Page 61 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

The purse filled with silver is heavy at my side as Odhran walks me to my room, the hallway alight with the rising sun. “You may have just won their respect and loathing within the span of three games.” He dips his chin with a huffed laugh. “Well played.”

“And you? Do you loathe or respect me?” We approach the second to last door, mine. I already know he doesn’t hate me, but somehow it’s his respect I want. I want to be his equal. I want to be assured that I’m more than a pawn to be played, a bloodbag to be emptied, a body to provide comfort…

He remains quiet as we walk, and my heart beats faster with every step we take. “There’s nothing to loathe other than the effect you have on me, Mo Stóirín.” He braces a hand against my door, boxing me in. I remember the first time he did this, the night of the fire. I remember his words. I want nothing from you but to see you walk through that door and leave me in peace. My breath catches in my throat.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he murmurs, leaning closer. My gaze focusses on his lips, and the way they move when he speaks. “I shouldn’t want you as much as I do, and you shouldn’t want me either.”

A sudden flush of warmth spreads outward from my core. “I don’t.” My voice sounds more like breaths than words. His mouth quirks into a smile, calling me out for lying as he leans closer. My lips part, breathing in the scent of him. Cinnamon and peppermint and forbidden promises. My eyes close, waiting for him to kiss me the way he did in the meadow, but the door opens behind me instead. Cool air wisps across my neck, and I open my eyes.

“Sweet dreams, Mo Stóirín.” His voice rumbles, deep and seductive, as he backs away from me. “You’re welcome to join me in my room if you’re lonely, but be wary, I bite.”

“Asshole,” I whisper, narrowing my eyes at him as my embarrassment settles in my cheeks. I can hear his deep rumbling chuckle even with my bedroom door closes between us. Odhran may be an insufferable asshole, but he’s not one I hate, is he?

Declan’s letter scratches my skin, drawing me back to reality. Removing it from my corset, I see his handwriting as guilt chills me like a pitcher of ice.

Bryn,

Where are you? Are you alright? I went to look for you but only found Àine there. Please write to me. I need to know you’re alright.

Your Declan

I go to the rickety wooden desk in the far corner of the room, fumbling through the rough and partially bark covered drawers for stationery. To my relief, I find a quill and inkpot and slowly write my reply.

Declan,

Please don’t worry about me. I am safe. I will let you know as soon as we have returned home so that we can make plans for Laoise’s return to the manor. I have silver to buy her freedom. I can pay for her release.

Your friend, Bryn.

My heart pounds heavily as I write the last line, envisioning the effect it will have on him. I can never give him what he wants. Will never be the obedient little wife he needs. The one who runs his home and tends to his every need before her own. Who remains quiet at the right times and speaks only when needed. Integrates herself in society and bears many children to continue his name. I can never be that for him, or for anyone. I can’t lose myself for the sake of someone else. He needs to know this, but he also needs to know I’ll always be his friend.

“You are making a mistake,” Aed hisses. “You cannot trust the bastard prince as wholly as you do. He will not help you. You are nothing but a current distraction to him.”

“You’re wrong,” I answer, chewing the inside of my lip.

“Oh, my sweet and naïve little human, when has a faerie ever respected someone like you? Humans are merely toys to be played with, and your blind mortal lust has allowed you to step into his honey-tongued trap. He does not value you the way I do. He will never help you. But I will.”

I toss the quill and ink pot back into the drawer and close it with more force than needed. “You’re wrong.”

“We shall see.” Despite his laughter, there’s no humour in his voice.

THIRTY

PRINCE ODHRAN

Their teeth are designed to penetrate flesh, but not spare the receiver any pain.

The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper

The snowcapped mountain peaks of the Geimhreadh Court, my birthplace, stand proud on the horizon, alongside the bare-leafed forests of Fómhar. They call to me, but my attention remains divided. A gentle breeze rattles through the leaves of the bougainvillaea woven into the wooden balustrades of The Shadowed Cauldron below my palms. I’ve always enjoyed our stay at the tavern’s rented rooms for this particular reason… the view. The scent of ash lingers in the atmosphere, the evidence of last night’s bonfires. But there’s one scent I can’t escape, one of lavender, citrus, and honey. It burns through me like a fever. I want to ignore her, want nothing more than to pretend she doesn’t exist, but I can’t, and with each passing day, it becomes harder to escape.

“Good to go? They should arrive any second,” Sloan asks. The formality in his tone is unmistakable and seldom takes residence in his presence.

With a deep sigh, I respond, “I suppose we have to be.” I watch Bryn walk through The Shadowed Cauldron’s herb garden below, her fingers gently caressing each herb cutting as if they were old friends. She’d asked the keeper for permission, which he granted without a second thought. She could have asked him for anything, and he’d say yes, to be left to sleep off his hangover from last night’s celebrations. Bringing her here was a mistake.

Sloan chuckles beside me. “Enjoying the view?” He thrusts his elbow into my ribs. I’m a fucking joke. I can’t believe I let her get under my skin.

I straighten, turning my back to the garden below. “I have no idea what to expect tonight, but I know that the Fómhar Court is untrusting. If we play this right and secure them as allies, our freedom could finally be within reach.”