“Come on, Murphy!” Clía called as they walked out of her room and into the hall. He bounded after her, tail swishing the ground.
Niamh shook her head. “Strange creature,” she muttered.
“He’s adorable,” Clía said, defending him.
“I wasn’t talking about the dobhar-chú.”
Clía sighed. “Did Kordislaen mention anything about me being dismissed?”
“Not a word,” Niamh said. “I think he knew it would raise some eyebrows if he admitted to sending home the woman who saved our intelligence mission.”
“I did what I had to.”
“You sell yourself short,” Niamh huffed. “You held your ground and convinced me and Dornáin of your plan. You fought like a warrior, and it saved the day.
“Not to mention”—she turned to face Clía head on—“after what happened with Sárait, I think it was a necessary lesson for the general. Kordislaen seems like a man who needs to be reminded that we’re not weak—that we’re not toys that he can play with. And we can show that by sticking together. It’s a lesson I learned a little late, I admit.”
“But not too late.” Clía smiled at her, and Niamh’s mouth turned up in a rare grin. “What did Kordislaen tell the rest of the warriors?”
“He focused solely on official business. He’s increasing patrols both day and night. Kían was also notably absent from the meeting. Either you’re not the only one Kordislaen has fallen out with, or they’re still rightfully upset over the events with Sárait,” Niamh said.
Dread sunk in Clía’s stomach. “Or something happened with Sárait.”
She turned abruptly.
“Where are you going?” Niamh called out.
Clía didn’t look back as she replied, “The infirmary is this way!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ronan’s feet pounded against the dirt, the sunrise at his back. His knees ached and his calves felt as if they were on fire, but he pushed himself further.
Logically, he knew he should stop. Take a break, give his muscles a chance to relax. But the second his body idled, his mind would start back up again.
His thoughts had gotten the better of him all last night. He could barely focus on his patrol shift, thinking only of MacCraith’s warning. And of Clía.
He couldn’t get the image of her tearstained face out of his mind. His heart lurched at the memory.
He didn’t know what hurt worse—that after everything they’d been through, after everything she’d accomplished, she still didn’t see herself as good enough. Or that he wasn’t enough for her. It was only a few nights ago when he’d kissed her under the stars. The feel of her lips, his arms around her—it was the closest he would ever get to paradise.
He thought she was as lost in him as he was in her. Seeing her put up walls between them, watching the tears roll down her face as she doubted him and herself—he felt like he’d been stabbed. Why was one man’s opinion enough to make her question so much?
And how selfish could he be, that he thought he alone could be motivation for her to stay?
She was a princess, born to lead a kingdom. He was a warrior who had come from nothing. The greatest thing he had ever imagined achieving was a noble death in battle.
Hope could be a fatal strike.
As the pain in his legs flared, his muscles stiffened and his steps faltered. He caught himself on the branch of a nearby tree before he could hit the ground. Slowly, he lowered himself, his back against the trunk. He had been running for longer than he should. He knew his limits, and now he was paying the price of attempting to defy them.
His head fell back against the tree. The ground was hard and cold, and the gray sky peeked out from behind dead branches above him. This morning, a light run around Caisleán’s grounds had sounded like a great idea.
But now, stuck on the forest floor with no company but the ache in his bones, there was no hope for escaping what was haunting him.
His thoughts turned from Clía to Kordislaen.
After his conversation with MacCraith and Domhnall, there were facts he couldn’t deny. Their capturewassuspicious. Kordislaen was one of the smartest generals in Inismian. Everything he did was careful and calculated. What were the odds that he would make a fatal mistake?
