“Where are we going?” Sorcha asked. A blindfold covered her face, the velvet soft against her skin.

Stone had walked into her bedroom with it in his hands, a sheepish grin on his face. He refused to tell her where they were going, but she also refused to stop asking.

“Sorcha, just let it be a surprise.”

“I can’t do that. I want to know.”

“You’ll find out!” he said with a chuckle.

“But not soon enough!”

She didn’t think he knew about her recent escapade into Seelie. He certainly hadn’t mentioned it.

Sorcha had scrubbed her skin for an hour before she saw him. Clean water and lemon verbena washed away the scent of faeries and anything else he might have recognized from home.

Weeks passed. Sorcha took to begging him every night to return to the mainland with her. Sometimes, she thought he might bend. Other times, all she did was anger him.

He grew angry so easily.

But tonight, he was happy. Pleased, almost. The surprise he planned obviously meant something to him.

“Stone,” she begged, “I want to know!”

“And you will, little human. Just not yet.”

Sorcha tried to figure out where they were going. She knew each turn of the castle by heart, but got lost when he spun her in circles.

“What are you doing?” she asked with a laugh. “You’ll make me dizzy!”

“I don’t want you to guess what direction we're going.”

“I wasn’t tracking our steps.”

“You most certainly were. I could hear you mumbling under your breath.” He leaned close, breath tickling her ear and sending shivers down her spine. “I refuse to let you ruin this surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

“You’ll like this one.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders and guided her down the hallways. Each step felt more and more unfamiliar until he finally tugged her to a stop.

His hands were so big. They covered her shoulders and dipped into the hollows of her collarbone. She was intensely aware of the soft circles he drew just beneath the winged bones. He seemed to stroke her skin without thought.

“You have been so kind to my people. And you have made a lasting impression upon all of us. I wanted to do something for you.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t deserve anything special though. I hope you didn’t go out of your way.”

“We only spent a few nights on it.”

“A few nights? Stone!”

“My name is not Stone.”

“I refuse to call you master.”

He chuckled, hands sliding across her shoulders and tangling in the heavy weight of her hair. “Someday, I would like to hear the word cross your lips just to see how unnatural it sounds.”

“You won’t like it if I ever called you master.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’ve come to expect you to surprise me, Sorcha. It would be a shame for you to fall in line like the rest.”

The knot at the back of her head pulled, and the velvet fell free.

She gasped in delight. The throne room glimmered with light. The ceiling, free from cobwebs and dust, had a mirrored finish that reflected the candlelight. Smooth marble and great swaths of red fabric made the room seem fit for royalty.

Sorcha couldn't care less for the grand appearance of the room. It was the people her eyes locked upon and the sight of them that made her knees weak.

Every faerie on the isle had dressed in their finest. They did not decorate themselves with silk or velvet, but clean clothing and woolen cloaks. Their faces scrubbed clean, they had tied their hair in intricate braids.

They were not a people of royalty. They were not kings and queens, but men and women who lived on the land.

“They look out of place,” she said with a chuckle. “And they are the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

“Good. You’ll be seeing a lot of them tonight.”

“Not for me,” Sorcha turned with a worried expression. “You didn’t bring them all together for me, did you Stone?”

He winked. “You have lost your memory coming here, haven’t you Sorcha? As much as I would love to force my people to bend a knee to your beauty, that is not why they are here. It’s Samhain.”

“Already?”

She’d left home in spring, and it was Samhain already? Sorcha felt as though she’d only just washed up on the shore, and now autumn knocked upon the door of the human world.

The tangled mass of people parted, and Oona marched towards them. Her wings were on full display, red markings painted from her lip to chin.

“Child of the human world, would you do the honors?”

“The honors?” Sorcha tilted her head. “Do you celebrate the same way my people do?”

“Your people? Or your mother’s people?”

She grinned. “My mother’s people. My father and siblings were never ones to celebrate the old ways.”

“Then light the fires for us, child, and honor the dead.”

Sorcha tangled her fingers with Stone’s for a moment, squeezing his hand. She looked over her shoulder as she descended the stairs. His gaze caught hers, pride and honor reflected in their depths.

“Thank you,” Sorcha said.

“I knew it would be important to you.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “I just knew.”

Her fingers slid from his, trailing along the crystals of his palm and whispering across their twin callouses. She walked backwards down the stairs with a soft smile on her face. “And will you be partaking in the festivities, my king?”

Stone’s jaw dropped and Sorcha reveled in his surprise. He seemed unable to speak. A state she found surprisingly suitable to her tastes. With a wicked grin on her face, she turned to Oona and followed her to the altar.

“The Wild Hunt is tonight?” Sorcha asked. “Are we safe here?”

“This is not the Otherworld, but it is not the human world either. The Wild Hunt does not touch upon these shores,” Oona replied. “But we still honor the ride and dream of seeing their might once again.”

“We won’t even see them?” Sorcha had hoped to catch a glimpse. Now that the ointment had cleared her eyes of glamour, it would be a treat to see what the faeries saw. The Wild Hunt, led by their great horned king, had always been fascinating.

Her disappointment was great, but it was also a blessing. She didn’t know what Cernunnos would do if he saw a human in the faerie prison.

Thick branches with green leaves still clinging on their twigs created an altar where Eamonn's throne usually sat. The roots of the tree wrapped in a circle on the floor, creating a base that was strong and steady. Offerings piled near to overflowing all around it. Milk, honey, and more food than any Tuatha dé Danann could devour.

“It is a good offering,” she said.

“This year has been better than most. We have much to be thankful for.”

“As do I.” She reached for a goblet filled to the brim with wine and poured it on the roots. “To many years with family and friends, may we all last the night without nightmares and the next year without pain or strife. I thank my ancestors, the gods above, and the gods below. We come to this place to celebrate Samhain and seek shelter from the Wild Hunt.”

Something stirred within her breast. A memory, or an age-old knowledge passed down through generations. She remembered the words as if her mother whispered them in her ear.

Sorcha lifted a finger and traced runes into the air. “Spirits of the East and Air, I welcome you into our circle and bid you well tidings. On this sacred night of Samhain, come dance with us.”

Faeries stirred behind her, pixies lifting into the air and buffeting her spine with their breeze. Her curls blew over her shoulders. Blue light lifted from the runes she drew. She gasped. Never before had she seen a Samhain ritual like this before.

Leaning forward, she struck flint and steel to light the candle at the base of the altar. “Spirits of the South and Fire, I welcome you to feast with us on this sacred night.”

The candle flared, and the air turned hot. She told herself not to wipe at the sweat on her brow, that it would insult the faeries who enjoyed the heat.

She dipped her fingers into the goblet to her left and flicked the droplets of water. “Spirits of the West and Water, I welcome you to drink and be merry with us tonight. Join our revelries on this sacred Samhain eve.”

The air turned muggy. Her dress stuck to her back and her hair felt heavy with the weight of water in the air. A kelpie snorted although she had not seen any in the crowd.

A small pot of dirt was the last and final piece of her ritual. She rubbed the dirt between her fingers, feeling the ancient knowledge it held.

“Spirits of the North and Earth, I welcome you to this hall and ask that you tell us stories from ages past. Speak easy and loosen thy tongue on this sacred night.”

She felt the powerful cheer of the faeries before it made her ears ache. Sorcha grinned, unable to keep her own happiness from bubbling forth. This was a good night. A blessed night. A peaceful night.

Her chest squeezed tight and her eyes lost focus. There was one more candle that should be at this altar.

She reached forward, traced the outline of leaves that died and withered as she watched. She struck the flint and steel one more time, lighting the dead tree on fire.

The faeries fell silent.

