Page 126 of Rook of Ruin
Simon kisses me slowly, gently. He keeps moving inside me, and when he stops, tears fall down my face. Simon pulls out of me, then fixes his pants and my skirt. He lies down next to me, and I place my head on his chest while he gently rubs my back. This is different, more intimate. This is the beginning of a new adventure.
He kisses my head. “I like the name Rhodri for a boy.”
“How about Cai?” I inhale his mixed aroma of whiskey, leather, and ink. “And what if we have a girl?”
“I don’t mind Cai.” Simon’s chest rumbles with a laugh. “If we have a daughter and she is anything like you, we are going to have our hands full.” I tap his chest lovingly, but he sighs out. “What if we named her Sorcha Michaela Caddel, after our mothers.”
“Yes.” I snuggle closer into his chest.
“I love you, Orlaith.” Simon tips my chin up. His dark brown eyes speak the truth.
“I love you, Simon.”
Simon kisses me gently, and moves even closer. He pulls the ivory ribbon from my hair, letting it tumble down. “You’re so beautiful.” He sighs, leaning back onto his arm. “I need to tell you something, and unfortunately, it is not about how I’ll be making you scream my name later.”
Chuckling, I take his hand and kiss it. “Alright.”
“I’ve decided you need a bigger guard. If I ever have to go, I want to leave some warriors behind to protect you. We can’t have more than twenty-five. Any more, and I’m afraid Callan would think we are up to something nefarious, but I’ve already sent my father a letter, and he has approved.”
“Callan wouldn’t think that, would he?” I meet Simon’s eyes. I remember what Callan told me—Simon plans for everything.
Simon smooths my hair out. “He could. Callan is more like his mother than our father.”
“Maybe.” He’s sad and lonely . . . but murderous, definitely. “He did tell me he was going to be king, but—”
“You don’t know him that well, O. My stepmother was a terrible person. I’m glad our children will never know her.”
“Me too.” I pluck one of my stray hairs from his tunic. “Callan told me she murdered the only woman he ever cared for.”
“Yes, but Callan never protected Essel. He should have married her and left the castle quickly. I offered him Brynmawr, but he thought. . .” Simon sighs. “I don’t know what he was thinking. His mother played the long game with her, waited until they were almost free, and then she murdered her. It was considered an accident—the carriage went off a cliff—but we all know she arranged for it. Callan married Anna soon after.”
“Your father did nothing?”
“He couldn’t, without an accusation, there was no investigation. Callan wouldn’t openly accuse his mother.” Simon shifts. “My father has been playing an entirely different game than Ffion; she wasn’t playing for the kingdom.”
“What game areyouplaying, Simon?”
“The one where we win.”Truth.“Callan—we have a fraught relationship. Sometimes it is wonderful, other times, I believe he would kill me. He’s . . . different.”
“Different?”
“It’s a family matter.” Simon kisses my head.
I’m fucking offended. “I’m family.”
“You are. But it is a choice Callan must make—his choice to reveal, not one I make for him. Be on your guard with him, but also remember he is family.” His choice to reveal, and suddenly, I want to know more about the fae.
“Would you take me on a carriage ride? Tell me about the fae?”
Simon’s brows come together. “Not today. Isle and I have a lot to organize to ensure your safety. But soon.”
We lie together on the floor for a while before getting up to enjoy a glass of whiskey. The pitter patter of little feet and a loud noise make us smile—there’s a jiggle of the door knob, and we move to crouch down behind Simon’s large desk. Milo flings open the door, and we carefully peek out around the desk, watching his eyes narrow. Simon’s body shakes from silent laughter, and I have to cover my mouth not to burst with giggles.
Simon kisses my hand, bringing me back to the present, and winks, counting down before we both jump out. Milo squeals with laughter. His set of lock picks drop from his hands, and I swipe them up from the floor with a smirk.
Simon whispers, “Really? A set of lock picks?”
“I was picking locks at his age.” I shrug. “It was a good pastime at the castle.”
