Page 38 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

The warm glow from the fire touches my already burning skin. I’m grateful for the bandages wrapped around my chest, making the thin white material a little less revealing.

I clear my throat. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did,” he interrupts, turning to face me. “Don’t lie to me, Slìbhìn. Join me.” Odhran sighs, closing his eyes and leaning back against the couch, facing the fire once more.

Pulling on the hem of the shirt I’m wearing, I round the end of the C-shaped couch, stubbing my toe and stumbling forward.

I mumble curses under my breath, but he doesn’t notice. To my surprise, Odhran’s feet are bare when he rests them on the matching ottoman in front of him. The action is too normal, almost making him seem human—unlike the monster I saw in the ballroom hours ago. A more comfortable outfit replaces his formal attire, soft black pants in place of his slacks and a long-sleeved charcoal tunic instead of his buttoned shirt. “Your glass is on the floor. It would be wise not to kick it like you did the couch.”

I narrow my eyes at him. He can’t see me, but I don’t care. There’s enjoyment to be found in the indulgence of one’s loathing. I never got to act on my emotions back in the manor, and I refuse to suffer the same here.

A plate rests atop a cushion two seats to his left, a half-eaten peach and a small golden knife laying atop it.

“I know what you are thinking. It is not wise.”

“I don’t care for wisdom. He needs to pay for what he’s done,” I answer.

Exhaling, I cease my attempts to force the shirt below my knees and square my shoulders, approaching the object of my desire at a steady pace. Softly and soundlessly, I lift it, holding my breath as I do. It doesn’t scrape against the plate, nor does it clink its rim. The knife, despite its size, is heavy. Pure gold.

“You need to trust me,” Aed warns, but I ignore him. I don’t know if I trust anyone fully.

He filled my glass with a liquid I’m unfamiliar with. Unlike the wine in my father’s cellar, this is amber. Raising it from the floor at his feet, I swirl it in the glass, breathing it in. Its smell is pleasing, yet strong enough to steal my breath. The action buys me time to study him and decide where to sink my blade.

“Have a seat.” His eyes are still closed as he leans against the velvet backrest of the long curved couch.

“What makes you think I want to?” I challenge, hiding the blade behind my back and jutting my chin out in mock confidence.

He opens his eyes, staring at the fire in front of him. Odhran’s grip tightens around his bottle, his jaw set and tense. “Don’t play games with me. I’m not in the mood. You heard what we were saying. You must have questions. If you want answers, sit.” With an exaggerated sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose, then rolls his head back again, shutting his eyes.

This is what I’ve been waiting for. An opportunity to strike without anticipation. I’ve never killed, or even so much as wounded, anyone before. At least not on purpose. My eyes survey the room. There’s a first time for everything.

“Fine,” I answer, sounding as stubborn as before. Closing my fingers around the small hilt of the knife, I tighten my grip. It’s now or never. My pulse drums in my neck as I stalk toward him, leaving my glass on the floor next to the ottoman. I move between him and the hearth.

“Do not be rash, young one. We do not have a plan laid out yet.” Aed’s warning sounds annoyed. “Tell me, where will you run to once that blade sinks into his flesh?”

“In any direction you point me to.”

“Not yet.”

I ignore him, approaching my target, the tall and broad-shouldered immortal prince. My grip tightens on my weapon as Odhran’s eyes remain closed. He took me against my will. He had me leave behind my mother’s belongings, the only reminders I have left of her. He forced me to hurt Declan. He forced me to forsake Laoise. Odhran stole everything from me. He deserves this.

Standing in front of him, I hesitate, my lack of experience shining through. I take a moment to study his face. Strong jawline. Wide and defined chin. Sharp cheekbones below thick brows that are gently angled but appear almost straight. Long lashes fall over the dark lining around his eyes, as if he’s applied kohl. Something tells me that he didn’t—that this is his true and unmasked appearance. Lethal and dramatic. He’s just as handsome as the first time I caught his gaze, so handsome he most certainly can’t be trusted.

My gaze lowers to his throat, his Adam’s apple and the soft hollow between his collarbones. I swallow, flexing my fingers around the heavy metal hilt.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he hums. There’s no need to calm my racing pulse; it stops altogether.

Without further thought, I lunge at him, aiming for the thick vein pulsing steadily along the right side of his neck. My chest hollows. Without a sound, my hand fisted around the dagger collides with warm, soft skin. My elbows ram into him, our bodies brought flush with one another. His bottle falls to the floor beside him, shattering to pieces with a deafening crack. He grips the backs of my thighs, drawing me to him with force.

“Such a hateful little thing. Have you come to finish me off?” he purrs. His words vibrate from his chest to mine. With my mouth agape, I look up, half expecting a waterfall of red, but there’s nothing, not even a scratch. “Nothing I own can hurt me. A very comforting spell indeed.”

“You don’t own me,” I hiss.

“No, Slìbhìn. I have no such compulsion.” His words are barely a whisper, his breath warm against my lips.

I pull back, but his grip on me tightens as he pulls me further into his lap. Here I am, straddling the man I meant to murder. My shirt—his shirt—rides up to my hips, exposing my white lace underwear. Horror consumes me.

“Let me go!” I demand, pressing my blade against his skin. I feel it scrape against him, can hear its grate against his stubble, but there isn’t so much as a droplet of blood upon it. Those piercing grey eyes remain fixed on mine.