Sorcha paced in front of the kitchen door. She’d spent the entirety of two days mulling over Macha’s words, replaying what she might say and how he might react. The problem was she didn’t know. Stone was a rather unpredictable person. First he was horrible, then he was kind, then he wouldn’t even look at her.

The last thing she needed was to go back to the “toss her out of the castle” route they’d started their relationship with. He had shown an ability to be a gentleman. Now she needed to use that to her advantage.

Her first thought was to dress up. She’d put the green velvet dress back on and twirled around in front of Boggart asking how she looked. Brown patches were showing up all over Boggart’s body, and she stroked one on her forearm before clapping.

But that hadn’t been right. Sorcha wasn’t trying to impress him with her beauty. She needed him to take her seriously. The blood beetle plague was a terrible affliction, and he needed to understand how dire the circumstances were.

She switched to the outfit she usually conducted her midwifery in. Stains decorated the front of the white apron and rips frayed the ends. She thought it rather suited the conversation.

Boggart hated it.

The little faerie then found the perfect dress or at least that’s what her chirps sounded like. It had been Sorcha’s mother’s. Pale yellow, with tiny hand-embroidered white daisies along the hem, it snugged tight to her waist while sweeping the ground. Sorcha rarely wore the dress for fear she might harm the delicate fabric.

Still, she tried it on. Worn cotton swayed against her thighs, delicate lace brushing the tops of her feet. The square neckline allowed the wind to brush over her skin, the tight sleeves complimented her strong arms.

Sorcha didn’t second guess her choice until she stood outside the kitchens. Now, she paced back and forth wondering what her plan was. Did she think he would say yes just because she wore a yellow dress?

Of course he wouldn’t. He was a man who called himself master. A peasant girl in a pretty dress wouldn’t change his mind that easily.

A grumbling voice lifted. “Are you going in or not, girl?”

“I’m thinking.”

“What could you have to think about that would make you trample my rutabagas?”

“Hush, Cian.”

The click of his jaw snapping together made her flinch. She should know better than to issue an order while using a Fae name.

Sorcha winced, “I’m sorry Cian. I rescind that order.”

His mouth flew open so fast she thought he might unhinge his jaw. “How dare you! This is precisely why humans shouldn’t have our names!”

“I agree,” she interrupted, stopping him mid rant. “I never should have used it, that was careless of me.”

Cian grumbled but turned back to hoeing the patch of lettuce which she swore had popped up overnight. The man was magic with the garden. Sorcha wished he lived near her sisters, maybe they wouldn’t have given so much money to the marketplace.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched into the bustling kitchen.

Most of the faeries still kept their glamour around her. They feared her reaction to their true form, or worried they might frighten her. Whatever the cause, it irked Sorcha to no end.

Already bristling, she searched through the steam and heat waves to find Pixie. The old woman was one of the Fae who remained glamoured. That little tidbit Sorcha liked least of all.

“Pixie!” she called out.

Everyone paused for a brief second. Sorcha knew what was running through their minds. The human was here. Be more careful than before. Even though they liked her, even though she had saved one of their own, tension appeared where there hadn’t been before.

Pixie rushed towards her, wiping her hands on a towel as she went. “What can I do for you, dearie?”

“Where is your master?”

“The throne room, I would imagine.”

Sorcha growled. “Why is he always in that damn throne room when I need him?”

“He’s expecting company.”

“Company?” Sorcha glanced around the room with surprise. “You’re preparing a feast?”

“Yes. It’s a rarity that we have visitors.”

“Who’s visiting?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to say,” Pixie glanced over her shoulder at the brownies frantically cooking. “You should remain in your home tonight. It would be safer.”

“Who’s coming?” Sorcha repeated.

Pixie did not respond. Instead, she turned on her heel and hustled back towards the table where she’d been decorating tiny pastries.

Frustration surged through her and gathered in her clenched fists. Sorcha didn’t like being left in the dark. Who was coming? This was a cursed isle impossible to even see for another seven years, so who would have the power to find it?

There were so many questions no one would answer. No one in this room, at least.

All the more reason to go bother the master of the isle.

Resolve settled upon her shoulders like a well-worn cloak. She wouldn’t be intimidated by visitors who might frighten her. She’d met the terrifying Macha—a woman who rode through battle and cleaved men in two. There were few worse than that.

Her footsteps echoed down the hall as she marched towards the throne room. She vaguely remembered where it was, although she caught herself turning into empty rooms.

One held shattered stone statues. Her foot caught upon a head, empty eyes staring up at her and carved so realistically that she expected it to blink. Unnerved, Sorcha backed out of the room as though the statues might call out for help.

