Page 122 of Crown of Roses
His arm shot out and he hauled her against him. She instantly felt the crush of magic, the overwhelming rush of cedarwood and orange blossom as they faded, and when she could finally breathe again, she found herself on an empty beach of pale pink sand with Tiernan standing opposite of her. His pants were rolled and he stood barefoot across from her. He removed his shirt, tediously undoing every button before tossing it aside. With his gilded tattoos caressing his skin, he looked to be carved from the sunlight. An eternal Summer King.
“Alright, High Princess.” He outstretched his arms and curled his fingers toward her. “Come at me.”
Her magic billowed within her and his nostrils flared.
She hesitated. “Do I smell bad?”
He blinked, stumbled back a step, and a strange look reflected in his eyes. “What?”
Humiliation stung her cheeks. “Do I stink?”
Tiernan said nothing, bewildered.
Maeve strode toward him through the sand and jabbed a finger into his chest. “You hesitated. I do smell bad.”
“No. You don’t smell bad.” He caught her wrist before she could poke him again. “Why would you even think such a thing?”
“Because…because Fearghal said I smelled of smoke and death.” She let her shoulders rise and fall. “I can’t smell it, but it doesn’t sound very appealing.”
“Maeve.” He gingerly placed both of his hands on her shoulders and inhaled deeply. “You smell of tempting cinnamon woods. Of autumn bonfires and toasted vanilla. You smell of life, of fire, and a sweetened smoky scent lingers whenever you leave a room. It’s fucking intoxicating.”
His hands fell away.
“Oh.” An unexpected blush crawled up her neck and spread across her chest. “Okay.”
“Good. Now let’s get started.” He stepped back to put some space between them on the stretch of beach. “So, when the time comes, you’ll be prepared.”
Maeve nodded sharply, the command in his voice enough to steer her stubbornness back into place.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She wasn’t, but she damn well wasn’t going to tell him that. “Yes.”
Maeve would fight for Faeven, and she would fight for Autumn. She would kill Parisa, and she would bring Aran back to their Court. She would purge the Scathing, and she would find Saoirse. She would take her crown, and she would take her throne. She was the breath of life. The touch of death. The source of all magic.
I will not yield.
I will not break.
She was the sun. The moon. And the stars.
Never setting. Always rising. Eternal like the night.
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