“I welcome thee Morrighan and your sisters to our fold. Lady of Fate, War, and Fear, you are welcome within these walls.” Sorcha lifted a goblet of wine, tilted her head back, and closed her eyes. “Morrighan—hail and welcome!”

A deafening cheer followed her words, but she did not hear it. Instead, Sorcha heard a pleased chuckle and smelled the wheatgrass scent of horses.

“Well done,” Macha murmured. “Feast and stay safe from the Wild Hunt.”

Oona wrapped an arm around Sorcha’s shoulders and gave her a shake. “Well done! It’s almost as if you were born a druid priestess!”

“A what?” Sorcha opened her eyes in shock. “What did you call me?”

“Oh, dearie, you have druid in you! I knew there was something strange about you! Only a priestess would know that ritual. And someday I’ll ask who taught it to you, but for now, drink!”

Another goblet of wine pressed into her hand. Holding two, she watched Oona dance a merry jig towards Cian who watched with a sour expression. When the pixie reached him, he sighed and held up his arms. They spun in wild circles around other Fae until everyone in the hall was dancing.

Sorcha stood with her hands full, watching the merriment with shock. A bubble of laughter escaped her lips, effervescing until she couldn’t contain it any longer.

A crystal hand plucked one of the goblets from her grasp. “Well met, priestess.”

“I am no priestess,” she shook her head. “My mother may have been, I’m realizing now. It was from her book that I gathered that knowledge.”

“That kind of precision comes from years of practice.”

“I can honestly say that I have never performed a Samhain ritual quite like that. Do you think it’s because we’re closer to the Otherworld?” She gulped a mouthful of wine as if that might help clear her head.

“No. I think it’s because druids pass knowledge through maternal lines. And because you were born a priestess.”

“My mother said I was a changeling.”

“Your mother was wrong. We’ve already confirmed you’re not Fae. Perhaps there are a few things we might consider.”

“We?” Sorcha glanced up.

His ocean eyes stared down at her, curiosity and kindness reflected in their depths. “If you are so inclined to find out who you are, I offer my services.”

“What help can you provide?”

“There is a library.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

Sorcha placed her hands on her hips. “When were you going to tell me?”

“When you asked.”

“And if I never asked?”

Stone’s lips quirked to the side. “Then you would never know.”

“You are a cruel man,” she said as she handed her goblet to a passing faerie. “Do you dance?”

“I did.”

“That sounds as if you no longer dance.”

“It is no longer graceful,” he patted his hip. “The crystals prevent much movement. Fighting is one thing, grace is innate when you’re fighting for your life. Dancing does not come naturally.”

“Good,” she said. Sorcha lifted her skirts high enough to show her feet and pointed. “I have two left feet. I cannot dance well at all, and it’s very likely that you will be thankful for the crystals because otherwise I might crush your toes.”

“I don’t have crystals on my toes.”

“Then you will when I’m done with you.” She winked. “Perhaps you would care to look at your dance card for a free space where I might write my name?”

He arched a brow. “Can you even pen your name?”

“Not all humans are illiterate.” She shook her head. “You know I can read, Stone.”

The growl that rumbled from his throat sent shivers down her spine.

Sorcha gasped as broad hands slid around her waist and pulled her against his chest. She splayed her fingers against his heat. His legs framed hers, inner thighs pressed against her hips. Her stomach was flush against his — crystals biting through the thin fabric.

“This is hardly proper,” she whispered.

“Humans do not dance as the Fae do.”

“This is how you dance?”

“Well, not particularly.”

She glanced up and caught the sparkling laughter that danced in his eyes. He cocked his head to the side, lifted a hand, and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingertips were feather-light against her skin. He traced a circle against her neck, trailed down the slope of her shoulder and arm, lifted her hand until it rested against his bicep.

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think as he followed the same path on the other side of her body and curled his fingers around her hand. His other palm flexed against her spine.

“This is the proper way to dance with a woman,” he said.

“Is it?” Sorcha heard the breathless quality to her voice, the sultry notes that dripped from her tongue.

Heat flashed in his gaze, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “Perhaps you have never danced with a man.”

“Boys, yes. A man?” Sorcha’s eyes followed the ragged edge of crystals, the barbaric braid swaying from the peak of his head to his waist, the linen tunic belted by sheep skin. “Never a man such as you.”

He pressed gently against her spine, and they spun into the crowd. Faeries waltzed around them as a band struck up a tune.

Sorcha would remember none of the fluttering colors and magic sparking in the air. How could she? He stared at her as if she were the world. As if she plucked the stars from the sky and wove them into the strands of her hair.

Stone used his body like a weapon. He spun her in circles until she didn’t know which way was up and which way was down. He only stopped when she stumbled, falling into his arms.

She liked being pressed against his chest far too much. He was safe, and broad, and so much more than any man she had ever met before.

She said something, it could have been anything, she didn’t know what. But he tilted his head back and laughed so hard that the corded muscles of his neck stood out in stark relief. The crystals gaped at the wound caused by his hanging, and she couldn’t see the disfigurement anymore.

He was beautiful. An instrument of power and symbol of strength.

Stone spun her into his arms, pressing his cheek against the top of her head before unraveling her. He pressed her spine against his chest, dipping until he could whisper in her ear, “How did you know I was to be king?”

“You carry yourself as if you were meant to rule.”

“And Oona told you.”

He would taste the lie, so she said nothing and glanced over her shoulder. “Does it really matter how I know, Stone?”

His expression turned so fierce that she thought he might crush her. Instead, he traced his finger down her cheek and pressed his forehead to hers. “Eamonn.”

“What?” she gasped.

“My name is Eamonn.”

Before she could comment on such a gift, he spun them in wide circles around the room until she tossed her head back and laughed. This was perfect. Every single moment was perfect and sweet.

And he was perfect. Every broken bit of him, was perfect for her.

He had brought together all the people who meant something to her. Every faerie who had given her gifts, kindness, laughter, peace. They were all here in their finest outfits and it didn’t matter that they had no silk nor velvet to share.

Their hearts beat as one. Samhain had never been celebrated by such a strong family of people.

They passed the day in each other’s arms. Every now and then, they would stop for food and drink. Sorcha’s feet ached, but she didn’t want to stop dancing. So she would stuff her face, tease the faeries she saw along the way, but she never strayed far from his side.

There was an impending sense of doom, something she couldn’t explain or understand. Although this night felt as though they found each other for the very first time, tomorrow was uncertain.

Her siblings’ voices whispered in her mind. This was how a woman became a mistress. Fall in love with the wrong man, and disaster was sure to follow. He should be a king! And Sorcha? She was a midwife from so far away that he wouldn’t even know the name of her town.

Sorcha brushed the voices aside, not wanting to worry about the future tonight.

Another voice joined her siblings. “Tell my brother to enjoy his last few days.” She couldn’t tell Stone—Eamonn, she reminded herself—that she’d met his twin. She refused to issue a warning she wasn’t certain held any weight.

She had a boon from the king of the Seelie Fae. If he wanted to kill his brother, then she would use her boon against that. Eamonn would live. They could stay on this isle until the end of time.

And then the blood beetles would devour her family.

It was so easy to forget reality here. She understood the many stories of men and women who spent centuries in the Otherworld only to return and find everything gone. Life was so easy here. There were no responsibilities, no people to take care of, only herself and her own whims.

Perhaps someday she would forget the echoes of her family. Tonight, she certainly would. But tomorrow morning, Sorcha knew she would remember every bit of the guilt she sewed into her bones.

The music quieted as the sun dipped below the horizon. Her dress stuck to her skin and her hair billowed around her like a red cloud. She leaned against Eamonn’s side and stood at the window staring at the bright streaks of colored clouds.

