Alar focused first upon the Raven Queen. Mor was exactly as he’d imagined. Regal. Intimidating. He noted then the black cloaked Shee warriors standing to her left, as well as Bree, Cailean, and the robed druids waiting to Lara’s right. Bree’s glare could have cut through granite, while Cailean, Annis, Ruari, and Ren—there was no sign of Gregor—stared him down. He couldn’t blame them. Once, he’d sat with these people in Duncrag’s hall. Once, they’d worked together, planning their campaign north. But all the while, he’d been playing a double game. One they’d lost.
But then he shifted his gaze to the High Queen, and everything else faded.
Suddenly, he couldn’t hear anything except the thunder of blood in his ears.
She was as lovely as he remembered. Her auburn hair coiled in a braid around the crown of her head. Strands had come free and curled softly around her heart-shaped face. She looked tired; her features were strained, her eyes hollowed, yet the torchlight highlighted the creaminess of her skin, the scattering of freckles across her nose. Her cloak hung open, revealing a thick woolen tunic beneath that clung to her soft curves. Curves he’d onceworshipped. Skin he’d once tasted. He rememberedeverything, including the feeling of being wrapped around her. Like he’d come home.
Lara stared at him as if a bog wight had just crawled into the pinewood. Her face drained of color, and for an instant or two, she swayed on her feet.
But then, their gazes met. Cold washed over him, slicing through memories that made his gut ache.
There was no warmth in her pine-green eyes. No softness.
Just bitterness and loathing.
10: INDULGE HIM
BILE STUNG THE back of Lara’s throat.
She’d readied herself for this moment and employed the same toughness that had gotten her through the Slighe Fraoch. But all of it fled when Alar emerged through the trees.
The air rushed out of her lungs. Dizziness barreled into her.
For a few instants, the world tilted before she yanked herself back.
Shades.She couldn’t faint.
The humiliation of crumpling onto the carpet of pine needles with Mor watching, and with the Half-blood standing a few feet in front of her, wouldn’t be borne.
She clenched her hands at her sides, her nails biting into her palms.
That was better. She was back in control now.
All the same, the sight of him—tall, lithe and leather-clad, his dark hair spilling over his shoulders, his iron-grey gaze upon her—made her pulse betray her.
Her heart was pounding now.
“Finally,” Mor spoke up then. “We meet … Alar …Kingof the Wulvers.”
Did Lara imagine it, or was there a sneer in her voice?
Alar, who’d been staring at Lara, his face taut, cut his attention to the Raven Queen. And as he did so, his expression veiled. “Mor.”
Their gazes met and held for a few moments before Mor inclined her head. “We have much to discuss … but first, there’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”
Lara turned to see Mor gesturing to her left. She should have known. Mor wanted to kick things off by delivering a shock. It was clever and would put the Half-blood on the back foot.
“You’ve met Fern before.” The young Shee warrior stood, arms folded across her chest. She watched Alar with a look of thinly veiled distaste. “But I believe you’ve yet to be acquainted with your father … step forward, Wynn.”
Sablebane did as ordered. In the torchlight, his handsome face was remote, his grey eyes—the same shade as his son’s, although with slitted pupils—emotionless. He regarded his son as he might a spider crawling up the wall.
Meanwhile, Alar had gone still.
He stared back at his father, his expression stony now. Neither spoke, and a strained silence followed.
Lara’s attention flicked between them. When she’d first seen Sablebane, she’d found his resemblance to Alar uncanny. They were both lean, both dark-haired, with the same arrogance and leashed power. But seeing them together, she realized they were as different as iron and Sheehallion steel.
Everything about Sablebane spoke of control. Detachment. She found it strange that he’d ever done something so reckless as tumble a Marav lass and get her with bairn. In contrast, his son burned with restless energy. Thanks to his tattoo, covered now by his vest, earth magic coursed through his veins, anchoring him to Albia, with all its roughness and beauty. It struck her then that despite his bitterness toward her people, Alar was far more Marav than Shee.
