Page 156 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
How have I let it get to this? Hopelessness winds through my chest like thorns, and I close my eyes, dropping my hand.
“If you die…” I trail off, unsure how to finish.
Because the question of what will happen on Beltaine haunts me in my quietest moments. Perhaps he’s right to shut this down before emotions can get involved.
Unfortunately, I think it’s too late for me.
Caed’s head falls back, and he tucks me against him with a sigh, face pressed into my hair, breathing in my scent before he pushes me away. “If? Give the dullahan some credit. He’s a bit slow in his dotage, but I’m sure he’ll eventually manage the task.”
He’s joking about it? Really? My incredulity must show on my face because he rolls over.
“Go back to bed, Rose. It’s safer up there.”
Perhaps it’s foolish, but I don’t. I can’t understand where this emotional chasm between us has sprung from, but I refuseto add physical distance. I lie there, awake amid the soft slumbering breaths of my mates, silently wondering if the curse mark on Caed’s arm is the closest I’ll ever get to seeing my mating mark on his blue skin.
And wishing the thought didn’t hurt as much as it does.
Forty-Six
Drystan
Idon’t think Rose understands how much danger she’s in.
She’s sitting in the main hall, surrounded by courtiers watching her every move with an air of practised disinterest. At least Jaro and Bree are on either side of her, quietly and discreetly tasting the food in each dish before they add a portion to her plate.
They listened to me about that, if nothing else.
Opposite her, the two Fomorians are sitting with the Autumn prince, and already drinking and laughing loudly. They’re celebrating, like they think this court is less dangerous just because Torrance is in the cells and Cedwyn swore his vow. Worse, they’re lulling Rose into the same false sense of security. I’d have intervened already, if not for the púca discreetly using his magic to muffle their words, hiding the details of their conversation from prying ears.
“I’m still confused about how my ass didn’t freeze to the ice latrine,” Praedra says, and I resist the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose or give any outward sign of my exasperation. “Orhow running water works with pipes made of ice. And how is no one else marvelling at the fact that there’s a fire right there”—she gestures at the huge fireplace that dominates one side of the room—“and the ice mantelpiece hasn’t melted?”
Gryffin shrugs, taking a swig of his ale before fixing her with a look that’s nothing short of pure devotion. “It’s just magic. Illidwen’s plumbing relies on the natural systems of the trees?—”
“Just magic? Just magic? Do you have any idea how frustrating that answer is to someone who has no stupid magic?”
The Fomorian’s war paint crinkles as her brow furrows, and I notice several of the fae nearest to her stiffen.
“It is pretty interesting,” Rose agrees, and I want to curse aloud.
They’re all being so… open. Completely ignorant of the sharks all around them. I’ve been standing a little off to the side, wearing a glamour that renders me invisible, for the last half an hour, and in that time, they’ve displayed more emotion than this entire court does in a year. It’s making them look weak. If the Nicnevin looks weak, the armies won’t follow her.
She needs to leave.
Preferably before my mother or Cedwyn can get their hooks into her and find a way to punish her for talking about the mate-bond-which-does-not-exist. Or worse, she gives herself frostbite trying to cuddle the Fomorian.
My palm itches at the memory. Only curiosity stopped me from hauling Rose back into bed last night and turning her ass red for sleeping on the floor. At least the Fomorian managed to pick her sleeping form up and replace her in bed before she lost any toes to the cold.
Small mercies.
My mind flashes back to the moment his eyes met mine in the darkness, and the nod he offered before returning to his place.
His actions don’t align with what I know of his personality, and that has my hackles rising. Caed is an insolent, disrespectful asshole, whose sole method of communication is sarcasm.
This defeated attitude doesn’t fit with my perception of the male who stalked Rose across two courts. Goddess, he has two-and-a-half marks already, and there’s still time until Beltaine to hope he might attain the rest—unlikely though it is.
Growing up with Ashton taught me more than enough about the unpredictability of those who’ve lost their true names.
As long as Elatha lives, Caed’s actions are not his own. Who knows how many orders are webbed beneath his skin, waiting to catch us unaware? Jaro has lost sight of that because he’s fallen into the trap of caring for Rose’s happiness before her safety, just like a typical idealistic seelie.
