“Treacherous changeling,” he growled.
My vision blurred.
Wrapping my hands around his elbow joint, I pivoted, swinging sharply away and breaking his hold. I slid one hand to his wrist, still gripping his elbow in the other, and cranked his arm sharply. He cried out, leaning back to avoid my breaking his arm. One swift kick to his leg sent him to his knees. Another returned him to the floor.
This time, I was angry. I flung myself down on top of him, clamping my legs around his arms and torso. One of my hands found the hilt of my razor-sharp skean; the other, jammed into the soft space where Connla’s throat throbbed, began to change. My veins went green. The tracery of serrated leaves was lace on my skin. And little thorns—sharp as a blackberry bramble—prickled my palm and fingertips. A trickle of blood dripped down Connla’s neck, and his throat worked, fear muddling his gaze. Some corner of my mind screamed at me to release him, to shake out the fury bruising my blood.
But it was too late. I hadn’t wanted to kill him before.
I did now.
Black and red and tumultuous green flared behind my eyes. I lowered my knife toward his throat.
Hands clamped down on my shoulders.
I cursed—yet again, I’d forgotten to watch my back.
Chapter Two
My attacker was strong—they lifted me like a rag doll off Connla’s supine figure. I kicked back and struck flesh, earning a male grunt for my efforts. I took quick advantage, seizing the wrist of the hand gripping my shoulder. Twisting under the man’s arm, I grabbed a fistful of his thick cloak and sliced my skean toward his throat.
He blocked my blow with a gauntlet, sending a shock of impact blazing up my arm. His hand folded over mine where it gripped his mantle. He leaned forward.
“The joy is in the thrill of the fight,” he murmured, too low for Connla to hear. A trace of inexplicable amusement varnished his low tenor. “Not the promise of a kill.”
I froze. The voice might not be familiar, but the words were. They conjured a morning swathed in mist—the training yard at dawn. The clack of wooden training swords. Cold sweat puddling along my collarbone and my breath like a knife in the throat. I’d been thirteen and livid with righteous indignation—my sparring opponent, a trainee in one of Mother’s fianna, had beaten me a dozen times in a row. But he’d won badly each time—whacking meover the wrist so my numb hand dropped my claíomh; jabbing my throat with his fingers so I doubled over coughing; pulling my hair until my neck ached. Each time, I’d looked to the rígfénnid for support, but he was never watching when my opponent cheated. Anger had spiked hemlock through my veins. Finally, I’d snapped—I’d thrown myself at the young man, play-sword forgotten, throttling him and pummeling him and kicking him. I’d wanted to kill him, and nothing had ever felt so good.
Buthehad been there to pull me off—Rogan Mòr, prince of Bridei, one of Mother’s noble fosterlings. My best friend, two years older than I was. My only confidant.
That day, he’d gripped me tight until my rage had faded, and he’d whispered those words in my ear, as he would many times after:The joy is in the thrill of the fight, not the promise of a kill.
But Rogan had been gone foryears.
The last time I saw him, he’d been a gangly youth. Now he had the face of a man—hard jaw, soft lips, bold brows. But the boy I knew was still there—in the waving golden hair kissing his brow, in the laughing set of his mouth, in eyes the same shade as the ocean below the hill at Bré.
I unwound my hands from his mantle. Not because I didn’t want to touch him, but because I did. I had to remind myself—it washewho had left four years ago.
He is not meant for you.
“Princeling?” I ground out through clenched teeth. “What in the Morrigan’s name are you doing here?”
“Saving your hopeless arse.” Despite my tone, he smiled—warm wind and spring green. “Or more accurately,his.”
Connla had taken advantage of our distraction to scoot backward across the floor, clamber over his mound of seduction furs, slam the top down on the darrig’s chest, and rip open the door to his tent.
“Guards!” he hollered into the night. “Guards!”
The response was immediate—shouts rang out across camp, along with the clatter of metal and the keening bay of hunting dogs.
“Shite.”I lunged for my discarded cloak, glancing regretfully at where the darrig was hidden. Maybe there was still time—
But a long, sharp claíomh had found its way into Connla’s hand. Blood still dripped from his nose—the triumphant grin he gave me was red and gruesome as he blocked the doorway.
Swiftly, I glanced around Connla’s lordly tent. The canvas was thick and new—there was no way I’d be able to slice through it with my slender skeans. No claíomh hung from Rogan’s hip.
And I had a feeling Connla would rather kill me than let me get past him.
Which left only one option.
