Page 94 of Iron Blade

“Snap out of it!” Dairo said, shaking Eoghan roughly by the shoulder. “Get your wife out of here.”

Eoghan was reanimated by his cousin. He stood, scraping his chair along the ground.

Without a word, Eoghan pulled me from the seat and picked me up bridal style. Aoibheann reached out toward me, her slender arms like a ribbon flying in the hurricane as Eoghan marched us up the stairs, down the long, dark corridor, and back to his room.

He slammed the door closed, before depositing me gently on the bed.

He got up, and walked back to the door, making sure it was locked, before he planted his forehead against the wood, letting out a howl of anger as he slammed his fist on the door again and again. It was a wonder the door didn’t splinter under his attack.

I didn’t know what to say, so I stayed silent. The two of us stayed in the darkened room, breathing quietly as early evening turned into black night.

I didn’t understand what I had just witnessed. All I knew was that I didn’t like it at every possible level - as a wife, as a spy, and as a woman who wanted nothing more than to bring families like this down.

Chapter thirty-two

The Tree of Life

Eoghan

Igrabbed my wife and ran her up the stairs to our bedroom, and slammed the door shut. I gently laid her on the bed, before going back to make sure the door was locked. Who knew what my father would do with his temper flared like this?.

He’d take his rage out on someone, and since I had not let him do so with me, he might turn his sights on Kira.

Christ, what had I done? Why had I brought her here?

I knew it would be bad, but I didn't think it would be knife-through-my-hand bad. I slammed my fist on the wood, feeling it give against my knuckles.

He could have hurt my wife, and I would have stood, too frozen to do anything about it. I slammed my fist again, punching the door as I should have punched my father, but did not.

Without a word, I went back to Kira, coming to my knees between hers, and laying my cheek on her lap. She didn’t push me away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around my head, leaning down to plant kisses near my upturned ear, as she ran her fingernails along my scalp.

We stayed there for long minutes, even when we heard the sound of footsteps outside the door. I could always tell Aoibheann’s, because they were as soft as a feather. My father, on the other hand, walked like he was on stilts, and his guards? Well, their heavy, clodding boots always rumbled through the halls at night, as my father had mysterious meetings in his rooms. Meetings I was never privy to.

When the house went quiet, the danger passed, her voice caressed me from above. “Tell me about the sketch of the tree.”

I looked up at her, then followed her gaze. She was staring at a sketch of a Celtic tree with deep roots that stood on the dresser, tucked into the frame of the mirror.

“My mother was obsessed with the Tree of Life,” I said, my eyes blurry with everything that had happened this week. From the high of my wedding, to the abject low of this dinner, I was exhausted.

“It doesn’t look like it belongs as a sketch,” she said idly, her fingers twisting into my hair.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my finger making circles as it traveled up her bare thigh, lazily caressing her skin.

“It should be a sculpture,” she said, her fingers tracing my cheekbone. “Gold, and wire, I think.”

“My mum said the Tree of Life was a symbol of love, connecting roots and wings, the heaven, earth, and hell,” I idly said, feeling the tension from the dinner draining from my body. I was numb.

“I agree with her.”

I faintly felt the caress of a rose-scented hand - a ghost hand. A memory of my mother, as she told me of this image.

“We should make one,” Kira said, her voice pensive and far away. Like a disembodied, angelic call from the heavens that didn’t belong with the likes of me. “Make it a backdrop for our wedding photos.”

I lifted my head quickly, looking at her in question.

“We didn’t get wedding photos, and I’m not saying we do the wedding again,” she looked quite sheepish. “But I would like pictures of us. Me, in my dress, you in your suit, with our rings. Something I could display on my desk at the gallery, to show that I’m… I’m…”

She was still uncomfortable referring to herself as Mrs. Green. I didn’t blame her.

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