Page 75 of Beneath a Shattered Sky
“Maybe because she has two of them for mates,” I mumble sleepily.
The entire room goes quiet.
“Rosie,” Jaro says, quietly, his hands stroking my face in a way that feels so good but also keeps me from slipping into the coma I so desperately crave. “What do you mean by that?”
“Florian and Gryffin are her mates,” I mumble. “I suppose that explains why Florian gave her his sword. When was someone going to tell me his gift was finding things? That sounds so useful.”
“He doesn’t talk about it,” Jaro replies. “It’s not really a warrior’s gift?—”
“Mates?” Caed interrupts, his voice sharp enough with shock to bring my brain back from the edge of slumber. “I thought they were just fucking. And now she has two fairy princes?” He gets up from his spot on the floor, abandoning the sword he was oiling. “We need to have a talk about…”
But whatever he’s saying becomes inaudible as he gets too far away.
“Someone ought to tell Florian that his mate is being courted by another male,” Jaro mutters, leaving the bed.
“I’ll do it,” I say, shifting and reaching for the edge of my covers. “I’ll write him a letter. I need to tell him about Bram,” I trail off, and Lore squeezes my blanket cocoon silently, keeping me from leaving his side.
“We can do that, pet. I can blink Jaro to the capital, and?—”
“No. It should be me. He… he died for me.” The pressure in my chest constricts. “And he’s my brother.”
“You’re not taking her to a warzone,” Jaro says, and I want to roll my eyes at the double standard. “Write the letter in the morning, Rosie. Right now, you need to rest.”
“Can she write it after I wake her up with my cock?”
Jaro’s wolf peeks out from behind his eyes, a tiny growl slipping free, but I meet his eyes and shake my head.
“You can wake me up however you like.” I turn to Lore and press a kiss to his jaw. “My body is yours. Just let me sleep first.”
And as I snuggle into my mad mate, I hear Jaro mutter, “We really need to make sure she understands what it means when she says that before you get any ideas, redcap.”
But whatever Lore says in reply is lost to the insistent demands of sleep.
Twenty-Three
Caed
I’m genuinely surprised I haven’t worn a groove in the wooden floor of the corridor outside of Rose’s room with all my pacing. Prae is in there with her, which means that I’m stuck with the withering prince, but he’s handling the entire situation better than I am.
“You’re giving me a headache,” he complains, examining his nails with a bored disposition that is starting to get on my nerves.
“Did you even ask my cousin whether she wanted your company?” I retort. “Or are you just here to get your balls handed to you?”
It was enough of a shock learning that Prae was the mate of the damned Knight Commander, but this prick as well? And to make matters worse, the fact that she’s in there, playing dress up with Rose, means that the last week of their insufferable banter has been working.
She’s considering him. Seriously. Honestly and truthfully thinking about becoming his mate. I unknowingly encouraged ityesterday, when I showed her the faint wolf’s head outline in the topmost frame of my curse mark.
The wolf is starting to trust me. It’s pre-emptive to say I’ve won over two of the four, but it’s more hope than I ever dared hope for. Prae thinks the same, and now that she believes we have a chance, she’s starting to think about what her life will look like after this war is over.
It’s ironic; two fairy princes for her, and a fairy queen for me. No doubt Danu is getting her fair share of laughs out of the pair of us. Yet, the more I contorted my arm to stare at that wolf’s head mark, the less I minded.
Gryffin looks up and pins me with a glare. “I’d have thought you, of all people, would understand the urgency that is consummating the bond when your power is deadly. Just how many people have you accidentally hurt since the Nicnevin came of age?”
None. Because I’ve barely been allowed in Rose’s presence, and even when I am, my swords are firmly under the thumb of Danu’s fucking curse.
But I’m not about to admit that to him. “I hate to break it to you, but my cousin hates gingers.”
His eyes narrow into slits of fiery hazel, and I know he’s tasted the lie. Before he can call me on it, a hand cuffs me around the head from behind.
