Page 74 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

“I’ll keep trying to earn your forgiveness until the day I’m worthy of you.” Never did I expect this. There’s a tenderness to him that he shows when he lets go.

“I like the way you try,” I tell him. He gives me a lazy smile, his stubble pricking my forehead.

“Get some rest, Mo Stóirín.” He plants a kiss on my forehead. “You need your strength if you plan to endure my efforts.” With a sigh, he closes his eyes, tucking an arm under his head. We’re stark naked with not so much as a sheet to cover us, but he’s here with me, and he isn’t going anywhere in a hurry.

THIRTY-FIVE

BRYNDIS ASHGLO

Blood magic takes different forms. Binding oaths, an invisible connection of telepathy, and in some cases, cruelty can turn the weaker party into a puppet for his master. The most common uses are oaths and communication, both entered through choice.

The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper

I wake amidst Odhran’s shadows ebbing and flowing over us with his every breath as he holds me. I don’t cuddle; he’d told the blonde, yet here he is, wrapped around me. I shove the thought from my mind, ignoring the tendrils of hope threatening to dig their barbs into me. I’m only human, and he’s a faerie. We will never belong together.

The room is dark, except for a thin slither of light spearing through the slit in the heavy velvet drapes. I pull the sheet to cover my chest, bundling it snugly under my throat. Today is the day I’ve been waiting for. The day of the coronation, and the day my sister and I will gain our freedom.

I make my way to the bathroom, my muscles stiff. My legs are weak, buckling under my weight. I’m hyper-aware of every sound, every touch; even the darkness seems to caress my skin.

Sunlight dances across the tiled bathroom floor, alive with colour from the stained-glass window. I walk straight into it, letting the colour paint my skin like a blank canvas, and don’t stop until my fingers curl around the cool porcelain rim of the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror as though I’m looking at a stranger. My lips are swollen from kissing him, my chin grazed pink by his stubble. My fingers trace my lips, down my neck, following the path of his every touch, his every kiss. A smile warms my face despite my attempt to raise the dome around my heart. I’m a traitor to myself. I suck in a deep breath, willing strength into my tired body. Everything will be alright.

I take a quick bath and wash my hair, wrapping a soft white towel around myself before applying cream to my face. Everything will be alright.

“Did you sleep well?” Odhran’s voice is thick with sleep as his arms wrap around my waist.

My cheeks heat instantly. “Yes.” It’s the truth. I only wish we could have another night like the last. “And you?”

“Perfectly.” He kisses my temple before heading back into the room as I stare at his bare back in the mirror and the inked wings wrapping around his arm and shoulder.

“The tailor sent you a dress. He said you liked it when you were there. You should wear it to the coronation tonight.” Following him into the bedroom, I sift through my memory, but I can’t remember pointing out any specific dress.

“Are you coming too?” I frown.

“I’m sorry, Mo Stóirín. I can’t.” Something like disappointment lurks in his tone. He pulls a black shirt over his head and sits on the edge of the bed. Next to him, spread out over a neatly made bed, is a dress as red as the Cabernet Sauvignon in my father’s cellar. The colour is deep and decadent. My steps slow as I draw closer to it, my eyes caught on the low v-neck and tailored waist.

“You aim to give me a heart attack wearing this?” he asks, raising a sceptical brow.

Lifting it off the bed, I realize it’s lighter than I expected. Unlike the dresses I wore back home, this doesn’t have so many layers. It’s more like the silk slip I wore before, just as soft and delicate. “What is it made of?”

“Spider silk,” he mutters, not taking his eyes off of me. Odhran grips the red silk, fanning out the wide flared skirt to display the insanely high slit at the right.

“As I said, a heart attack.” He clears his throat. “But a beautiful one.”

“It’s… It’s…” It’s the one I saw on the mannequin. The one I found too daring to wear.

“You would kill a faerie, throw a drink in my face, but be thrown by a dress.” Odhran’s voice is an amused rumble, clearly enjoying my mortification.

I smile at him. “It’s perfect.” What’s the point of mortality if you don’t use every minute to live? It hits me. The open back. My scars.

“Forget about your scars. They do not define you,” Aed whispers.

The dress trails behind me as I walk down the passage toward the living room. My heart drums twice with every step I take. Along with the dress, I wear Odhran’s necklace and a pair of strappy heels, which make a sharp tick on the floor as I follow the sound of everyone’s voices. Everything in this world seems to cover less skin than the alternatives back home.

The air is cool on my skin, gliding its icy fingers over my chest and between my breasts, right to where silk meets its touch at my waist. The slit reveals my leg up to my hip with my every step. I’ve never felt so naked. So attractive. Faerie fashion should offend me, but it doesn’t.

I wear my hair in a braided crown, leaving my back as bare as my chest. The scars mean nothing. There’s nothing to hide. Nothing to be embarrassed about. The door to the living room is open when I round the last corner and see Odhran pacing in front of the burning hearth. My footsteps falter, grounding my feet to a stop between the open doors. Warm light highlights his features in a golden outline. He isn’t wearing his leathers and armour like he said he would. He isn’t dressed to accompany his battalion on armed patrol as they reinforce the borders between Samhradh and the bordering kingdoms. He’s dressed in a black suit, tailored to fit him perfectly. The three-piece in all black showcases his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The trousers don’t hide his well-muscled legs or the curve of his ass. He’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, and last night, he was kneeling before me, offering himself up to me. Now, his presence at the coronation stands a chance of ruining all my plans. I was going to disappear after tonight, but how will I manage that with him by my side? My heart threatens to climb up my throat.

Sloan, dressed in his leathers and armour, stands with his hands fisted at his sides, clearly anxious about tonight’s coronation, and I wonder if Eadan told him of our secret mission. Sheridan, also dressed for patrol, is as stoic as ever, and Eadan, the only one who sees me coming, clears her throat. They turn to look at me all at once, but I only see one person in the room. His pacing stops. His throat bobs. His fingers twitch at his sides, begging to push those sleeves up his arms.