“Have you enjoyed your Samhain, m’lady?” he asked.

“I believe this was the most enjoyable celebration I have had the pleasure of joining.”

“What was your favorite part?”

“The company.”

“Ah,” he chuckled and scratched the back of his neck. “Present company excluded, I would hope.”

“Hope? Why would you hope for exclusion from that grouping?”

Eamonn spread his hands wide. The pink light of the sunset played off the crystals. “I’m hardly fit to grace the halls of lords and ladies. The dogs may enter, but the wolves must stay beyond the door.”

She hated hearing him speak of himself like that. So many years of torment and disapproval from family and friend led to self-hatred. She had seen it in herself.

It was so much easier to say he was wrong and ignore the emotions reflected in herself.

Sorcha reached forward and intertwined her fingers with his. “Even wolves can be tender, loyal, and brave hearted. I would rather run with them in the wild than paint my face and try to blend into the walls.”

He squeezed her fingers. “I forget who I speak with.”

“A midwife?”

“A druid priestess with far more power than she admits.” He pressed his lips against the backs of her knuckles. “I’d like to show you something.”

“Another surprise? Eamonn, I might faint away if you keep up with this. I’m convinced someone has stolen your body and masquerades as a gentleman in your flesh.”

His eyes flashed. “I enjoy the sound of my name upon your lips far too much.”

A shiver trailed down her spine. “Then I shall endeavor to use it upon every occasion.”

“Come with me.”

She trailed after him into the depths of the castle. Past cobwebbed corners, stained glass windows dimming with the sun, and hidden alcoves where mist gathered. Up a stairwell she didn’t recognize that curved dangerously with no railing. Out onto a catwalk so high that the clouds tangled in her skirts.

“Where are we?” she shouted into the wind.

“Are you afraid?”

“No! This is beautiful!”

His grin flashed as the stars blinked to life behind him. “Wild thing that you are, fear has no name for you, does it?”

“Fear is an enemy to battle! I know her well.”

“Do not fall.”

“Will you catch me if I do?”

“I will fly upon the wings of the Wild Hunt if need be.”

She burst into laughter. “I thought faeries couldn’t lie?”

He tugged her off the edge of the catwalk and into a hidden corner. The heat of his chest seared through the fabric of her dress. “I do not lie. If I had to call the Wild Hunt to save you, I would.”

“I think I would fall to my death before you could manage.”

“I’d find another way.”

Sorcha grinned and shook her head. “What do you want to show me?”

Eamonn pressed his back against the wall and pushed. The sparkle in his eyes caught her attention before she noticed the wall had turned into a door. A warm glow lit the frame with orange light.

He pushed harder to reveal the fur rugs and walls lined with books.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Is this the library?”

“No. These are my quarters.”

“Yours?” Sorcha arched a brow. “Just what kind of woman do you think I am, Eamonn?”

She knew he would growl at her use of his name. She wanted to hear it again and again.

The deep baritone sound rumbled from deep within his chest. It was the call of a lion to its mate, the quiet huff of a stag in the forest, the gurgle of water underneath ice.

He reached for her, yanking her into his chest until her hands splayed against him. “Say it again.”

“I have no need to call you by name.”

“Say it.”

“You brought me here for a reason, Eamonn.” Sorcha grinned at the quake she felt behind her palms. “Why are we here?”

The disappointed breath that blew across her face smelled of mint. “You are temptation, little priestess.”

“Hardly. I wasn’t raised a druid.”

“You don’t need to be. Druid is in your blood, and I’m curious to see what you think of this surprise.”

He didn’t let go of her entirely. Eamonn slid his hands down her arms and tangled his fingers with hers. Silent, he guided her towards a bookcase and released his hold.

The tome he pulled from the shelf sparkled in the light. Its deep green cover and gold threaded words wavered under her gaze.

“Is it glamoured?” she asked.

“Not that I know of.”

It was changing in front of her eyes. The green dappled as if sunlight was striking it through leaves. The letters shifted and moved until she couldn’t read what the title was, let alone who had written it.

Eamonn held it out for her to take.

She stroked the spine, something in her calling out to treat it like a beloved pet. It creaked as she opened the pages. Ink blots stained most of them, hand drawn pictures of herbs and instructions filling the parchment paper.

“Who wrote this?”

“I don’t know. There’s nothing on the pages.”

“What?” Sorcha glanced up. “There’s plenty on the pages, there’s just no signature.”

“I can’t see anything written in that book. I have tried for years, but no matter how much I try, the pages remain blank.”

“Interesting.” With her nose buried, she meandered towards the chairs. “There’s much here I’ve never considered. Mugwort, for example, is rarely used to cure nightmares. It’s curious that it suggests using it while chanting… something. I can’t read that part.”

“You aren’t quite ready for it yet, I imagine.”

“Why?” Sorcha wrinkled her nose. “Why wouldn’t I be ready for knowledge?”

“For the same reason I was not ready to be king.” He plucked the book from her grasp and set it down on a small table. “We all must grow before we take on responsibility.”

“You would make a good king.”

“So you say, but I was not ready as a young man.”

He circled her. Sorcha knew the expression in his eyes. The darkened edges, the attention to detail, the hunger that she had only seen in a wolf. She was being hunted, and she didn’t know whether she wanted to flee or embrace the danger.

“I see many qualities in you that would make a good king. I don’t know if anyone is ever ready to take on such a daunting task.”

“How did you know I was meant to be king?”

“That’s my little secret.”

She felt his breath fan across the back of her neck. “I don’t like secrets.”

“Would you prefer that I lie?”

“I never prefer lies.”

“Then I am afraid you must resolve yourself to be disappointed, Eamonn.”

Sorcha stood perfectly still, fear locking her knees and curiosity stilling her breath. At the sound of his name, a single finger touched her throat. Her breath caught.

His fingernail scratched just enough to leave a mark as he trailed it down her neck and to her shoulder. He hesitated for a brief moment before hooking it underneath the yellow fabric of her dress.

He was giving her time to tell him to stop, she realized. A voice in her head screamed to leave, to run, that a faerie could not be trusted. But her heart knew what she wanted.

Him.

Sorcha sighed as the fabric of her dress slipped down her shoulder, baring milky white skin dotted with freckles. He groaned and traced patterns between the beauty marks.

“Do you know what they used to call me, Sorcha?”

“No.” She couldn’t think, let alone decipher what his words meant. Not when he was stroking the bare skin of her shoulder and the cold breeze brushed past her sensitive arms.

“The Red Stag. I used my blade like the antlers of the beast, leaving wounds dotting across my enemies’ flesh. I carved my namesake in skin more times than I can count.”

“Is that supposed to frighten me?”

“It is a warning.”

“That you are dangerous?” She glanced over her shoulder, the fabric of her dress slipping even further. “I know that, Eamonn. You are the sword, the weapon, the soldier of the Seelie Fae.”

He traced circles on her neck. “And the sword is far mightier than the pen for a time. But eventually a sword loses its weight, becomes a symbol more than a weapon. All warriors turn to the pen once they win their wars.”

“Precisely why I believe you would make a good king.”

His breath feathered over her arm. Crystals pressed into soft flesh, surrounded by the velvet heat of his mouth. A soft flick of his tongue stroked between freckles.

“Why does your whole body taste like sunshine?” he asked. “It’s intoxicating.”

“Does my whole body? I wasn’t aware you had tasted every inch.”

“There is no going back from this Sorcha. If you make this choice, I cannot stop.”

“You are a large man, Eamonn, but you are not my first.”