Rounding a cobweb covered corner, she finally saw the grand entrance. This time, she paused to really look at it.

Carved white marble arched over the double doorway. Tiny flowers, slithering ivy, even beetles crawled from the floor and arched into the ceiling. This wasn’t just an intimidating entrance, it was a work of art.

The green double doors stood open, golden rivets and foil outlined each individual plank. It was the only thing in the castle not falling to pieces.

She brushed her hand along the worn wood as she passed. It was clean, she realized in shock. Every tiny piece of the grand ballroom shone as bright as the sun.

Although cracks still traveled through the floor, this was now a place of rare beauty. The chandeliers dripped rubies and emeralds, light striking the gems and casting colored shadows upon the floor.

Sorcha gasped. She hadn’t realized paint covered the walls. The Wild Hunt stretched on either side of her. Fae in chariots, armored and terrifying, chased down human and animal alike. Larger than life, they seemed to move on their own as she stared.

All this stretched towards the throne which remained cast in shadow. New curtains hung from the ceiling, blood red and so silken they dripped onto the floor. The staircase to reach him was made of pure gold.

“You are early.” His grumbling voice raced down her spine in shivers and trembles.

“I hadn’t realized I was expected.”

“It’s you?”

He stood. The great height of him at once overpowering and overwhelming even though she was still far from him.

Sorcha was intensely aware of her simple appearance. She should’ve chosen the emerald gown—she might not have looked so out of place. Her mother’s dress looked more like a wildflower placed incongruously in a porcelain vase.

Each thunk of his footsteps made her blush burn hotter. What had she been thinking? Of course he would entertain guests in a finer way than he lived! She was a fool.

Embarrassment did not suit her. Sorcha reminded herself that she was a midwife, not a princess. This was her best dress before Pixie had given her something else to wear. There was nothing to be ashamed of.

She lifted her gaze, and her mouth went dry.

A warrior stood before her. Commander, chief, lord. She sucked in a rasping gasp as he strode across the wide expanse of marble.

He wore elven armor. Each dark silver plate meticulously hammered to fit the movement of his arms. The symbol of a stag embellished the wide leather chest piece. Chain mail swayed against his thighs, knee high boots striking the floor with hard purpose.

Metallic threads wove through his long braid that was tied off with golden clasps. The sword she had so admired was strapped to his side.

“You should not be here,” he growled.

“I see that now.”

“I am expecting visitors.”

“Yes, yes it appears so.” Sorcha was tongue-tied.

He was so handsome, so overwhelming, so otherworldly that she was incapable of finding her own thoughts. She turned to leave, but paused when he reached out and grasped her arm. Crystals bit through the delicate fabric.

“All is well?”

She shivered. “That depends on your definition of well.”

“How can I help?”

“You have to come back to the mainland with me,” she whispered while staring at the door. “I cannot linger here any longer.”

“You know my answer.”

“Then I will have to force you!” Sorcha whipped around, her green eyes sparking with anger. “You did not tell me that time passed differently here! My family could be dead in a few days, have you no care for that?”

“Who told you?”

Her heart stopped. His words tumbled over and over in her mind. Sorcha’s throat closed as she asked, “Why didn’t you?”

“There wasn’t an appropriate opportunity.”

“The first moment I stepped into this throne room and told you my purpose, you should have let me know that my chances were limited. I cannot give up! My family needs me.”

“Family is who you choose, not who is in your blood.”

Sorcha wrenched her arm from his grasp. “Then I choose them! A thousand times over I choose them!”

“You have been given a good home here! In time, I would move you into the castle—”

“In time?” She pressed a hand against her mouth and backed towards the door. “As if it’s some kind of reward for good behavior?”

“I had to make sure you were trustworthy—”

“Trustworthy? Do you have some kind of initiation people must go through before you lower yourself to call them friend?”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, master? What must I do before you consider my family worthy of your attentions?”

She was even with him now, four steps up the stairs. He lifted one foot and placed it on the next step, hesitating in the face of her anger.

“I cannot leave this isle. I cannot help your family, even if I wished to—”

A choked sound escaped her lips. “Even if you wished to?”

“That’s not how I meant it—”

“I understand perfectly how you meant it. Thank you for making things so clear.”

“Wait—”

She whirled and raced from the throne room. Sorcha rounded a corner, pushing through back rooms until she recognized where she was. She had to avoid whatever horrific guests he might be entertaining. She didn’t want to know what beasts consorted with such a horrible man.

He had no care for her family. And if he had no care for them, then he didn’t care what happened to her.

It shouldn’t sting as much as it did. She barely knew the man, although he had become a regular figure in her thoughts. She’d even given him a name.

