Page 95 of Atop the Faerie Throne
She looks exhausted, like resignation is written into her very bones. Earlier, she had hope and resolve. Now she’s just tired.
“Enough.” I don’t mean it to come out as snappily as it does, but the sight of my mate sitting there with her needs so obviously unmet has rage skittering up and down my spine. “Rhoswyn. Go to bed. Lorcan?—”
He hops up from where he was lying with his legs against the wall, catching the dagger that topples from his bare feet without missing a beat.
“I’m cuddling Rose, right? Pleeasseee.”
I huff out a breath as I pray, once more, for patience. “You’reguardingRose. She’s exhausted and needs actual sleep.”
Lore takes his hat and pops it over Rose’s hair, where it turns into a droopy nightcap. “The púca wore you out, anyway, didn’t he, pet?” He pauses. “Wait. Don’t forget to come and get me if it looks like I’ll miss out on any maiming, massacring, ormutilation.” He plays with the last word like it amuses him.
My eyebrows rise, but I make no comment beyond jerking my chin at the door.
“The rest of us”—I look around the table, pinning Jaro, Caed, Bree, Prae, Gryffin, Florian, and even Kitarni with my best ‘don’t fuck with me’ look—“are going to work out how to make the will of the Nicnevin a reality.”
Rose stops beside me as she leaves, Wraith nudging her with his black nose. “Drystan…” she murmurs, a pulse of gratitude radiating towards me.
I like it; more than I care to admit. Ilikethat she trusts me enough to do as I ask.
“Sleep well, huntress,” I whisper, gripping her chin between my forefinger and thumb and claiming one of her kisses for myself.
For some reason, she finds the order amusing, so I nip lightly at her lower lip in reprimand as I pull away.
“Yes, master,” she mumbles, the words quiet and meant for me alone.
Great. Now I’m supposed to sort this mess out while ignoring my own rock-hard dick, when I’d much rather take Lorcan’s place and fuck her until she falls apart beneath me.
Tomorrow, I promise myself. I owe her a spanking for scaring the shit out of me this morning, anyway.
The second the door shuts behind her, I nod to the high priestess.
“Kitarni is right. As much as I personally hate the idea, the Goddess has made her plans clear, and arguing about it is pointless. Rose has sworn that she will offer them a solution in the morning. It’s up to us to ensure that the wording of any agreement is sound and that her people will accept it.”
Caed’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing. Jaro, however, isn’t trying to kiss my ass to stay alive.
“And when things go badly?” he challenges. “That will wreck her.”
He’s not wrong. Rose is undoubtedly being too optimistic about all of this. She’s a Nicnevin built for war who craves peace.
“We can make them work,” Bree suggests, his ears unusually still as he studies the map, not meeting any of our eyes. “Visibly repair the damage they did. If this goes well, and they manage to fit in, then there’s hope for after.”
“You’re all forgetting something,” Prae says, as Florian finally crosses to stand beside her, drawing her close. “The bàsron.”
All of them are staring at me, and I sigh. “You have a suggestion?”
“Yes,” Caed answers before she can. “Stop my father before he sets them loose.”
“We can’t cross the Endless Sea.” I wave away the suggestion. “Even if you were a half decent navigator and knew how to sail, we have no ships. The Summer Court is the only one with sea-faring vessels.”
“They need to be dealt with, too,” Kitarni muses. “And soon. Eero cannot be allowed to continue his blasphemy if Rose is to offer the Fomorians shelter.”
“We can’t make a plan to deal with Eero without consulting Rose,” Florian says. “And without those ships, there’s nothing we can do about the bàsron. Stick to wording this bloody bargain, and let’s pray to the Goddess that it doesn’t blow up in our faces.”
Thirty-One
Rhoswyn
At least, when I step back into the war room the next morning, I feel marginally fresher than I did last night. I’m not sure that Drystan has actually slept, nor Florian, but I know better than to suggest either of them take a break. Not when they’re both so rigid and sporting swiftly healing bruises.