Sorcha reminded herself to breathe as his hands curled around her waist. He yanked her against him, pressed her spine against his stomach. “Who dares touch what is mine?”

“I am my own before I am any other’s. But if you must know, I grew up in a brothel. A girl gets curious.”

“A girl toes the line between right and wrong.”

“Is there such a thing?” She spun in his arms, eyes sparking with anger. “Right and wrong suggests that there is only black and white. I refute that belief and instead replace it with my own. If I desire a man, I shall take one.”

An answering anger sparked in his own eyes. Crystals lit with the fires of his passion. “And what do you desire?”

Every fiber of her being yearned for him to touch her. She wanted his fingers in her hair, his body pressed against hers—in hers—until she didn’t know where he started and where she ended.

Sorcha wanted him. It didn’t matter he was larger than her, or that he was Fae. She might regret it in the morning, but now she would enjoy every second of this poor decision.

She slid her hands up the wide plane of his chest, tangled her fingers around his braid and pulled him down. Their foreheads pressed together. She inhaled his air and breathed into him new life.

“I desire a king.”

“Then a king you shall have.”

He lifted her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. Sorcha had seen him swing a sword taller than her, perhaps she felt like a feather to him. She might have pondered such thoughts if he hadn’t swooped down and devoured her lips.

Her body glowed with passion and desire so great that she feared it would never be satisfied. Something, or someone, uncurled deep within her soul. A woman she barely recognized, who knew how to take what she wanted and asked for the world.

Candlelight disappeared in curls of smoke as he laid her across a feather down bed. Inky darkness obscured him from her vision.

His hands trailed down her sides, following the indents of her waist and the flare of her hips. Cold crystal pressed against the smooth column of her neck. The highest points dug into her skin, not quite painful and sending shivers racing from each touch.

The tight bodice of her dress eased. Her lungs expanded and her back arched, pushing her chest into his waiting hands. He slipped his fingers through the gaping fabric, smoothing his fingers around her waist and pulling her into his chest.

Stones pressed against bare flesh. She sighed, the sound almost too loud as he surged up and captured her lips again. The erotic scrape of crystal mingling with his guttural groan sent shudders rocking through her body. He smoothed his hand over her bare spine, hand shaking as he held himself in check.

“Eamonn,” she whispered. “I want to see you.”

“No one wants to see this face.”

“I desire to see nothing but you!”

Candles flared to life all around the decimated room. Shattered furniture, shards of stone statues, and broken mirrors created a battlefield. The bed was all that survived unscathed.

Eamonn did not look at her. He turned the scarred half of his face away from her as if she might be insulted by the mere sight of him.

Sorcha reached out and sunk her fingers into the hollows of his cheek. She whispered fierce and hoarse, “How dare you hide from me, my king.”

“Your king?”

“You hide from no one.”

The words struck a fire deep within her belly. She would tear apart anyone who dared say this man was not a king. She had met the imposter who wore a stolen crown. No man could ever live up to the goliath who hovered above her and dimmed the lights for fear his face would lessen her passion.

Her heart beat like a pounding drum. She gentled her grip on his face, sliding down the well-known dip of throat and collarbone. Her fingers curled around the edge of his shirt and lifted it.

All the while, Eamonn’s eyes watched her movements. So many emotions played across his face. Shame. Embarrassment. Wonder.

“What manner of creature are you?” he asked. “Fearless in your ability to see past this gruesome figure, and so selfless that you would allow a beast to lay hands upon you.”

“You are not a beast,” she said as she flung his shirt to the floor.

The caverns of geodes followed the lines of his ribs. She traced their edges, daring to dip into the crevices until crystals bit at her fingers. Sorcha outlined each wound, each grievous injury until she was certain she had marked each with her scent and her touch.

She sat up, pressing her chest against his and her mouth against his shoulder. She traced the mangled flesh and stone with lips and tongue.

“I claim you as mine, rightful king of the Seelie Fae.” Sorcha sank her teeth into his skin, biting through flesh until the harsh edge of stone cracked her lips.

Blood smeared his shoulder. Marking him for all eternity.

He roared out in anger, or perhaps something far more dangerous. His hand flexed beneath the fabric of her dress and ripped. Crystals and warm skin traced the delicate line of her spine in apology.

“You toy with fire,” he growled. “Once wounded, I never heal.”

“Good. Perhaps any other woman who dares touch you will think twice.”

The feral grin on his face beckoned the creature inside her, the woman who wanted to feast upon the Fae. “And you say you are not a druid.”

“I like you better with your mouth shut.”

“Shall I find something to keep it busy then?”

Sorcha couldn’t respond. A fire burned in her blood, and need swelled until it crashed over her mind. She straddled his waist and arched her spine, offering her body as a banquet upon which he could feast.

Candlelight made her skin glow. He lifted shaking hands, gliding over the bumps of her ribs until he could take her in hand. She tilted her head back, unable to maintain eye contact when the crystals flared to life. Violet glowed behind her closed eyes.

She gasped as crystals slid over the tips of her breasts, cold and strangely hard. Her spine curved further, and she pressed into his hand. A long sigh hollowed her belly as he teased the silken tip between his fingers.

He followed the line of her throat with his nose. Teeth closed around her ear, his hot breath vibrating in her ear. She clenched her legs against his sides as wet heat rushed through her.

“Lie down,” he drawled.

“No.”

“Sorcha.”

“I said no.”

“Now is not the time to argue with me.”

“What did I say about keeping your mouth shut?” she asked.

Sorcha locked her ankles and twisted her body. His brows drew down in surprise, but he obliged her request. Eamonn rolled.

He stretched his body across the bed and settled her hips over his. Cocking his head to the side, he asked “What now?”

A wicked grin spread across her lips. Sorcha smoothed her hands over his shoulders, pushing his arms away from her and onto the bed. She stroked across the bulges of his biceps, over the crystals on his forearms, and locked her fingers with his.

Her hips rocked, playing back and forth across his hardness. He was incredibly large, far more than a human man could ever dream of being. A small moment of worry made her wonder if he would fit.

She’d have to make him.

Sorcha whispered her lips over the mangled mess of his shoulder. The crystals scratched into the surface of his chest nipped at her mouth. She danced her fingers across his ribs, smiling at his gasp as she trailed her fingers across his stomach.

She lingered at the band of muscles arching over his hip bone. Tiny nibbles sent gooseflesh raising before her eyes.

“Sorcha,” he moaned. “Have pity on a man.”

Hardly. She looked up at him, flicking a brow before biting down hard.

He clenched his fists in the sheets and threw his head to the side.

“Pity is for the weak,” she whispered, “and you underestimated the woman you took to bed.”

She slid her fingers beneath his breeches, brushing her cheek over his throbbing heat. The sheets whispered as he arched against her touch. He lifted himself so she might free him from the confines of clothing.

He was glorious. Sorcha was thoroughly pleased to see that faeries were built entirely similarly to men.

She pressed a kiss against his shaft and made her way back up his body. She straddled his waist and took hold of his hands.

“You have been on this isle for a long time. It would be careless if I did not ask how long it has been.”

Blue eyes blistered with heat as she tucked his fingers under the long length of her skirt. “Too long.”

“How long is that?”

“Long enough that I’m not putting a number to it.”

“Then I’ll be gentle this time,” she whispered.

In truth, she wasn’t certain she could wait. Her wet heat already slicked across him, and she couldn’t stop the rhythmic canting of her hips. His arms flexed, and he pulled the dress over her shoulders.

Hands roamed down her shoulders, lingering upon the curves of her breasts and sliding across her thighs.

“Gentle?” he asked. “When have I ever asked for gentle?”