Foolish, she berated herself. Childish. Friendship with him was wishful thinking.

She hurtled down the steps, pushing through the kitchens without pause. Pixie shouted behind her. Stopping would only result in more anger, and Sorcha couldn’t deal with any more.

A storm cloud brewed on the edge of the isle. It barreled towards her as she sprinted directly into its electric power. Storms didn’t bother her, not when she knew shelter was so close.

The sweet scent of peat filled her lungs. Bleating sheep scattered as she charged through their midst. The tie in her hair loosened in the breeze, flying free to let her hair stream back in a banner of bright red.

Her lungs ached, but she did not slow. She wouldn’t stop until she could slam the hut’s door behind her. The crash might stop her whirling thoughts.

A tear slid down her cheek. How dare it? She dashed it away with an angry slap, leaving a mark of red against her freckled jaw. Then another slid free, this time hitting her face so painfully that she realized it wasn’t tears at all.

It was rain.

The clouds unleashed their fury. Rain pounded the ground and echoed in her ears. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Lightning cracked far off in the ocean, a bolt zig zagging from the sky and into the water.

She squinted and kept running. Her mother’s dress would be ruined, and it was another thing she could blame on him. Yet another ruined thing she loved that he stripped from her arms.

How love starved was she that she would trust such a monster?

The raging storm echoed the tumultuous emotions beating at her breast. He had no right. He had no right!

She lost her way in the sheets of rain. The hag’s hut was barely visible below the small cliff she stood upon, but she would not let that deter her. The rocks were slippery and dangerous. She skidded down, sliding her hands into cracks and crevices, gripping with strong fingers. A small, romantic part of her whispered that this might be what it felt like to touch the geodes of his skin.

She grunted and yanked a stone from the ground. It tumbled down the small cliff side and splashed into the foaming waves. Good riddance. She shouldn’t be wondering what he might feel like. She shouldn’t be wondering anything about him at all!

Sorcha would leave this isle empty handed and find another way to save her family. There had to be more she could bargain. She could promise her life to Macha just to get away from this place.

From him.

Lightning cracked and struck the ground above her head. Sorcha flinched, glancing up to see the bolt strike a tree hanging onto the edge of the small cliff. Blinded, she hugged herself close to the rock and whispered a silent prayer.

The tree screamed. Sizzling electricity raced through her, standing her damp hair on end until it passed. Then she heard it. The creaking groan, the snapping cracks of roots being pulled from the earth, and the rumbling of stone.

She looked up although she already knew what she would see. The aged tree released its precarious hold on the cliff and plunged towards her.

Sorcha tucked her body closer to the stones, wedging her side into the cliff, and shredding the delicate skin of her stomach. The roots slid past, the trunk smashed against the stones but did not touch her.

She breathed a sigh of relief, and then a wayward branch passed by her makeshift shelter. She lifted her head at the wrong moment and shrieked as a flame red strand of hair wrapped around the slick wood.

It yanked her backwards, tossing her into the deep mire where ocean met bog. Sorcha hit the water with a loud slap. Her back burned, and her mind screamed she hadn’t gotten a deep breath. She hadn’t inhaled before striking the water.

Bubbles obscured her vision. Air twisted, leaving the tree which dragged her further and further down. She reached her hands for the surface, dark waters swallowing her whole.

The tree hit the muck with a muffled thump. Billowing mud floated up like smoke, and Sorcha watched with horror as her limited view of the surface disappeared. She twisted, chest aching, and grasped onto the tangled bit of hair.

She tugged, but there was too much for her to yank free. Her fingers felt along the strand until she touched the tree branch. Something slithered through her grasp.

Sorcha flinched backwards in fear, stopped by a yank against the back of her skull which twisted her around. The foggy water was too dark for her to make out more than vague shapes.

But which way was up?

Her heart thudded painfully. She didn’t remember which way was up. The branch was attached to her so certainly directly above it would be up? But the tree angled down… Didn't it?

She tugged on her hair again, frantically placing her feet against the branch and pulling hard. She felt more than heard the ripping, but it wasn’t enough.

This wasn’t how she wanted to die. People didn’t often swim in Ui Neill; they were too far away from the selkies to have that bloodline in their midst.

She wanted to die on rolling green hills or in the middle of a field of heather. Why did it have to end like this?

I love you, she thought. I love you so much, Papa and all my sisters. I wish it could have been different.

Black spots blurred the edges of her vision. At some point, she would have to suck in a deep breath. She would breathe and that would be the end.

Sorcha had always been a fighter. She wouldn’t suck in the salt water until the very last second or until she passed out. Her body convulsed, arguing with her mind that she needed to breathe. Her eyelids drifted shut so she could forget for one second that she was underwater.

