“Dead end,” he whispered.
My heart thundered in my chest. “Then why—”
Over his shoulder, one of the men by the barrels pointed in our direction.
Rogan spun toward me. He slid both hands around my waist and lifted me like I weighed nothing. My back struck rough stone as Rogan pinned me with his bulk. I inhaled sharply, gripping his shoulders for balance. His muscles flexed beneath my palms as one of his hands slid along my bare leg, lifting it up around his hip. The leather armor covering his torso slid hard against the inside of my thighs. Warmth sparked in my core and sizzled through my veins, tangling with my rising panic.
“What are you doing?” I breathed.
His other hand rose to my face, tugging the hood of my cloak further over my forehead. His fingers splayed against the side of my cheek. He bent his face toward my neck. “You can thank me later.”
Rogan’s lips brushed my throat, sending delicate vines of heat to climb my face. His breath was ragged. My own breath rose to the same cadence as nerves and adrenaline and his overwhelming closeness sent my pulse ratcheting. I dug my fingertips deeper into his mantle, praying to any gods who might be listening that this wasn’t the stupidest plan my handsome, idiotic prince had ever devised. But it was hard to focus on impending doom with his kiss teasing my neck, his large hands circling my waist, his belt buckle pressing into my lower belly. I shifted my weight, hooking a leg into the small of his back to brace myself. He exhaled roughly, sliding his hands lower to cup my rear. His eyes dragged up, collided with mine. His lips were mere inches away, and I—
The thud of boots made every muscle in my body tauten. The scrabble of claws on stone scratched my ears. Theshinkof metal being drawn pulled ice down my spine.
There was a rough male chuckle from five paces. A mocking whistle.
Without pulling his mouth from my throat, Rogan lifted two fingers and flipped off the guards.
Who laughed. Yanked at their dogs. And miraculously moved on.
I closed my eyes and followed them with my ears—boots tromping back toward the bonfire, armored men shoving into the crowded crofter’s hut. Shouts of annoyance. Muffled conversation. And then—at last—nothing but the nonthreatening sounds of laughter and singing and someone puking up ale in the gorse.
It felt like a long time before Rogan released me—and yet not long enough. We were both panting, and I was trembling—the aftereffects of fear and adrenaline and desire skating hot along my bones. Rogan stepped away from me, but one of his hands lingered at my waist. The buckles on his armor had shredded the silken dress, and his palm was warm through the tattered fabric.
“You’re insane,” I ground out.
His shrug was carefree, but relief pooled in his eyes. “Better than dead.”
“Debatable.” Connla’s fiann was nowhere in sight, but it wouldn’t be gone long. “We need to get back to the fort before they double back.”
“Lead the way.”
The high palisade surrounding Rath na Mara was studded with fortified gates. The night watchmen waved me through without question—they were sworn to Mother and accustomed to my odd hours. They studied Rogan more closely but allowed him to follow me across the courtyard into the main hall. We stumbled inside the arching doors, our panting breaths loud in the echoing, silent room.
“What are youdoinghere?” I choked out. It was late—although Mother had feasted with her under-kings earlier, all that was left of the revel were carcasses on platters, empty flagons of mead, stinking rushes beneath our feet, and a few drunks snoring in the corners. “And what in the Morrigan’s name were you doing in Connla’s tent?”
Rogan shook out his golden hair and unfastened his bold-checked cloak. The candlelight caught on the brooch at his shoulder—a cracked gemstone polished to a sheen that perfectly matched his eyes.
No—not gemstone.River stone.
My breath caught. I’d been about eleven the day we’d found it. Rogan and I had gotten separated from a boar-hunting party. Not particularly disappointed, we’d spent the warm afternoon chasing rabbits through the forest and splashing in the wide brook winding between the trees. I’d been the one to find the glittering blue-green stone—as large as my fist, with a narrow crack through its center. But it was Rogan who’d fallen in love with it. He’d held it up to sparkle in the light and claimed it was an enchanted emerald from far-flung lands. I’d laughed at him, saying we were too old for such fanciful stories. But when the sun rode low and Rogan tried to hand the pretty stone back to me, I’d told him to keep it.
“Perhaps someday you’ll use that enchanted emerald to break a Folk curse,” I’d told him, teasing. “Besides, it matches your eyes.”
But the truth was, I’d never been able to refuse Rogan Mòr anything he wanted.
And all these years later, he still wore my gift like a talisman.
I gripped my wrist beneath my mantle, driving the bracelet of nettles and thorns deeper into the tender skin.
He is not meant for you.
“I arrived at Rath na Mara earlier tonight,” Rogan was saying. “I was supposed to present my father’s tributes to the queen at the feast. But then I saw you—or who Ithoughtwas you—leave through the gates. I tried to catch you, but you were longgone. And honestly, I got kind of lost. I wound up at that tavern where we—”
He trailed off. His eyes darkened, and I didn’t think it had anything to do with the tapers dying on the table. A traitorous dart of heat tangled with wariness in my belly.
I kept reminding myselfheleftme, four years ago. His choice. No one had made him go.