She had never felt like this before. He willingly gave her full control over the situation, and she wanted to devour him. She wanted to mark him for all eternity. To shred him until all he could do was whisper her name.

The newly discovered part of herself, the animal, the beast, wanted to see him on his knees. She understood what men felt like when they came to the brothel. She could order him to do whatever she wanted.

Sorcha leaned forward, sank her teeth into the lobe of his ear, then soothed the ache with her tongue. “What do you want, Eamonn?”

He growled and lifted his hips.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Is that all?”

She reached between them and wrapped her hand around his hard length. He pulsed between her fingers, eager and wanting. As a reward, she slid her hand up and down until he was breathing so fast that he rocked the bed.

But not yet. She wasn’t done with him yet. She paused, waited for him to catch his breath, then notched him at her opening. He was broad, too large, too thick, and far too enticing.

She wanted to see him as he entered her. She wanted to watch his eyes and brand herself into his soul.

“Eamonn,” she whispered, knowing how much he liked to hear his name on her lips.

“Now, Sorcha.”

A rush of heat tensed her belly, and she groaned. Throwing herself down, she seated him all the way to her core.

They both gasped, arched, ached for each other as two became one. The candles blew out as a gust of magic rushed through the room.

He filled her to the brink of pain. She stung, but the needles of sensation were agreeable. Erotic tingles danced down her spine, multiplying as he groaned in appreciation.

Sorcha leaned forward. His breath feathered over her lips, and she couldn’t bring herself to move. Not yet. She wanted to savor each moment that passed. Each clench of muscle that dragged him ever deeper.

A drop of sweat dripped down his temple.

“You feel like coming home,” he whispered. The words tasted sweet against her lips.

She knew how long it had been since he felt like he had a home. He’d been the outcast for centuries. And now, he admitted that sliding into her heat filled that piece of himself.

The earth could have split open, and Sorcha would not have been able to stop. She lifted up and drove back down. She gasped, clenching hard as she set a rhythm that made him grip the sheets again.

He didn’t touch her until she picked his hands back up. He gave her all the power, all the freedom to use his body as she saw fit. She pressed his palms against her breasts, dragged his hands to her mound and encouraged him to touch, to learn her body as she learned his.

Slow movements became frustrating. She braced her hands on his chest and sped up but her thighs were quivering and her mind fractured.

He growled and lifted her away. She spread across the bed, her hair a wildfire of curls, as he plunged back into her.

The time for tenderness had passed. The animals inside them clawed to the forefront. They fought beneath the sheets, twisting for power and control. She sank her teeth into his shoulder again, fitting them into the marks she had already left. The howling in her soul grew louder as he reached between them and slid his thumb across her molten heat.

“Eamonn!” she shouted.

She tensed, her whole body reaching for the stars. Higher and higher he brought her, forcing her further than she had ever gone until she arched her back and cried out in release.

Her eyes opened wide to watch as he threw his head back and groaned. The crystals that wrapped around his throat pulsed, his arms shook, and his hips stilled.

They had battled, drawn blood, and in the end, they lifted each other towards the stars and emerged victorious. Both alive, and undone.

Eamonn fell onto the bed neck to her, chest heaving.

He tucked her against him, a wide hand spread across her spine. Sorcha hid the smile blooming across her lips. It was strange how easily he lost the self-conscious way he carried himself. First, he stopped wearing the hooded cloak, then he grew comfortable with her seeing his scars, and now he didn’t flinch when they were pressed against her skin.

A woman could get used to this. Even the stones on his hands didn’t bother her, they had heated in their passions and warmed her back. She was cocooned—safe within his arms.

The sheets rustled as he shifted his legs closer to hers. His lips pressed against her brow, gentle so that he did not break her skin with the crystals. “Stay with me.”

Sorcha shivered. “There’s far too many meanings for me to guess what you mean.”

“Stay with me here on Hy-brasil, for as long as you live.”

“It’s a bold question for a faerie. Your kind despise humans.”

“You aren’t human. You’re druid, and beyond that, you are mine. They will love you, or I will bring them to their knees.”

She sighed and pressed her lips against his collarbone. “You can’t force people to accept change. And as much as I love this place, the faeries, this world you’ve shown me, I have to go back.”

“Why? To save the small amount of people who care for you?”

“It’s not just about my family, but everyone. The blood beetle plague is horrific, and I will not allow it to spread any further.”

“And they promised to give you a cure, if you brought me back,” he grunted. “They twisted the truth, Sorcha. They’ll send you on another impossible quest as soon as we return to your land. And another after that. Faeries, especially the MacNara twins, cannot be trusted.”

She rose onto an elbow, searching his gaze for the truth of his words. “You don’t think they have the cure.”

“I think they know of the cure, but they have been trying to meet with me for centuries. They toy with their puppets, force them to dance, and they do not care whether they snap the strings.”

“I will break those strings,” Sorcha growled. “How am I to save my people?”

“I don’t know.” He lifted a hand and tucked her wild hair behind her ear. “I don’t know if it’s even possible for you to save them. Plagues come and go, but humanity always survives them.”

“People are in pain. I can’t stay knowing that they’re suffering and I might help.”

“You have too large a heart for your body,” he murmured.

She caught the hand he pressed against her chest, holding it tight enough that the crystals pricked her skin. “I can’t, Eamonn. They’re my family, my people, I can’t let them live a life they don’t deserve.”

“Every time you open your mouth, it’s as if you are plucking words from my soul. Promise to stay here, and I will return to your world with you. I will help you in your journey to find the cure for your people.”

“You will?” Sorcha hadn’t thought he would so readily agree. “Staying here is the easiest choice I have ever had to make. I will remain by your side gladly.”

“It stings that I have to bribe you to remain here.”

She had heard the words before. Men said to them to her sisters every day of the week. They paid women for favors and hoped that they loved them in return. Sorcha knew none of her sisters loved those men, but the way her heart hurt when she saw Eamonn told her this was a different situation.

Laying back down, Sorcha tucked her head into the hollow of his throat and breathed in his earthy scent. “I stay because I choose to, not because you have agreed to save my people with me. You spared me the difficulty of deciding between you and my people. For that, I thank you.”

He hesitantly wrapped his arms back around her. He pulled her closer to him until she couldn’t tell where he began and where she ended. “No one should have to choose between their people and those they love.”

“Speaking from experience?” She knew he was. She had seen the place he had grown up, the glistening palace walls and the silk draperies. His people needed him, missed him, desired to have a king worthy of their affection. Even the royals, Elva came to mind, wanted him to return.

“Yes.”

Someday she would convince him to go back to Seelie. She would convince him to take his stolen throne, to place a crown atop his head, and become the man she saw inside him. His people would rejoice and cheer out his name.

But not until she saved her people. Only then would she convince the Seelie prince to return. Perhaps it was selfish, and likely the wrong choice, but Sorcha couldn’t bear it any longer. Her people needed her. The guilt tore at her soul and their imagined screams of pain ate at her mind. This place, although beautiful, was not hers. She would willingly give up her old life if she knew that her family and people were happy.

Closing her eyes, she snuggled closer to his heat and resolved herself to sleep. He pressed a kiss against her head. She stayed awake until his breathing evened into the steady rhythm of dreams.

* * *

Sorcha rolled onto her side and reached for Eamonn. She hadn’t slept well—a new bed was always difficult the first night. She kept rolling over to find him, worried that he might disappear into the night.

The Wild Hunt was afoot, and she feared he would be taken by Cernunnos and his bride.

Her fingers smoothed over the empty bed, sheets cold from the absence of his body. The spike of fear made her breath catch in her throat. Where was he?

