Page 50 of The Filigree Key

The oak tree flared warningly as Ossian’s hand curled around my throat. The implied threat lasted only a heartbeat before he maintained his own charade and slid his palm up to cup my cheek. “You get everything you want while making me work for what is mine by right. Gods above, you’d make an excellent fae courtier.”

“Thank you,” I said crisply. Compliments from a fae male intending to force my hand in marriage and then murder me after crossing in Elfame held as much weight as a bottomless bucket.

“You know, if I’m hunting down a hobgoblin, I’m not helping you master water or air, and those two are your weakest elements.” His thumb idly stroked my cheek, as if the gentle touch would persuade me when his argument couldn’t. The fierce light in his eyes had dimmed to a smolder as he gazed at me like I was something to be possessed and tamed.

“You can hunt that hobgoblin down tomorrow while I go to my dress fitting,” I replied lightly. “Besides, I’ve yet to recover from my encounter with that Unseelie half-heart, and I’m not tackling another element until I’m healed. Now kiss me good-night and go away. Take your mastiff with you, if he’s lurking. I have much to mull about and watching the wight calms me.”

His thumb swept over my bottom lip, down my chin, and pressed against my throat. That old threat returned. “Tell me you love me, Meadow Ní Violet.”

Another test.

At my neck, ears, and finger, the lust of the rubies flared. The stolen bond pulled at my heart like a leash does a dog, demanding obedience. “You’ve stolen my heart, Ossian.”

His lips quirked, then he used his grip on my throat to pull me closer for his kiss. His lips were so soft—

I jerked away. “No. You are the rightful King of Beasts, Ossian. And kings are strong. Do not be gentle with me.” Don’t be like Arthur and make me forget him.

A light kindled in his eyes like embers being stoked to life, and the smile that slashed his mouth was greedy and savage. He crushed his mouth against mine, his tongue forcing past my lips to scald me. His kiss was as violent as it was brief, both of us gasping after the assault.

The pressure eased from my throat as he released me and stalked away, back straight and proud. No farewell, just a superior look he flung over his shoulder, as if he’d just won something.

The moment he was out of sight, I rubbed my mouth off on my sleeve. Spat, too, just for good measure. Then I crossed the moonlit atrium and gripped the cloch na wight with both hands.

The white Irish setter greeted me solemnly. Of course it had seen the whole thing.

“Please,” I whispered. “Take me to him.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Mist enveloped me.

Memories of the sluagh extending their spectral hands towards my family raised gooseflesh across my skin, but this mist was warm. Like the breath of heat exhaled by a cozy cottage when you’ve come inside from making snowmen all day.

An unseen current whipped the vapor into a swirl, ruffling the fox fur at my neck. When it cleared, the setter and I stood in the great hall.

Or rather, a barren construct of it.

The stone walls and floor were familiar, but there was nothing but a black abyss where the cathedral ceiling should be. The great expanse of windows that overlooked the waterfall ravine was missing, as was the fireplace, the throne, and the trestle table where I ate my meals.

While there was no light source, I saw the man on the floor clearly enough.

He sat with his back against the wall and his legs drawn up, arms balancing upon his knees and his chin lowered to his chest. His identity manifested in his clothes: heavy carpenter boots, khakis, a red flannel shirt unbuttoned at the throat, suspenders digging into the range of his shoulders. The knuckles on his large hands were scuffed as if he’d just finished settling a bar fight.

“Arthur.”

He lifted his head, a dull amber light consuming his hazel eyes. By rights his thick brown hair and beard should’ve been matted hot messes, but in this dream world, they were as trimmed as if he’d gone to the barber just this morning.

“Go. Away.”

The rumbling baritone had lost all its kindness, its quiet strength. Wetting my lips, I tried again. “Bear claw, it’s me.”

“It always is.”

The second volley of his flat, unaffected tone hit me like a punch to the gut. Worried, I looked to the wight for an explanation.

“The Horned One is a master of illusions,” the Irish setter said directly into my mind. “He has sent your likeness to torture this one’s dreams. Often.”

There was no word in English, Gaelic, or the limited Faerish I knew that could describe the hatred I felt for Ossian in that moment. Fae customs aside, this was beyond cruel.