Page 31 of The Rowan
ARDEN
Pixies hammer loudly in my brain, and I grasp my head with both hands to hold it together. What the hell did I drink? I groan. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this hungover. Potion. I need a potion for the pain, but I can’t open my eyes. I try to pull the pillow over my head, except I’m not lying on a pillow. I’m lying on something warm and hard and big.
The smell of a bonfire on a crisp night has me opening one blurry eye. Smooth brown skin comes into focus. Skin means a body, and not my pale body, either. Dread rolls through me. Forcing the other eye open, I see a familiar headboard. What am I doing back in Valerian’s bed? And with Valerian?
The bed shifts, and a hand drops on my waist, pulling me tighter to the warm body beneath me, skin meeting skin. What the hell happened to my clothes? Panic rises.
“How are you feeling this morning, lass?” Valerian asks gruffly. “You drank a hell of a lot of whiskey last night. I think between us, we finished the bottle. I’m getting up to get a glass of water and a potion, do you want one?”
“Yes,” I croak, parched.
Valerian shifts me to the side and stands. The sheet slips down, and I gather my courage and peek. Boxer briefs. Black, tight-fitting boxer briefs and a rock-hard ass. Any other time, and I’d stop and admire the sight before me, but I’m so relieved to see clothes, I can’t even think about what’s under them. It doesn’t mean something didn’t happen, but it’s a start.
Shifting in the bed, I wait until he’s in the bathroom, then lift the sheet. My black lace bra and panties are…on. My heart thuds in my chest. Nothing big happened. I sigh with relief…I think. I drop the sheet when I hear the door open. Scooting up in the bed, I tuck the sheet around me.
He places a glass of water and a vial of potion in my hand. “You’re a lifesaver,” I whisper, not wanting the pixies to start jackhammering in my skull again. My fingernail pops the cork off the potion, and I pour it down my throat, then drink the entire glass of water.
He takes the empty glass and sets it down on the nightstand, while I lean back and close my eyes. It usually takes about fifteen minutes for the potion to remove all traces of a hangover. Fingers slide into my hair, massaging my scalp.
Mmm…that feels good.I drift peacefully.
He stops massaging. “It’s been ten minutes, lass. Better?”
“Yes, thank you,” I reply, opening my eyes. “What happened last night?”
“Well,” he says with a grin, “I opened my best bottle of whiskey, and you almost drank me under the table. Only Fallon or Astor comes close to drinking as much as me, but you quickly passed their limits.”
“I’m used to this homemade demon whiskey Vargas brews. It’s like fire going down and carries a hell of a punch. Your whiskey felt smooth as glass, in comparison,” I explain. “Why are we in your bed, half-naked?”
“You tried to take advantage of me. After you took off your clothes, you climbed in my bed and insisted I take off mine,” he says fondly, scratching his chin as he thinks about last night. “Then when I caved, you promptly passed out. I joined you, covered us up, and fell asleep.”
Heat covers me from my face to my chest as embarrassment crawls over my body. Clearing my throat, I confirm, “So, nothing happened between us. We drank, I stripped, then passed out?”
“Aye, lass. I wouldn’t take advantage of you in that state. In fact, we sort of need to have a conversation before anything happens between us,” he says reluctantly. “First, I need to tell you a story.”
Scooting up, I cross my arms over my knees and wait.
Valerian reaches into the nightstand beside the bed, pulls out a small painted picture of a beautiful woman, and hands it to me. The painter easily captured her sparkling blue eyes and auburn hair, along with a quirk in the corner of her mouth, which seems to suggest she was amused when sitting for the painting.
I scrutinize Valerian. A nightstand picture is serious. It’s within reach for a reason.
Pacing the room, his hands behind his back, he starts his story. “Her name was Moira MacAllister. She was a witch and I loved her, very much. We grew up in the same small town. Her family had lived in the village for as long as I can remember. I paid little attention, until one day, I saw her playing in the field with other children. Her laughter filled the air, and all I wanted from that day forward was to be near her. Whenever I could get away from my duties, I went to her. First, we were friends, sharing secrets and adventures.” He pauses, eyes cloudy with memories. “Until one day, I looked up and saw a grown woman, and my feelings changed from sweet friendship to desire and love. Nervous I’d ruin our friendship, I waited weeks to tell her. When I finally told her, she laughed and told me she’d almost given up on such a dunce.” He laughs in remembrance.
“For the next year, we would sneak away, spend hours loving each other, then sneak back to our homes. We knew we needed to tell our families, but it was as if we could sense the timing was wrong. So we held on to our secret.” Valerian sits down on the bed and glances at the painting before continuing, “She gave me this picture for our one-year anniversary. It meant the world to me.”
Love shines in his eyes, and it’s breathtaking. A thousand years later, and he still feels love for this woman. Envy pinches my heart.
“I left the painting on my nightstand. That night, my father, who never visited my room, decided he had to speak to me. When he saw the painting, he knew. He asked me if she was my mate. I told him I loved her and intended to marry her, but she was not my mate. He demanded I stop seeing her, and I refused. Incensed, he left, locking me in my room with guards posted.” His voice tightens with anger. “It took me an hour to get past them, but by then, it was too late. My father had already killed Moira.”
Valerian drops his head into his hands. “Blind rage filled me. This man, my father, killed the brightest light in my world. Why? Because he was the King of Dragons, and he refused to allow me, his son and the future king, to marry a witch. And to be sure her family wouldn’t retaliate, he ordered his guards to kill her family, which they did. Not because it was right, but because he commanded it.” He glances at me nervously. “So I took his kingship away. I murdered him and all those who helped him, dragged my father’s lifeless dragon into the chamber, took the crown, and placed it on my head. From that point on, I was King of Dragons.” His eyes, full of anguish, stare at me, trying to gauge my reaction.
Tears sting my eyes, for him, her, their families, and even his father. Sitting up on my knees, I pull him into my arms and squeeze tightly. He gives a large exhale, yanks me into his lap, wraps his big arms around me, and holds me tightly. Finally, I lean back and look at him. “I’m so sorry.”
Tears fill his eyes at my response. “Thank you, lass,” he says gruffly. “Besides the cadre, the entire world thinks my ambition drove me to murder my father, to become King of Dragons. My clan hates me. If they could get rid of me, they would. For a long time, I believed I deserved it, until I met the cadre. They saved me, convinced me that neither Moira nor I deserved it.”
“I could go punch a few of them in the balls for you,” I offer.
He gives me a mock scowl. “That’s not even remotely fucking funny. It hurt!”
