Page 54 of The Forever Queen

“Tell me, sorceress, of the stories your clann told of the barbarian king of the fae. The ghoulish monster that sucked on children’s bones inside caves, between the forest’s claws, in the dead of night,” he asked.

Aisling was quiet for several breaths, her face concealed where she still stood with her back to Lir. The Sidhe king worked slowly, biding his time with his hunt at last cornered and rendered prone.

“Tell me,” Lir pushed. “Tell me a tale of my infamy.” He wanted to hear her speak of his terrors, of his villainy, of his demonic appetite, and condemn him. He wanted to hear her confess her hatred for him and perhaps, if the Forge was willing, he’d know it was Anduril and not Aisling who spoke.Perhaps, he pleaded in his mind.

Aisling remained silent, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Anduril rang hotly, seemingly glowing a brighter shade of Niltaor gold.

Niamh’s rains beat down, yet they both stood still as Lir clipped the last fastener. Aisling turned on her heel and faced him.

“Describe to me the monster you see,” Lir said.

Her violet eyes explored him, brightening and widening the way they once had when she was fully mortal. She tipped her chin up to see him fully, so small in comparison to the broad shadow he cast over her and yet, boundless courage as she faced the legend she’d been born to despise. And Lir knew such bravery was no work of Anduril’s. Even before Aisling could lift a blade much less wield it, she’d stood before him at their handfasting with the same determination she did now—fury and all.

Aisling took a single step toward him and then another. Her heart beat like a rabbit, fluttering beneath the shadow of his attention. Lir’s chest tightened, but he did his best to conceal the power she held over him. He closed the remaining distance between them until they stood chest to chest. Her breath mingling with his own. Her hands, her arms, her lips, just within reach.

Lir didn’t believe in monsters. Neither did he believe in heroes. There was onlywant, and Niamh was right: LirwantedAisling more than anything. Yet, for the first time, no manner of strength, of cunning, of dominion, would win Aisling for Lir. It mattered not the wildness of his wolf nor his reign overall. His soul and his word had been bargained. Their fate together was a lightning-struck oak, alive at the roots but burning to a taper. So if Lir couldn’t have her, he’d give everything of himself for her, to her, in honor of her. Just this time, despite the rage, the jealousy, the frustration scratching inside, he’d bite his tongue.

“I don’t believe in monsters,” she said, as though she’d stolen the words from his heart and spoken them as her own.

CHAPTER XXIII

AISLING

Castle Yillen floated between the thunderclouds of the Other, traveling like a petal in the wind. At Niamh’s whim, the castle moved, casting a shadow atop the Other’s forests, lakes, canyons, and fields, all sparkling with bygone magic. And if one looked hard enough from the flying towers of Castle Yillen to the emerald earth below, one might catch the shifting of giants, of demons, of a world alive and throbbing with power.

Aisling held her breath the moment she peered over Castle Yillen’s edge. The drop below appeared endless, stretching further away from her the longer she looked. Aisling gulped, doing her best to ignore the quivering of her knees.

“Ready,ellwyn?” the fae king asked.

Ellwyn.

The word elicited a growl from Anduril but a purring from herdraiocht. He was mocking her with sweet titles, his arrogance thick.

The Sidhe king stood a few paces behind Aisling, tightening the saddle of an ebony stag. Aisling glanced at him over her shoulder, careful not to meet the glimmering sage of his eyes. For each time they locked gazes, Aisling’s heart raced, herdraiochtthrashed, and Anduril pressed against the walls of her mind until her temples ached. Even so, Aisling could hardly help it. The fae king was a dark rogue, dressed in battle leathers and armor forged by the nimble fingers of mountain trolls. Every edge of metal was etched with garlands, runic symbols, and blade scars. Each nick, a memory of the violence the fae king had both endured and inflicted.

Dark jewels and metals winked from his pointed ears. His usual wind-tousled hair was combed neatly back, curling at his nape and ears from Niamh’s storms. Aisling watched the veins in both his hands and forearms cord around his limbs like the roots of an oak. His muscles rippling beneath the sticky layer of soaked leather and fabric as he secured the saddle. But it was the way he whispered to the stag beneath his breath, soothing the beast in Rún that silenced Anduril’s screeching to a whisper, leaving only the beating of Aisling’s heart drumming in her ears.

At last, the fae king caught Aisling staring. He studied her closely even after she nervously averted her eyes.

“Ellwyn?” he repeated.

Ellwyn. Aisling rolled the name over her tongue again and again. Anduril spat the word like poison, gagging and heaving for breath.

“I’m ready,” Aisling said. The sorceress approached the stag and took hold of the saddle’s horn. The stag huffed, prancing in place nervously. It appeared to smell herdraiocht; its nostrils flared and the wiry hair at its haunches rose like needles.

“Easca,” Lir hissed at the beast. Still, the stag eyed Aisling warily—her magic both potent and unfamiliar. Some creatures slithered, crawled, or flew from their nests, dens, and burrows to breathe the same air as Aisling. Others reacted as if Aisling were a wolf herself, biding her time till she snapped her maw shut and devoured them whole.

“Perhaps we need another mount,” Aisling suggested. Aisling looked around. It was the dead of night and most of the blue rabbits that tended to the stables were off drinking in the tavern hall at the base of Castle Yillen.

“Geld is strong enough for the both of us,” Lir said, and while Aisling knew the fae king understood that wasn’t the issue, she didn’t protest.

Aisling grabbed the horn of the saddle once more. Ignoring Geld’s protests, Lir held Aisling’s waist and lifted the sorceress onto the stag. His hands, large and firm, carried her as though she weighed no more than an owl’s feather, setting her gently down. His touch was tender whilst still bearing the promise of untold might. Aisling swallowed her yelp, swinging her leg over Geld’s back and sliding closer to the horn to make room for Lir. The fae king leaped atop the stag behind her.

Aisling tensed. She felt the warm brush of his thighs, the solid wall of his chest, and the strength of his arms as he reached his hands around her and grabbed Geld’s reins. Aisling swallowed. Had she ever been this close to the fae king before? Suddenly, she couldn’t remember.

Skin like thorns, words like venom, hands like claws, Anduril snarled.Hate, hate, hate.

Aisling wrenched her eyes shut, holding her breath. Were these her words? Her thoughts? Her feelings? Her mind despised the beast, but her body relished him. Needed him closer still. Even as Anduril chimed hotly against both Aisling’s hips and Lir’s thighs. And if the fae king noticed, he said not a word, pressing his palm against her abdomen and pulling her closer.

---