Page 39 of Song of the Dark Wood

It was impossible to lie under the heat of his gaze. Rowan shook her head, and his lips quirked into a half-grin. Every smile she earned from him required a gallant effort. He always seemed to be fighting to maintain his stern demeanor.

“Why?”

“Well, I feel rather…naked,” she admitted.

“That’s a bad thing?” His tone was teasing, but her cheeks heated. “I must admit, I rather like the way you blush so easily. It’s charming.”

Rowan’s eyes darted to his. Of all things for him to be charmed by.

“It’s not an entirely practical dress,” she murmured.

“I suppose it depends on what you’re doing,” Conor said.

Rowan tilted her chin down so her hair fell in front of her heated cheeks.

Thankfully, he said nothing else as he crossed the room and picked up his robe. He helped her into it, allowing his fingers to trail over her shoulders and up her neck as she shivered.

“Thank you. I was cold,” she said, trying to cover up her reaction to Conor’s proximity.

He turned and made his way to a chair by the fire. Rowan followed, easing herself into the plush velvet seat. There was already a mug of hot cider waiting for her. This time, as she sipped, she welcomed the harsh burn of the whiskey.

“The elders want answers about the blight. You said not to worry about it, but they’ve made it my problem,” Rowan said.

“Aren’t you all business?” he teased. “It’s still spreading.”

“Is there a way to stop it?” she asked.

“There is, but it’s absolutely a last resort.”

She swallowed thickly. “Do youwantto stop it?”

He stared, his eyes almost animalistic in their assessment of her. She was used to hearing the rhythmic pulse of people’s energy and could make sense of their feelings from it, but Conor was silent, unreadable. It was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“It seems to me it would be to your benefit for death to spread, no?” It was a bold question, but she was tired of dancing around things. She couldn’t return to the elders without answers.

Conor gulped down his cider. The steam from it clouded her view of his eyes as he watched her over the rim of his mug.

“I can see why you would think that, but there’s meant to be a balance between the worlds, Rowan. I have no use for the living,” he said finally.

It wasn’t exactly an answer. Rowan raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to say more, but he didn’t.

“Did you kill Orla?” The question slipped out in a rush of breath.

Conor’s expression was placid, but his eyes narrowed on her. She clenched her hands, waiting for his response.

“I may not have struck the killing blow, but I blame myself all the same,” he said at last.

Rowan waited breathlessly for him to say more. Once again, he left her wanting, but if he was admitting responsibility, it was wise not to push.

He sipped his cider, his gaze fixed on her. “How was your week?”

She let out a surprised giggle.

“That’s funny?”

Rowan clapped a hand over her mouth. “No, I’m sorry. It’s just an abrupt deflection, and that’s not what I was expecting.” She considered pressing further. “My week was—it was terrible. Everyone is disappointed that you didn’t take me to bed. I’ve never had so many people so interested in my virtue. It’s quite uncomfortable. Worse, I found out there’s?—”

She cut herself off. If Conor didn’t know about the journals, it was possible they held secrets about him.

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