It couldn’t be the Wild Hunt. Moonlight filtered through the windows, mocking her thoughts. Surely no other Tuatha dé Danann would take him from this prison?

Mind catching up to the fear, Sorcha sat up and dragged her fingers through the tangled mass of her hair. She was thinking irrationally. This was the place they banished people. No one would remove them.

She took a took breath and forced her muscles to relax. She focused on the tips of her toes, willing relaxation to travel from the ends of her feet all the way up her body. Once her muscles released their tension, she felt significantly better.

There was still no answer to what had happened to Eamonn. Where he was, she reminded herself, was the actual question. Perhaps he had gone to clean himself.

She couldn’t imagine why. A grin spread across her features in the twilight. He had proven himself quite a worthy man.

Her body ached in places she hadn’t realized she had. Each throb of muscle and quake of limb reminded her that she had been well and truly claimed, and that she had laid claim to him as well.

Sorcha bit her lip and pulled the blankets up to her chest. Curls fell across her naked body, slipping on the silken sheets.

“Where is he?” she muttered. “I would like to repeat last night.”

Clattering echoed from outside the door. On the stairs? She couldn’t imagine why Oona would bring food or tea up. It was far too late, and if Eamonn asked her to make the trek up those stairs in the middle of the night, then Sorcha had words to stay to him. The man wouldn’t learn a thing about his people.

Oona was an old woman! No matter that her body appeared young, she had enough years on her to deserve a bit more respect.

She slid her legs over the edge of the bed and hissed when her toes touched the cold stone.

“Eamonn,” she growled. “Everywhere else in the entire castle has sheepskin so we don’t freeze our toes off in the morning. Yet you insist upon punishing yourself even this early.”

Dim light made it difficult to find her dress. The yellow fabric was ruined, he had ripped all the buttons off the back. But it would have to do for now. Oona wouldn’t mind if a bit of her skin was showing.

The faerie had already seen every bit of Sorcha anyways.

She snorted. How strange it was to no longer worry about who or what saw her nudity. She had been frightened of revealing even the smallest bit of ankle when she first arrived. Now, she wasn’t worried about waltzing around with her entire back unclothed.

The mind was a strange and wondrous thing, she mused. She slid the fabric up and over her shoulders, pressing it against her chest and maneuvering a makeshift tie around her waist. As long as it stayed up when it was supposed to, she would call it a win.

Clattering become clanging, growing louder and louder as it reached the door of Eamonn’s quarters. Sorcha’s brow furrowed. She knew that sound, and yet she didn’t.

It wasn’t the sound of pottery or plates.

The door to the bedroom burst open, slammed against the wall with a thunderous bang, and fell off its top hinge. She shrieked and held her arm up. She refused to flinch, to hide, to fall backward.

“Sorcha!” Eamonn’s shout was a welcome, if concerning, sound to hear.

“Eamonn!”

“Where are you, woman?”

He couldn’t see her in the darkness. She ran towards him, wrapping her arms around the frame outlined by candle glow.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here, what’s wrong?”

Metal dug into her ribs. Her biceps met cold armor and the pommel of his sword pressed against her belly. He was dressed for war.

Eamonn wrapped his arms around her, pressing his lips against her hair. “Thank the gods. You’re safe.”

“I’m fine, what’s happening?”

“When did you see my brother?”

The question chilled her to the bone. “What?”

“You saw my twin, and you did not tell me. When was this?”

“Eamonn, I’m sorry, I should have told you. He summoned me and I knew it would cause problems if I didn’t go. I didn’t want to—”

He held her an arm’s length away and mashed a finger against her lips. “I’m not angry with you. I just need to know what was said between the two of you.”

“Nothing I thought you needed to know, or I would have told you immediately.”

“He tried to convince you he would be a good king.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “He tried very hard.”

“And he didn’t succeed.”

“No. I still believe you would be the better king, and it pained me to see an imposter sitting on your throne, wearing your face.”

He tilted his face, wincing at her words. “You may regret saying that.”

“He offered me a boon. He wouldn’t dare harm me, not when I can command him.”

“Dangerous for a king to offer such a thing.”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

Eamonn tapped her chin with an armored finger. “Precisely why I find you so interesting, Sorcha. You think like a soldier.”

“I think like someone who wants to survive. Why have you donned your armor?”

She watched him carefully as he pulled away. The armor creaked with his movements, groaning and shrieking plates scratching against each other. His spine stiffened, and he took a deep controlling breath.

“I always knew it would come to this. My brother has wanted me dead for centuries. I threaten his right to sit on that throne, even though I have been disgraced and banished. As long as I am alive, the people will always call for the High King of Seelie to sit upon the golden throne.”

“As they should.”

“It’s not my choice, Sorcha,” he said. “The world has made this decision for me. I am ruined, therefore, I am unfit to be king.”

“Don’t you believe change is worth considering? Perhaps the people who choose to be Seelie Fae no longer wish to have a perfect king!”

“You say blasphemous words you could not hope to understand.”

“I understand more than you know.” She reached for his face, framing his cheeks with her hands. “Your people are dying under the control of a tyrant who shows them little kindness. They want you to come home. Even the Tuatha dé Danann.”

“What do you know of such things?” A spear of candlelight spread across his face.

No, not candlelight, she realized. Fire from outside the window of the castle’s tallest tower. Something was burning outside. She could smell the smoke now, acrid and burning her nose until she wanted to sneeze. She would not look.

“Elva was the faerie Oona wanted me to help. She said she was raised with you and your brother. She spoke very highly of you and the good things you might have done if you became king.”

“Elva,” he whispered. “That is a name I have not heard in a long time.”

“The king made her his concubine.”

“He had no right.” The sudden anger in Eamonn’s voice startled Sorcha.

“Was she yours?”

“No. She was another's, but he would not have claim over a Seelie woman if the Seelie king wanted her.” He cursed. “How dare he meddle in such things? No wonder he is so hated.”

Sorcha swallowed. “Eamonn, why are you in armor?”

“The king is here.”

Of course. She should have guessed, but she hadn’t wanted to think the worst had happened.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

And she did. The king wanted to kill his brother once and for all. Sorcha ducked her head, stroked her hand across the smooth plates of his armor, and nodded.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Stay safe and out of the way.”

“How?” She looked up at him for guidance. “I’ve never been in a battle before.”

“Follow me. I will bring you somewhere I know you won’t be harmed.”

“And if you fall?” She didn’t want to ask the question. The thought of him bleeding out on the battlefield without her assistance made a scream rise in the back of her throat. “I can help the wounded.”

“I need you to stay out of the way. Follow me as closely as you can, and if we come across any of Fionn’s men, do not interfere.”

Sorcha nodded and followed as he rushed from the room. The weight of his armor must have been great, but he moved as if he wore nothing. It differed from the metal armor she had seen before. Interlocking pieces slid easily against each other and did not hinder his movements. No adornments made the armor “pretty.” It was functional. Practical. Like him.

She held her skirts high as they raced through his chambers and out onto the dangerous parapet hanging above the ground. It was then that she saw the army.

Spread out across the isle she loved so dearly, men and women in golden armor lifted their swords and spears. The Fae who lived in the castle and served their true master stood around the castle in a weak line.

There were so few of them.

Sorcha stopped running, fisting her hands in the fabric of her skirts as tears dripped down her cheeks. They would die. Under no circumstances could such a small amount of Lesser Fae stand a chance against an army in full battle gear.

The faeries she knew and loved held kitchen pottery in their hands. Pots, pans, garden hoes.

A choked sob rocked her forward. “They don’t even have weapons,” she whispered. “Please have mercy on them, they don’t even have weapons.”

“Sorcha!”

