gift, then,” I pressed, intent on deterring him from taking his leave. “You may give me a name.”
Again, Eoin’s eyebrows lifted—but this time, his smirk returned. “After these years, why now?”
His fingers were heavier on my waist.
I shot him a feline smile. “Do you want it or not?”
“Give me a moment! Let me think,” Eoin chuckled.
His gaze went distant with thought. For a moment, the bright gurgle of the creek was all that could be heard throughout the clearing. I relished the pause—every moment of musing prolonged our time together.
“I think I’ll call you…Róisín,” Eoin said at last, giving me an all-too stoic stare—the one that masked a playful glitter behind his eyes.
A shiver of pleasure raced through me.
“Róisín,” I murmured, feigning uncertainty.Little Rose.
He watched me with careful reverence, awaiting my approval. The name hung in the air between us, and I had no reason to dwell in its silent echo, but I couldn’t deny myself the delight of watching him squirm. My smile was carefully subdued. “It is acceptable.”
His lips parted, and he appeared to wrestle between relief and disappointment before settling on the latter. “Acceptable?I dare you to find a name that suits you more.”
He’d grown bold, my human. I recalled a time when he wouldn’t have dreamed of voicing disagreement with me. The name he’d chosen was perfect—absolutelyperfect—but my mask refusedto slip and reveal the blessing he’d given me. None of my sisters had names. We had no need for such mortal trifles, not when we were all pieces of the same forest. Fragments of one divine being.
But I was different.Hehad made me different, and with each visit, whether he knew it or not, he coaxed me further from my true nature.
My smile sharpened into a grin. “Come now, I’ve given you a marvelous gift, allowing you to name me. To change it now would be unfair.”
His eyes met mine, searching. When his features relaxed, I wondered if he’d seen through my facade and found the elation buried beneath. “Róisín,” he said firmly, leaning closer. “I can think of no greater gift, my little rose.”
The ground shivered beneath us. Eoin drew back, scanning the forest floor with wide-eyed wonder until he found the source of the commotion directly beside us: branches sprouted from the earth, climbing and thickening until the tops were level with his chest. Vibrant leaves burst out in clusters first, followed by roses of the deepest red—dozens from bud to blossom in a matter of seconds.
“You are a marvel,” Eoin said with untethered wonder as he reached for one of the blooms.
He hissed upon contact and flinched, leaving the rose. A wet touch of red marred the tip of the thorn that had bitten him. At once, a ravenous sensation flamed through me, and I only had eyes for the fresh bead of crimson dotting the base of his finger.
