Page 30 of Crown of Roses
He sidled up closer, until his hand covered hers on the railing and she was flush against him. “Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that again.”
The tip of his nose brushed against hers. “Like what?”
“Like…” Like she was the sun and he wanted to worship her for all eternity.
“What do you think you’re doing?” A male baritone sounded from behind Maeve and she whipped around, stumbling backward into Rowan’s chest.
He steadied her and stepped away, putting some distance between them. She fully expected to see Casimir glowering down at her, but instead it was Aran who stood before them. But his scowl wasn’t directed at her. Instead, he looked like he wanted to kill Rowan.
“Nothing,” Rowan muttered, and he adjusted the collar of his shirt, displaying the band of scars across his chest. “Anymore.”
“Good. You should know better than to sully things of beauty.” Aran’s voice was eerily calm and drenched in so much fury, Maeve shivered. “Especially when they don’t belong to you.”
What the hell? Was this fae actually implying she belonged to someone? Like property? She would die before she allowed such a transgression to pass. She found her spine then, and fisted her hands on her hips. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
Aran’s emerald gaze flicked to her, and for a brief second, his stormy expression softened. “Of course.” Then he shot a look of warning to Rowan and held it until Rowan finally looked away first.
What the fuck?
There was a past between these two. She suspected as much from their tense greeting yesterday afternoon, but now there was no mistaking it. They did not like each other. At all.
“Would you care to join me for breakfast, Your Highness?” Aran inclined his head. “The rest of your companions are already there.”
The subtle inclination was understood. She was late, and her absence had not gone unnoticed. No doubt she would suffer an earful from Casimir, as well as Saoirse—though for vastly different reasons.
“Okay.” Maeve rolled her shoulders back.
“This way.”
She glanced back at Rowan one final time, and though he said nothing, he watched her walk away.
Maeve turned back to follow Aran and wasn’t quick enough to silence her gasp.
“It’s okay.” Aran spoke quietly. Not quite a whisper, but a low, subdued murmur. “You can stare. I assure you, I’m used to it.”
Maeve’s gaze roved over his back. He wore a sheer green shirt with tiny gold embroidered leaves, but it was not enough to disguise the scarring along his back. There were two identical gouges, one on each side, just below his shoulder blades. The skin was jagged and torn, the edges of flesh red and blackened, and pulled taut into the shape of deformed crescent moons.
“What…” She didn’t even want to ask. But her curiosity was a secondary curse. “What happened to you?”
“I almost died.”
She scoffed in return. “Obviously.”
Aran whirled around then with one auburn brow arched high, and Maeve simply shrugged. “How?”
Scrutiny flowed from him. He wasn’t sure what to think of her, or her daring foolishness to use sarcasm when speaking with a fae. She could only hope he had a decent sense of humor. He took a slow, steadying breath. “My wings were cut off.”
Maeve’s hands flew to cover her mouth. She stared at him, wide-eyed. What an awful, torturous thing to have suffered. But then, “You had wings?”
The awe of his admission was more than she could handle.
A low chuckle escaped him. “You sound surprised.”
“Just impressed.”
He smiled then, and it warmed a cold place within her soul. “Yes. I had wings. And they were resplendent.”
