Page 72 of Song of the Dark Wood

“Death’s gift is in taking. I have nothing to give. I’m not someone who can love you, Rowan. There’s nothing but darkness where my heart should be.”

“Who said anything about love?” Rowan challenged. She turned to face him head-on. They were so close the fabric of her dress brushed against his boots.

“You really want to do this here, little Red? You want me to make you lie in the temple of the god of death? Next to shrines for your fallen sisters? You want me to pretend that I don’t see that desperate way you look at me like I’m the only person who can take care of you?” he taunted. He slipped into cruelty with surprising ease.

“I don’t need you to tend to me. I can take care of myself,” she snapped.

“Yes, lass, but should you have to?” Conor asked.

Rowan tried to hide any hint of reaction, but the words gutted her. She hated him using her fear as a weapon. “I’ve never been presented with much of a choice, Conor. I’ve done what was required of me.”

“Are you so happy to be the perfect little victim?” he challenged.

The word made her feel ill.Victim. As if everything was happening to her, and she was helpless to the momentum of life. She hated to look right at it, and she was humiliated that Conor saw her complacency.

“You taunt me for being a victim in a bargainyoumade. I am only what I am because you created a game with no thought of who might suffer for you to play it,” Rowan rasped. “You know, the people of Ballybrine and the elders might be careless and cold, but you are actively cruel when it serves you and kind when you want something just the same.”

Conor was content to pull her close when it suited him and shove her away if she touched a nerve. It was for the best that he kept reminding her that he was her enemy. The moment she forgot, she would be the only one who paid the price for it.

He looked equally frustrated and contrite, but she was too embarrassed to stay and hear his apology.

Rowan was no one’s victim. She needed to take care of herself, and that meant walking away instead of standing there waiting to be wounded.

19

CONOR

Despite Conor’s coldness in the temple, he enjoyed having Rowan in the keep. As difficult as it was to ignore the constant nagging pull to her, like a fishhook lodged in his chest reeling him toward her, she brought warmth to the place.

She’d spent the whole week with him, begging off on Friday morning so that she could go spend some time with Aeoife before she returned the following night with a new group of spirits.

Conor knew he was deluding himself. Playing house with a beautiful Maiden was fun, but they were avoiding reality. Things couldn’t stay that way forever. Each time he touched her, she chipped away at the walls he’d built to protect himself. Talking to her was worse because she was clever, funny, and charming in a wholly natural way. It was lovely to see how she bloomed like some wild, exotic rose where most things came to die. She brought the mansion to life in more ways than one.

He’d felt a shift in the energy of the mansion, but it was confirmed when he was wandering by the old greenhouse and noticed that it had gone from dried-out remnants to its former blooming glory. It took him a day to put together that it was dueto her sitting at the top of the east wing hall and singing. Even the luminaries—old plant spirits—had returned from beyond to enjoy the flowers.

Conor didn’t understand Rowan’s magic, but he knew it was something powerful. The house servant spirits seemed just as drawn to her as he was, sneaking away to hear her sing, each relishing the touch of life in her voice.

He should have interrogated her about her power. Several of the other Maidens had spent significant time at the keep, but none had brought with them such a frenzy.

Rowan was still shaken up from her attack in the Dark Wood, so Conor taught her how to fend off an assailant. It had been too long since he felt the adrenaline of a good fight, but the movements were still second nature to him.

Eventually, when being so close to her proved to be a problem, he taught her chess.

It seemed a platonic game. It felt safest to face Rowan with a table between them to keep her at a secure distance, especially with her looking lovely in a light blue dress his seamstress had made to compliment her fair skin and rosy cheeks. There were no innuendos in chess and no touching. There was only Rowan’s brow furrowed adorably as she desperately tried to puzzle out how to beat him. At first, she was competitive and frustrated, but quickly got better—good enough that she could carry on a conversation as they played.

“Tell me about your family,” Conor said, watching her face carefully.

“Tell me about yours,” she countered.

Conor frowned and leaned back in his chair. He tried not to ever think about his family. “What makes you think I have one?”

Her full lips tipped into a half-smile. “The fact that you didn’t immediately reject the idea.”

Conor hesitated. Just talking about it felt like welcoming trouble. “I don’t remember my parents, but I had a brother once. We were close—both of us warriors.”

Rowan’s eyebrows shot up. “So you were a mortal warrior?”

He nodded. “A very long time ago. So good at killing it made me immortal in the minds of men and then immortal in reality. Such is the power of faith.”

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