Page 87 of Crown of Roses
“Tiernan,” Ceridwen admonished. One hand flew to her mouth. “You didn’t.”
“Or how you nearly left me to drown in the Black Lake?” Anger toiled through her. Fresh and hot. Her blood burned. The curse throbbed against her cuffs. Stifling. Causing her to sweat, and flinch, and shake.
“Maeve.” Tiernan spoke her name like a warning. An omen.
“Is that not what you wanted, moh Ri?” She curtseyed dramatically, and spat out his title. “To shame me? To flaunt your power over me?”
In the far recesses of her mind, Maeve became fully aware everyone, save for Casimir, had backed away from them. No doubt they feared their High King’s wrath.
“Either stand beside me, stand behind me, or get out of my fucking way.” She shoved past him toward the doors leading back inside the palace.
“He’d kill me on the spot if I did that,” Merrick muttered.
“You’re not her.” Lir covered his response with a cough.
Maeve whipped back around and the two fae froze. She ignored them. “Cas, please figure this out.” She gestured vaguely to the map spread out on the table. “I need to go…hit something.”
Maeve stormed through the palace, past the glittering blush walls and turquoise pools, to the courtyard where she trained with Casimir and Saoirse. The sun blared overhead, its sweltering rays no longer a balm but a menace. She plucked a sword from the table of weapons Lir brought to them for practice and attacked the closest palm tree. She swung, rejoicing in the tension against her biceps. With every strike, she extended her efforts. Again and again, so that her arms ached. So that her joints clenched then begged for release. So that her fingers throbbed from gripping the hilt of the sword so tightly, she swore it would snap in half. The poor palm tree put up no fight, but she hacked at its bark, unyielding. Unrelenting. Sweat slid down her bodice, her hair curled and frizzed, and when she could barely lift her arms, when they sagged with agony, there was nothing left but the shredded, peeling flesh of the tree.
Her muscles burned but it wasn’t enough. Another swing, but her usually swift movements were sloppy, and she fumbled her sword. She was fuming, furious with herself. With Tiernan. With the entire situation. Every stress, every worry, every fear continued to pile, to mount, to crush her beneath its tremendous weight. Her blood curse pulsed with a life of its own. It fired against her cuffs, frenzied. Wrought with the need to be released. Anger melded with the darkness looming inside her. Vexation churned and bubbled, boiling over so all she wanted was to explode. To expose the world to the monster within.
Maeve tossed the sword aside and tore through the courtyard, ignoring the random faeries within the palace who plastered themselves to the wall in an effort to get out of her way. Her heartbeat hammered, pumped to life with the blood of her enemy. She ran under one of the flowering archways to where the walkway came to an end, to where there was only a ridge of stone about waist-high separating her from the sea. The vast expanse of the Lismore Marin, with its vivid turquoise waters, spread out before her. Endless. Eternal. Below her was a rocky coast, sandy beaches, and the statue of the warrior fae determined to protect his city.
Summer was beautiful. Dazzling. Dramatic.
And it was her own personal hell.
Maeve gripped the edge of the barrier wall, inhaled sharply, and screamed. Unbidden tears streamed down her cheeks, and she screamed again. And when there was nothing left, when her throat was raw and her shoulders drooped from defeat, Maeve dropped to her knees.
Doubt needled its way through her. It pinpricked along her neck, along her spine, sinking its way in, deeper and deeper. She had no idea how to save Kells. There were no books to teach her the art of killing an Archfae. There was no time to learn or study. This was a mistake. Coming to Faeven was a mistake. A complete and utter waste of time. She should’ve stayed in Kells. At least there she would’ve been useful. She could’ve gotten her people to safety. She could’ve helped to savage whatever remained. In the distance, she heard the faint call of thunder. For a moment, she thought nothing of it…until she smelled the tantalizing scent of him.
Maeve didn’t even turn around. She shoved her sweaty, sticky hair back from her face and sucked in another painful breath. “Go away.”
“I’m getting a little tired of you telling me what to do.”
Maeve stood up, turned around, and ignored the pain that seemed to keep her paralyzed before him. “And I’m getting a little tired of you being a self-righteous dick.”
Tiernan closed the distance between them, and his teeth scraped over his bottom lip. “You know nothing about me, Your Highness.”
“And you know nothing about me, my lord.” Her fists clenched, and her nails bit into the skin of her palm. “I didn’t want to come here. This wasn’t my choice. I didn’t ask for the Scathing to ruin my kingdom. I didn’t know there were dark fae under the guise of glamour going about their everyday lives within my city walls. And I sure as hell didn’t ask to be cursed. But here I am, okay? Here I am, doing the best I can to save my world. I wasn’t given an option. Either I went to Faeven in search of this mysterious soul, or my mother was going to kill me. So there you have it. Possible death or inevitable death, and neither of them had very good odds.”
She spread her arms wide. “Is that not enough for you?”
Tiernan grabbed her hips and he hauled her against him. The pressing sensation of fading slammed into her. Thunder roared, a deafening crack, and the heady scent of magic filled her lungs. She squeezed her eyes shut.
When she opened them, she found herself in what could only be described as an office. If it hadn’t been for the sunbeams coating the wooden floor in a golden glow, she would’ve sworn they’d left the Summer Court completely. The walls were navy blue but completely bare. No artwork. No nothing. A mahogany desk was positioned to overlook the city of Niahvess, there was a small sofa along one wall, and a hearth surrounded by brick on the other. Two leather chairs the color of tobacco sat in front of it, and there was a plush, sandy rug, though she didn’t understand why the High King would want a fireplace in his office.
Her legs quaked only slightly, and she trusted herself enough to step forward. Tiernan stood before a small gold pushcart. One shelf was filled with crystal glasses, and the other was stacked with bottles of various liquors. He poured three fingers’ worth of amber liquid into two of the glasses.
“Is this your office?”
He ignored her.
“You didn’t have to fade. We could’ve just walked here.”
Tiernan spun around so fast, Maeve was shocked he didn’t spill any alcohol on the wooden floor.
“Shut up.” He shoved one of the drinks into her hand.