Just a moment longer, she thought. Just one more moment to enjoy being alive. To feel the cold water on my fingertips and remember that she lived.

A warm hand wrapped around her arm. Her eyes snapped open. It was too dark to know whether the shadowy figure was a merrow man, but she didn’t care anymore. She just wanted to breathe.

Heat spread from the gentle touch as it slid down her forearm and found where she still clutched her hair. An odd scrape of scale abraded her skin, slicing through the lock of hair easily.

No, not scale, she realized. Crystal.

She clutched onto his shoulders with clawed hands and desperately kicked. If she could just get to the surface. If she could just inhale.

His hand wrapped around her jaw, forcing her head down. She didn’t want to look down into that darkness. Why wasn’t he moving? Didn’t he understand that she was moments away from inhaling water and—

Warm lips wrapped around hers. He squeezed her jaw and her mouth opened for a moment. He exhaled. She breathed in his air desperately. The pain in her lungs eased.

It wasn’t enough, but it would do. Sorcha squeezed her eyes shut and hooked a leg around his waist, anchoring herself to him. She tried not to take too much of his breath, he’d need it to get them back to the surface. But it was addicting.

The crystal running down his upper lip sliced through the waterlogged skin of her cheek. She winced at the pain and drew back. Salt stung the wound.

With her securely held in his arms, Stone pushed off the bottom of the ocean. They shot through the water like an arrow from a bow. She held tight to his broad shoulders, ripples of muscle shifting beneath her fingertips.

They broke the surface, and she gasped in air. It was too much, she choked violently and hung onto him for dear life. He wasn’t even breathing hard. He simply waited until she stopped coughing and then rolled onto his back.

When she struggled, he brushed the wet strands of hair from her face. “Easy, relax. Let the ocean take you back to shore.”

Sorcha coughed again, “I can swim on my own.”

“Let me do the work, Sorcha. Stop fighting me.”

She felt as though a bolt of lightning had struck her. That was exactly what she had been doing since the moment she reached this isle. Fighting him, in every conversation, in every rule he made. And yet, he still saved her.

Waves rocked them, white caps growing dangerously high as the storm raged above them.

“I trust you,” she whispered and let her body go limp.

He wrapped a strong, bare arm across her shoulders and drew her back against his chest. Crystals bit into her spine from his gaping shoulder wound, but she refused to complain. He swam them back to shore with the grace of a selkie. The waves rocked forward, seaweed brushed her legs, and the wound on her cheek bled freely.

“What were you thinking?” he growled.

“I wasn’t.”

Lightning cracked overhead, casting his face in a grim light. Sorcha turned away from the disappointed expression. She had already disappointed herself, she didn’t need him to be, too.

“Obviously.”

The wind rushed overhead, drying her hair in stiff coils. She shivered violently.

He cursed. “We’re almost there. Just a few more moments.”

How had she been carried so far out? Sorcha hadn’t noticed the tree moving, but it must have slid along the ocean floor.

His feet touched land, and Stone dragged her forward into his arms. The steely bands wrapped around her as if she weighed nothing. Perhaps she didn’t to him.

The bulging muscles of his chest were distracting. Not a single hair covered his skin, not even on his arms. Up close, the crystals were so much angrier. The wounds carved into his skin and deep past his bones. It was a miracle he could even move.

“I can walk,” she rasped.

“Enough.”

“I’m not so weak as to—”

“I said enough, Sorcha.”

She looked up at his severe face, unable to resist tracing the smooth line of his jaw. “That’s the second time you’ve called me by name. I don’t remember giving that to you.”

The muscles under her fingertips bunched. “I have my ways.”

“Obviously.”

Shivers rocked her body, and it didn’t escape her notice that he tucked her tighter against him. Sorcha shifted until her head was underneath his chin. He was so large she could tuck her knees into his armpits and still be comfortable.

“Why are you so much bigger than me?” she asked, teeth clacking with chills.

“What kind of question is that?”

“I just want to know. All the other Tuatha dé Danann are the same. Y-You’re all larger than life.”

“I’m not that much bigger.”

“You’re a veritable giant compared to me.”

“We’re not human,” he grumbled. “That’s the only answer I have.”

Sorcha glanced over his shoulder, brows furrowing in confusion. “Why aren’t we going to the hag’s hut?”

“I’m taking you to the castle.”

“I was told to stay away from the castle—your guests are dangerous.”

“They are.”

“I think I’ve had enough of danger for one night.”

Stone jostled her, tossing her up higher against his chest. He was like a furnace and she couldn’t understand how. The water chilled her skin and made her bones ache. Why didn’t it affect him in the same way?