She flinched at Eamonn’s shout, rocking forward dangerously near the edge.

“Sorcha get down!”

A man climbed over the edge of the parapet. Twin blades glinted in the moonlight. He used them as hand holds, puncturing wounds into the side of the castle. They knew where Eamonn was.

The gilded edge of his armor was sharp as a knife. He spun towards her, not Eamonn, and grinned at her look of fear.

“You’re getting in the way,” the faerie grunted. “Off you go.”

He lunged, and she spun away. His hands caught in the fabric of her dress and she fell onto her hands and knees. Stone bit into her palms. Hair fell in front of her face, obscuring her vision. His hands gripped her ankles, and she screamed.

Then he disappeared. Ripped away from her legs with a panicked shout of his own. She looked over her shoulder to see Eamonn lift the faerie over his head. Too easy. Too simple. His expression was cold and heartless as he threw the man over the edge.

The echoing scream sounded like the wail of a bean sidhe.

“Come.” Eamonn reached out a hand for her to take. “We have to go.”

“That man—”

“One of my brother’s and not worth your guilt. Get up.”

She wanted to vomit. Sorcha had seen death many times over, but never so carelessly handled. That was a life that was thrown away, quite literally, and he wasn’t even bothered by it.

For the first time since meeting him, she looked at Eamonn with new eyes. Somehow, she had fantasized about him as the hero in a fairytale, but he was a flesh and blood warrior whose hands and body were stained with death and war.

She fit her hand into his, knowing full well what it meant. She could not support death. But she would not turn from him either.

He pulled her to standing and nodded. “That’s not the last of them, Sorcha. There will be more.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t.”

“I do now.”

He gave her one last, lingering glance before racing towards the door to the main part of the castle. Sorcha followed, her heart thudding hard in her ears.

The clattering of his armor echoed in the winding stairwell. It bounced up the circular tower, growing louder and louder. The slamming gong of church bells. Funeral bells.

A body fell silently down the middle. She wouldn’t have noticed it, for the faerie did not even shout in fear, but air whistled through her armor and the thudding weight charged the air with electricity.

“They are following us,” she said. Her words seemed too loud, disrespectful of the deaths she had just seen.

“Of course they are. Stay close.”

As they neared the bottom, Eamonn drew his broadsword. The rubies in the handle suddenly made more sense. The blade feasted upon the blood of its enemies, and thousands of souls were caught there.

Though the thought was fanciful, Sorcha still edged away from his sword.

“Are you frightened of me?” he asked. He did not look at her, instead he stared down the hallway and waited for her answer.

“Not of you, but of your weapon.”

“You should be afraid of Ocras.”

“The sword’s is name Hunger?”

“It devours my foes and cleaves flesh and bone. She does not desire you.”

“Her?”

Eamonn flashed a feral grin. “Of course. Women are capable of both beauty and pain.”

“There are many who would argue with you on that.”

“They would have to argue with Ocras.”

“Are we running?”

“Not yet.”

“Why are we waiting?” She didn’t look down the hallway, not wanting to see what they would run towards until the last second.

“Just a bit more,” he murmured. “Just long enough to give them time.”

“For what?”

“Now.”

He rounded the wall and charged down the hallway with a piercing shout. His roar made the walls shake and the ground quake with the force of his rage. As promised, Sorcha followed close behind but gave him enough room to swing his sword.

And swing he did.

Four soldiers waited for them. Two men, two women, golden armor molded to their bodies. Helms topped with bright feathers hid their species and made them appear all the more otherworldly.

They attacked all at once, and it was as if they struck a bull. Eamonn ducked into the first one, slamming his shoulder into the man’s stomach. Metal crunched as he lifted an arm to block a sword slicing towards him. It struck his forearm and snapped in half as it cut through his armor and met crystal underneath.

Ocras sang as she swung through the air and sliced through the neck of a male faerie. It stopped halfway through, blood dripping down his armor as Eamonn placed a foot on his chest and shoved him away.

He didn’t hesitate. He turned and lashed out, plunging the sword into another soldier's chest cavity. She shrieked and fell to the ground while holding her stomach.

Eamonn wrenched her sword out of her dying grip and caught the next attack on its blade. The weapons shrieked their fury into the air. The muscles on Eamonn’s neck bulged, veins pulsing as he pushed the other back. Step by step.

Unlocking their swords by swinging his to the side, Eamonn sank the blade through the crevice where thigh met pelvis. The man fell with a cry, holding onto his leg.

The last woman ran. She raced down the hallway as if it might contain a new escape. Eamonn growled and pulled the stolen faerie sword from the man’s leg, ducked his head, and calmly walked down the hallway.

Sorcha didn’t know whether to be terrified or angry. There were better ways to end a fight than in blood and gore.

The metallic scent burned her nostrils. Blood welled into the air until she thought she could see it hanging above her like a curtain of guilt.

She couldn’t stand by and watch this happen.

Eamonn wasn’t looking, so he couldn’t stop her. She rushed forward and placed her hands on the faerie man’s shoulders.

“Easy,” she whispered. “I will drag you back to the wall. Do not make a sound, or he will turn around.”

The man grunted and pressed his hands harder against his wound.

Sorcha, though small, had grown strong from manipulating the human body and hiking all across the isle. He was larger than her but small for a Fae. She tucked her hands under his armpits and dragged him a few feet until he could lean against stone.

She dropped to her knees next to him and brushed his hands out of the way.

“No,” he grumbled.

“Let me. I’m a healer.”

The wound was deep and cut through muscle. If he was lucky, he would live, but he would never walk again.

Sorcha would not be the one who told him that. Perhaps faerie healers knew more than she did about their bodies. The only thing she could do was stop him from bleeding out.

The tearing sound of her dress made Eamonn pause. She could feel the heat of his stare, his anger burning through her flesh.

Quickly, she wrapped the cloth underneath his thigh and cinched it as tight as possible. She knotted the fabric, ignored his pained whimper, and turned towards the faerie glaring daggers at her actions.

“I won’t let him die.”

“Why? Some strange affection towards my twin?”

“Because he’s just doing a job. I won’t stand by when I can help, no matter what side he fights for.”

“Soft heart.”

Eamonn turned and flung the sword in his hand. It whistled through the air and embedded in the faerie woman’s back who scrabbled at the door, then hung limp.

“Let’s go,” Eamonn said. He turned and yanked Ocras out of the other woman, holding out a bloodied hand for her to take.

Sorcha stood slowly, measuring him with a weighted stare. “You’re angry at me.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“He doesn’t deserve your help.”

“He’s alive. That means he deserves my help. I will never stop wanting to heal people, and if you want me to then we can end this now. I help others. That’s what I do.”

She watched a muscle jump on his jaw. His eyes canted away from hers, staring at the wall until he finally nodded. “So be it. Come with me.”

He did not reach out a hand, and she did not take his arm. They stood still in the hallway filled with blood, looking away from each other. A rift between them grew, splintering and splitting, a canyon tear apart their tenuous alliance.

Sorcha should have been heartbroken. She should have been sad, but she was angry. How dare he be angry at her for trying to save another life?

Her heart whispered to be gentle. That the man standing before her needed as much healing as the man behind. His brother was here to kill him. Eamonn likely would not be looking for those who were just doing a job compared to those who wanted him dead.

Maybe they all wanted him dead. She had no way of knowing.

He glanced at her and she met his gaze as his eyes widened in fear.

“Sorcha!”

She heard the crunching sound of armor moving before she turned. The faerie she’d saved stood behind her. She saw nothing but cold determination in his gaze and a knife that seemed to glow in his hands.

