Page 64 of Crown of Roses
Lir lifted his head in acknowledgment, and she couldn’t be certain, but she thought he may have smiled at her. Another small win. Maybe she could befriend him yet. In Faeven, it was always good to have at least one faerie on your side.
Tiernan’s brows lifted when he looked between them, but then he strolled forward, and Casimir released her at once. She didn’t move, just watched him approach, though she was silently grateful when Saoirse and Brynn appeared within her line of sight. They noticed the High King as well and stalled their own training when the stifling air trapped inside the high walls of the courtyard became ripe with tension.
Tiernan stood before her, looking as though he’d just returned from holding court. He was decadent. Crisp and polished. And there was a ring on his pinky she’d never noticed before. It was made from a shimmering gold and shaped like the sun. The stone cradled inside of it was a perfect match to the color of his eyes. He lifted the ripped piece of fabric hanging off her shoulder.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You ruined your dress.”
“Well.” Maeve planted her hands on her hips. “Maybe if I had something more practical to wear, I wouldn’t have this problem.”
Merrick coughed—loudly—his eyes wide with shock. Lir hit him on the back.
The High King inclined his head. “I assumed as a princess, you would want fitting attire.”
“You assumed wrong.” She’d never been treated like a princess, even though she was one by birth. She’d never been given pretty dresses, or jewels, or a crown. Sure, the gowns Deirdre brought her were the most decadent things to ever touch her skin. But they were useless when it came to fighting, even if they did have pockets. She needed leggings, corsets, blouses, and boots. They let her move. Defend. Attack.
She pointed to Saoirse. “Why can’t I wear something like that?”
Tiernan glanced over to where Saoirse stood in sleek leggings, a cropped purple top with heavy beading, and shiny black boots. “You want to wear something more comfortable so you can fight?”
“Yes.” Belatedly, Maeve prayed to the goddess, hoping it wasn’t a trick question.
“Fair enough.” When he turned back to face her, everything shimmered. The heady scent of orange blossom and cedarwood filled her senses, and she sucked in a breath.
Her tattered cotton dress was gone. Instead, she wore black leggings and a pair of boots laced up to her knees. A strapless corset cinched her waist, cut low across her breasts, and was the color of the sea. Layers of iridescent beading swirled around the corset like a wave, and her Aurastone was strapped to her thigh.
“Better?” Tiernan asked, sliding one of his twin swords from its sheath.
Hesitancy curdled in Maeve’s gut. There was a slight chance she may have misunderstood the High King’s intent. “Y-yes.”
“Good.” He nodded to Casimir. “May I cut in?”
Casimir bowed and stepped back without question.
“Well, Princess Maeve of Kells. Let’s see what you’ve got.” When Tiernan smiled, it was absolutely sinister.
Maeve had definitely made a mistake.
She barely had time to react before he lunged, his sword cutting through the air right above her head. She ducked and rolled, then jumped up to face him, her own weapon at the ready. But fighting an Archfae was nothing like fighting Casimir. For one, his speed was unrivaled. For every step, every motion, every strike and attack, Maeve was two seconds too late. The tip of his sword nicked her arm, her shoulder. Sliced her cheek. Her curse heated her skin, rushing to tend the wounds he inflicted with ease. Again and again, he attacked, giving her no time to dodge or parry. No time to counterattack, or think.
Tiernan was overpowering her. He was faster. Stronger. And worse, the magic inside her roared. It pulsed against her cuffs, caused her entire body to hum and vibrate with a kind of sporadic energy she couldn’t control. Her grip faltered. Her vision blurred. Beads of sweat dripped from her forehead into her eyes. Exhaustion tore at her muscles. The burning sensation of the healing, and the pounding heat of the sun was too much. She weakened. Desperate to defend herself, Maeve lifted her arm high to strike, forced herself to do something, anything to give her some kind of advantage. But Tiernan was too much.
He knocked her sword from her hand and she stumbled back, so he pinned her between himself and the edge of one of the fountains. Sprays of cool water splattered against her backside. He snagged her waist and hauled her close to him.
“You’re cheating,” she gasped.
“Or perhaps you’re just not good enough,” he crooned, his voice laced with malice. He raised the tip of his sword so its sharp blade pressed firmly against the base of her throat.
“Maeve!” Saoirse called her name, and there was a commotion of shouts behind them.
“Tell them I won’t hurt you, astora.” Tiernan’s harsh whisper scraped across her flushed skin.
She glared up at him. “He…he won’t hurt me.”
He was too close. The tempting scent of him, of palm trees, and sandalwood, and florals, overwhelmed her. Every inch of her tired body was pressed against every solid inch of him. He ran his teeth along his bottom lip, and her gaze betrayed her, darting down to his mouth.
“You think I’m attractive.” He almost sounded surprised, and lowered his weapon.
“No,” Maeve ground the word out. “No, I don’t.”