“I’m not putting you anywhere they might find you.”

“Who are they?”

“That’s not for you to know.”

Sorcha shook her head. “I might be freezing, but that hasn’t changed my curiosity. I thought this isle was only visible every seven years.”

“It is.”

“Then who are these people who suddenly arrived? Are they shipwrecked, like me?”

“No.”

“Do they live on a different part of the isle?”

“No.”

“Are they selkies or merrows come to visit?”

“Stop asking questions,” he said.

“No,” she said, repeating his favorite word. “Why are you shirtless?”

“I’m not foolish enough to attempt swimming in armor. Silence. These visitors can hear very well and they would be too interested in a human girl. Keep your mouth shut, and trust me to take care of you.”

Strangely enough, she did.

Sorcha tucked her hands underneath her chin to conserve what little heat she had left. She had survived many winters, but never had she been this cold. The biting rain washed away the salt water on her skin slicking her body with freezing drops. The wind howled and shoved at their bodies although his steps were sure and steady.

She owed this man her life. Sorcha wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Tricking him into coming back to the mainland seemed wrong. He didn’t deserve that mistreatment.

If she was being truthful with herself, it was unlikely she ever would have tricked him. Stone was an intelligent man beneath all that brawn. A noble Fae who had taken up the throne in this forgotten place.

They didn’t disturb any other faeries along their journey to the castle. Most had sought shelter from the raging storm, others remained in the castle to wait out the rain. Storms always seemed to keep everyone from their labor, even the faeries.

He rounded the stone castle walls to the place where she’d seen him training with Bran.

Teeth chattering, she bit out, “Is Bran really the raven who has been following me?”

“So it would seem.”

“Why would he waste his time following a human?”

“I’ve asked him the same question.”

The door slammed shut behind them, sudden silence and darkness making her heart pound again. “And what was his response?”

“I do not control the Unseelie Fae. No one can.”

The darkness made it seem almost as if she were underwater again. Shadows made shapes vaguely familiar, but difficult to piece together. She recognized a room when lightning struck again, spearing light across the room.

Broken statues littered the floor. The haunting faces stared at her with vacant eyes.

Sorcha shivered and tucked her face against the crystals of his neck. Their jagged edges dug into her cheek but she did not care. The pain anchored her, driving away the fear with knife-sharp points and cold, smooth plains.

His hands clenched on her shoulder and legs. “Not far now.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“There’s nowhere safe on this isle,” she whispered, her breath whistling through the circular wound on his throat. “Everything is dangerous and one must decide whether to live in fear, or courage.”

“We all know you’ve chosen courage, little human. Foolishly so.”

“I’m not as fragile as you think.”

He didn’t respond, suggesting he disagreed with her. Sorcha was thankful he didn’t argue his point. She couldn’t debate him right now, not when her body was shivering so violently she worried she might jolt right out of his arms.

They rounded one last, shadowed corner and reached a dead-end. A carving on the wall caught her attention. A warrior held her sword aloft, driving back creatures of the night which Sorcha could only imagine were the Unseelie. Their twisted and warped forms disappeared into the smooth marble.

Her face was beautiful and hard. Her armor carved so meticulously that Sorcha could see individual links of chain mail. The sword itself appeared so realistic that she might pluck it from the woman’s hand and swing it herself.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “But I don’t see a doorway. Did you take a wrong turn?”

“Humans. You look at things so superficially.”

Stone jostled her forward, forcing her to grasp onto his neck with a gasp. Their gazes locked for a moment as their noses touched. She felt the warm fan of his breath grazing her mouth. Electric blue eyes burned her flesh and seared her to the bone.

“Look.” A crystal brushed against her mouth. “You need to remember this.”

She wasn’t certain she’d ever forget the cold slide of stone warmed by the heat of his body.

Sorcha ripped herself from his captivating gaze and glanced over her shoulder. He pressed his thumb into the grooved pommel of the sword. She heard a soft click, the rasp of sliding stone, and then he pushed.

It wasn’t just a carving; it was a door.

He wrapped his arm around her again, and she kept one arm looped around his neck. She wanted to be upright for this hidden secret. She wanted to remember.

Darkness lay within the room, not with tendrils of fear but a soft quiet that eased the soul. The slight burble of water reached her ears trickling from some unknown stream. Heat brushed against her skin in an almost physical touch.

Sorcha released a slow breath. “I can’t see anything.”

“I’m going to put you down,” Stone said at the same time. She heard the creaking of crystals. “Patience, little human.”

He set her down on a smooth bench. Sorcha couldn’t see the color, but she could feel the texture as soft as velvet. She ran her palms over the edges, the bumps of carvings, dipping into hollows and valleys.