Time slowed. She heard her own exhalation and his hand began to descend. Sorcha ducked, her palms dragging across the plates of his armor. Her fingers slid across metal and gripped a sharpened piece.

She gasped as he fell against her, staggering in pain. She squeezed her eyes shut as hot blood poured over her hands. The jagged edge of armor bit into her fingers, but sliced into his chest even farther when she tried to move.

Her hands trembled, but she couldn’t make them move. He gasped in her ear, the rattling wheeze of a dying breath. She knew it well. Sorcha had heard it many times, but never so close.

Eamonn might have killed the others, but she had killed this one.

“Sorcha.” Eamonn’s armored hands pulled her away from the body. It fell to the ground with a wet thud. “Sorcha, I’m sorry you had to do that.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“You had to protect yourself, mo chroí.”

“I didn’t know what to do.”

“The first one is always the hardest. But we do not have time for this.”

“I should check for a heartbeat,” she said. She tried to turn but he wouldn’t even let her look at the body.

“No. No, we leave now Sorcha. I need to hide you from him.”

“From who?” Her mind felt foggy. All she could feel was blood on her hands and she should have been comfortable with the feeling. How many times had she felt blood on her hands? Pouring from between a woman’s legs. It was life.

But this was death.

“Sorcha.”

“I thought you and Bran looked like you were dancing. It was beautiful to watch you spar. I was so impressed. I thought real battle would look like that, but it doesn’t.”

“Practicing is one thing. It’s easy to make the movements look graceful when there is no blade striking at your throat. Real battle is gritty, messy, brutal. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

“Mo chroí,” she whispered. “You called me your heart.”

He gripped her hand and did not answer. They raced through the halls, ducking around soldiers. The castle rang with the screams of Fae who had not gone to the forefront to fight the king’s army.

Sorcha couldn’t handle any more death. She squeezed her eyes shut and let Eamonn guide her across the floors. Perhaps he knew that she wouldn’t look. Eventually, he swung her into his arms and charged through the endless doors and hidden rooms.

He burst through a side door. She curled against his chest and whimpered, wanting nothing more than for this battle to end. For her life to be back to normal. To wake up in her own bed and have this be nothing more than a wondrous tale for her sisters.

Wind brushed her hair across her face, cool and calming.

On the breeze, she heard a haunting song. A cry that trembled from a woman’s lips, speaking of lost love and a death that came too soon.

Eamonn stood still.

“Bean sidhe,” he said. “I have no quarrel with the Unseelie.”

“Where is my brother?”

“I had assumed he returned to you.”

“No twisted truths, Seelie king. I want my brother returned safely.”

Sorcha felt his nod against the top of her head. “I have use for him yet.”

“He will not fight for you. We do not need another war with the Seelie Fae on top of everything else which has happened. Bran wants a war. He does not speak for the Unseelie council.”

“I have never thought he did. He gave up that life long ago.”

“Good.” The banshee wailed, and the wind picked up again. “See that my brother returns home safely.”

“After he assists me.”

“The deal is struck.”

The cold touch of the wind felt like a woman’s hand. It slid across her brow and down her arms. Sorcha heard a quiet whisper on the breeze.

“Hello, priestess.”

What did the Unseelie woman know that Sorcha did not? The words weren’t merely an observation. As if she had seen her before, or perhaps her likeness.

Eamonn touched her chin. “You must walk from here, mo chroí.”

She touched her toes to the ground and balanced herself on his arm. “What are you going to do?”

“What I should have done a long time ago.”

“You’re going to fight him?” Sorcha shook her head. “Eamonn, more bloodshed will not fix this. You need to talk to your brother.”

“You think he wants to share the throne? It’s not possible for the Seelie Fae to have two kings.”

“Surely your parents had thought of this? You’re twins, Eamonn! They must have known there would either be two kings, or you would sit upon the throne.”

A shadow passed over his face. “They had always intended for us to share the kingdom. Fionn made his choice.”

There it was. Another faerie name she could add to her collection although this one she did not want. The name of the king danced upon her tongue and tasted like soured milk.

She did not want this responsibility. She did not want this name that branded itself into her mind because she knew this was the first faerie name she wanted to use.

This was the only power a human had over a Fae. She had his name, and now she could command him to do whatever she pleased. Sorcha could walk into the fields of battle and scream for him to stop and he would.

But such responsibility meant she chose a side. It meant she trusted that Eamonn would make a better king, and now that she had seen him in battle she was no longer sure of that. He had changed much. All she knew for certain was that he was not his brother.

She could not decide if that made him worthy of a throne.

Eamonn stared down at her. “You have chosen?”

“I will not choose. I came here to save my people, my family. Not to become entangled in the faerie courts and their wars.”

“I don’t think you have a choice,” he said. He traced a line from her forehead, down her nose, and across her lips. “You’re here, Sorcha. That means you’re involved.”

“I don’t wish to be.”

“Wishes mean nothing to the Fae.”

“I know.” The words caught around the thick knot of a sob.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“Eamonn, tell me what is going on. Where are you taking me?”

“I’m not taking you anywhere, mo chroí.”

He leaned down and caught her lips in a searing kiss. He poured himself into her, sinking tongue and taste until she felt the essence of him crawling underneath her skin. Their memories pulsed in her heart, and she knew this was goodbye.

Sorcha tangled her fingers in the long tail of his braid and pulled him towards her. She dug her nails into his skull, marking him as hers even further than she already had. Their teeth clacked together, blood welled at her lips, but she did not want to stop. If she stopped, her heart would break, and her being should shatter into a thousand pieces.

He pulled away.

“No,” she whispered and squeezed her eyes shut. “No, Eamonn don’t do this. You promised to come back with me.”

“If you stayed.” His thumb traced a line over her bottom lip. “And you aren’t staying.”

Taloned feet gripped her waist. Her eyes snapped open, and the ground dropped away.

“No!” she screamed. “No! Please, no!”

Her soul splintered, shouting that she didn’t want to leave him. He shouldn’t be alone when he faced the battlefield.

Great wings buffeted air against her head. She struggled, to no avail. The beastly bird did not release its hold upon her waist and soon they were too high for her to escape.

The highest peak of the castle was nearly within her reach. Everything looked so small, even the armored faeries who attacked the front door and beat back those she loved. She could still hear the screams.

Eamonn stared up at her. Once she was too high and fell limp in the bird’s claws, he turned and walked onto the battlefield.

The faeries of the isle parted like a sea in front of him. His tarnished and aged armor looked like stone as he moved through the crowd. The golden army stood in front of him, a wall of power and clear intent.

Sorcha wondered which one was Oona. From so high, she couldn’t make out faces or traits she might recognize.

Eamonn’s people were short and squat. Their forms warped and stretched with animal features, strange skin, oddly shaped bodies. They looked so different compared to the perfection Fionn brought with him. These were the Tuatha dé Danann, the great faeries who enslaved those who did not deserve it.

The twins mirrored each other, standing at the forefront of their armies. Fionn sat upon a great white steed. The long tail of his hair whipped in the breeze. Eamonn stood with his legs rooted in the earth, his braid thin and still. They stared across a sea of blood and did not move.

“Bran?” she whispered into the wind.

A booming caw echoed all around her. She glanced down at the talons wrapped around her waist. Each claw was as big as her forearm. Rough grey skin covered them. She hadn’t realized he could turn into such a massive beast. Another secret revealed, another thing to store away in her memory.

“Are they going to kill each other?”

The wind whistled past her ears, and she couldn’t tell if the croak was for her or simply a grumble.

“Am I ever going to see him again?”

The Unseelie prince didn’t answer. He turned them both away from the battlefield and soared over the ocean.

Too far away for anyone to hear her sobs.