Impulsively, she toed off her sodden shoes. Soft moss cushioned the arches of her feet as she placed them back onto the floor. It was not wet with rain as she’d expected.

Sorcha tilted her head, listening for the pattering sound. It was there, but far away, as if she was in the very belly of the castle. She couldn’t believe they were in a dungeon. No dungeon had a door so fine nor moss so soft.

Where were they?

Yellow light flashed, blurring her vision in bright sparks of color. The beautiful room before her couldn’t be in the castle! Lush moss carpeted the circular room and ivy covered the walls, making it seem more forest than room. A canopy of blushing roses hung in tendrils over a bed piled high with furs. In the center, a carved woman stretched towards the ceiling atop a still pool studded with white flowers. Her wings spread wide for flight and were so detailed that Sorcha could see the veins stretched across them.

“This place is too fine for me,” she said.

“There’s no such place.”

Her jaw dropped. What did he mean by that? He couldn’t be saying she was worthy of such a room? This was fit for royalty or a high-born Fae gifted in the arts.

Sorcha glanced down at her calloused palms and shorn fingernails feeling well and truly out of place.

“I can’t—” he paused and glanced at her then down at his chest. “I have to ready myself for these pests. I trust you can warm yourself?”

“Is there a place for a fire?”

He gestured towards one of the ivy-covered walls. “Everything you need should be in the room beyond.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say. He’d saved her, brought her to this haven and then…was leaving? Who did that? “It’s very difficult to understand you.”

“I don’t know if that’s a compliment.”

“Neither do I.”

He stood surrounded by green and she couldn’t help but wonder who this man truly was. She caught glimpses of him, but never the full portrait.

He held his hands limp at his sides. Drops of water dripped from the strands of his hair, running down the shaven sides, and disappearing into the crevices filled with gems. He couldn’t meet her gaze, and as she watched, his hands clenched and relaxed.

“You aren’t comfortable with me looking at you,” she said. “That’s why you didn’t wish to speak when I saw you training.”

“I know what I look like.”

“What do you liken yourself to?”

“A monster. These,” he gestured towards the shoulder wound and his throat, “are unnatural. Marks of disfigurement that make me less Fae, less of a man.”

“I don’t see how something such as that could make you less of anything. They are startling at first, but the shock fades and I hardly even notice them now.”

“It is a beautiful lie.” He swept into a low bow. “I’d forgotten how refreshing it is to hear such words. Thank you for not telling me the truth.”

“What?”

He swept out of the room so quickly she felt only the breeze of his passing.

Sorcha was left with the trickling water, the soft movement of roses, and complete silence. She sat upon the bench and stared at the ceiling, at the surrounding splendor. She was utterly alone for the first time since arriving.

Drawing her knees to her chest, she blew out a quiet breath. When had she last been alone? Surely it must have happened, but she couldn’t think of a time. Her sisters had always been home. She’d traveled to the MacNara’s with Agatha, had left with the dullahan, spent days upon the ship… Even in the ocean there had been merrow men and the Guardian.

She refused to let her thoughts turn dark. Heat should be her first task. She needed to get out of these wet clothes or she would catch cold.

The healing thoughts helped. She could diagnose herself like a patient, the segmented thoughts easy to follow.

Sorcha stumbled to her feet and brushed the ivy aside. She’d never seen a washroom such as this. More vines covered the walls, blue flowers unfurling their petals and filling the air with a heady floral scent. A large circle cut into the ground, warm water constantly pouring from a small hole in the wall.

“A hot spring,” she murmured.

There was a small chamber pot in the corner, along with a vanity table filled to the brim with hairbrushes and pastes she did not recognize.

None of this was for her, she reminded herself. She should warm her shivering body and then jump into bed. There was no need for pampering, nor did she have any idea what those faerie treats would do to her.

She stripped the sodden fabric away, pausing a moment to stare down at her mother’s dress. Seawater was likely to stain it, but she could at least try to save it. Tears pricked in the corners of her eyes.

“I miss you,” she whispered. It was the same feeling every time. She missed her pagan rites, Beltane, the whispered faerie stories her mother had been so good at telling.

Steam rose into the air in wispy tendrils, begging Sorcha to warm herself. She turned and dipped a toe into the water. The shocking warmth made her gasp, then moan as she sank into the water to her shoulders.

Her shivers ceased immediately, coaxed to stillness by the gentle lapping waves of water. She could stand in this pool and it would only come up to her breasts. This was safe water.

Curious, Sorcha scooped a handful and touched it to her tongue. Fresh water. Not a hint of salt tainted the taste, nor was it sulfuric as many hot springs could be.

“This place continues to grow stranger by the hour,” she whispered.

Tipping her head back against the stone lip, she let her mind quiet until her skin pruned. Even then, she took a while to leave the comfort of the bath. It was as if she was the last person on earth. Silence calmed her anxious thoughts, steam whisked away old aches and pains, and the water held her in a gentle embrace.

She could spend the rest of her life like this.

When her eyelids drifted shut more than they stayed open, Sorcha dragged herself out of the warm bath. Blearily glancing around the room, she realized there was no drying cloth available.

She sighed. Hopefully Eamonn wouldn’t come waltzing back in while she stood stark naked in the center of the room. She dunked her mother’s dress in the water and wrung it out a few times.

Leaving the yellow fabric on the edge of the bath, she peeked through the ivy to make sure no one was in the room. Of course, faeries could glamour themselves. She narrowed her eyes.

“Hello?”

No one responded.

“If there are any servants in here, I’m going to come out and I have nothing else to put on. Please don’t…stare.”

She chided herself as she dashed across the moss. Who was going to stare at her? They probably thought she looked as ugly as she found them.

The furs were soft against her skin. They wicked the water away and trapped the heat until she was in a cocoon of warmth and comfort.

She sighed happily, but took stock of her body just in case. The shivers had left, but she could already feel her nose clogging. She would have a slight cold, but hopefully nothing would settle in her chest.

If she was lucky, she would escape this entire ordeal unscathed. If she wasn’t, she would need to make compresses and drink as much tea as she could.

Sorcha could hope that her body wouldn’t have any adverse reactions. There wasn’t time for her to fall ill.

* * *

Eamonn sat in the shadows of her room, berating himself for returning here. He hadn’t planned on this. Especially not on this night.

The emissaries from the Seelie court rarely came to visit. He found it curious they chose now, of all times, to show their faces. Was there a spy in his court of fools? He couldn’t think of anyone who would pass secrets to his brother, but it wouldn’t be the first time. He would need to interrogate a few to ensure his safety. For the good of everyone, his brother could not know what happened on this isle.

They always made him angry. These glittery giants, women and men, dressed in full armor under the pretense that they wished to visit an old friend. None of them cared how he lived before his banishment, and they didn’t care now.

He thought the entire thing suspect, always had, but it was not within his power to deny them. If his brother wanted to keep an eye on him, then he could. But Eamonn wouldn’t make it easy on him.

Armored and silent, he stared them down. The throne room changed to ballroom, a slap in the face to the brother who was not king. They brought their own musicians, their own people, everything that they thought he didn’t have. The only thing Eamonn did was have the room cleaned.

Let them think he lived in splendor and enjoyed his life here on Hy-brasil. Eamonn enjoyed the thought of his brother’s anger.

And when it was all done, he meant to go back to his room. To break whatever he could in an attempt to cool his anger and embarrassment.

But he found himself here.

Staring at her.

Her hair fanned out around her head like the petals of a red rose. Streaks of sun kissed skin paled to milk white, beautiful and unique like the rest of her. She was soft in sleep. Softer than he’d ever seen her.

There was always a hard edge riding on her shoulders. Lines formed between her brows, expressive with all her emotions. She was an open book.

His lips quirked. She wouldn’t like how easily he read her.

One hand tucked beneath her cheek, pale lashes spread out and casting shadows. He sat himself in the darkness and counted every freckle on her face. It was the first time in years he had calmed down without crushing marble, shattering pottery, or snapping wooden frames.

He didn’t know how she did it. Even while asleep, there was something infinitely calming about her mere existence.

Should that frighten him? He felt as though it should.

She stirred in her sleep, yawning, and slowly opening her eyes.

He waited for the flinch, the jump, the terrified shriek that would make his ears rings for days. So many Fae women had reacted in a similar way.

She did none of that. Sunshine, Sorcha, did none of those things. She blinked a few times, focusing on his form in the shadows, and then a soft smile spread across her face.

In that moment, she gutted him. No one had looked at him like a person in such a long time, without pity or fear. She just opened her eyes and smiled at him. As if he was finally where he belonged.

“I had a feeling you might come back tonight.” Her voice was raspy as if water filled her lungs. Right on cue, she coughed into her fist.

“It’s not unusual to fall ill after attempting to take your life.” Why did he say that? Eamonn dug his fingers into the crystals on his opposite wrist. Always picking a fight, especially when worried.

“Oh, hush, you know that’s not what it was. I need my things,” she said when she stopped coughing. “I have a tea for this.”

Eamonn gestured towards the small table he had set next to her pile of furs. “Anise, honey and mulled wine.”

She glanced over at the steam rising from the porcelain cup and back to him. “Yes. Thank you, that’s exactly what I needed.”

“Don’t look so surprised. Healing humans is not so different from the Fae.”

“I guess it isn’t.” She pulled herself up, catching the furs against her chest and shoving the heavy mass of her hair back. “You know the healing arts?”

“A small amount. I watched my nursemaid as a child.”

“Clever.”

“I never claimed otherwise.” He watched her sip the tea, her face scrunching up. “Bitter?”

“I just don’t like the taste of anise. Never have.”

“It will help.”

That soft expression returned to her face, eyes half lidded and lips quirked to the side. “Yes, it will.”

He didn’t know what to say when she stared at him as if he brought all the stars in the sky to her. It was tea. Nothing more, nothing less.

They stared at each other until his heart raced. Eamonn couldn’t piece together why he was so affected. Then his eyes traced the line of her shoulders. Bare and pale as the moon. Tiny freckles dotted her skin, more than he had counted on her face. He hadn’t seen those.

How badly did he want to connect those dots? Enough to clench his fists and lock the muscles of his legs, restraining himself from leaning forward and tugging the furs away. He had forgotten to bring her anything to wear.

Bless his forgetfulness.

“Are your visitors gone?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” His mind had been elsewhere. There were freckles dotting her arms, so it would make sense if they spread to her legs as well. Was she freckled everywhere?

“Your guests, the dangerous ones. Have they left?”

“Yes.”

“Is it safe for me to wander your halls again?”

“I—” he shook his head to clear it. “No, it’s never safe to wander the castle halls. There are many hidden secrets and spirits who keep them.”

“I haven’t met a spirit yet, just faeries.”

“Then you are lucky.”

“This place is one of the strangest I have ever seen. Spirits wandering the castle at night. Faeries in the kitchen. You do keep strange company, Stone.”

His name hovered on the tip of his tongue. Just once, he wanted to hear her say his name. His given name. But he knew how dangerous it would be to tell her. A human in possession of a faerie's name was bound to use it.

Even that danger would be worth hearing her lilting voice caress the syllables of his born name.

If he was any other man, he might have told her, but he buried the desire for the safety of his people. Eamonn was a creature bred for war and destruction. He could not take the risk.

She leaned forward and coughed again. His fists clenched, reminding his mind that she could take care of herself. She was human and not worthy of his instant reaction.

His father’s voice echoed in his mind. She was beneath him. A base creature on par with the lesser Fae. Ignore her struggles, but use her as a servant or slave when the time was right.

He’d never believed those words.

Eamonn stood and settled next to her on the bed. Her bare back shook, ribs expanding until he could see the bumping lines before hacking out air in the next second.

His hand was so large against her skin. It spanned the entirety of her back, rubbing gently back and forth. He did not pound, that wouldn’t help, just tried to comfort as his nursemaid used to do.

“Thank you,” she said on a sigh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect a simple dip in the sea to affect me so.”

“That was more than a dip.”

“Venture?”

“Mistake.” He caught himself again. Why was he so cruel to her? He couldn’t understand why he tried to make it an argument every time she spoke. Other than the red peaks of color on her cheekbones that he so thoroughly enjoyed.

Eamonn didn’t clench his fists this time. He reached and ran a finger over the high arches of her cheeks, tracing the spaces between freckles.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

He could get lost in those eyes. Green like ivy leaves, like moss when the sun first strikes after days of rainfall. How was she holding him captive? Had she cast a spell on him?

Or maybe he was simply so starved for attention he couldn’t help himself. She was the first person to see him as a man, not a monster.

How could he stop?

Eamonn leaned down, eyes darting between her wide gaze and pouting lips. He’d never noticed her lips before. Berry red, thinner than most but still pleasing. Would she taste like the raspberry color staining her mouth?

“Master?” Cian’s voice cut through the silence, jolting him to his feet and back to reality. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s been an unexpected complication.”

“How so?”

“It’s the visiting Unseelie, sir. He’s requesting an audience, demanding really, and said he won’t take no for an answer.” Cian rubbed the side of his head. “He nearly took my ear off pulling at it.”

“Bran,” Eamonn grumbled. He glanced back at Sorcha, who clutched the furs to her chest. Her eyes were too wide, her chest heaving.

That was the fear he’d expected. He should’ve known that although she may someday trust him, she was unlikely to ever want him. What a fool he was.

Eamonn nodded and ducked out of the room. He’d made enough of a scene to want to hide from her for the rest of his existence. Bran had done the right thing by causing a mess only Eamonn could fix.

Damned Unseelie usually ended up being right.