Aoife’s eyes glitter just as brightly as the garland of glass lanterns over our heads. “Khrámeanslove.”
I flip my gaze over to Lore, who is staring right back at me, one corner of his mouth tugged up.Ready to retire . . .mo khrá?
Fifty-Three
My cheeks are still flaming, and yet it’s been a full minute since Lorcan suggested we leave together and called me . . . called me . . .
You haven’t even eaten,I deflect.
I will.
When?
When we get to my bedchamber.
Should I make you a plate?
I’ve an appetite for something other than food.
I choke on my sip of water, then hack up what feels like a lung.
“You all right there,picolo serpens?” Phoebus taps my back.
I snatch his goblet of wine, since mine is empty, and upend it.
We’re not going to war, Little Bird, only to my bedchamber.
I know this, and yet it feels like one and the same.
Lorcan sighs. I’m not sure if he does so out loud or in my mind, but his expelled breath is so strong that it feels as though it fans across my flushed skin.Come. I’ll walk you to your room and then depart for mine.
My pulse skips over a beat at the out he gives me, and although my skin still feels hot, a glance at my collarbone shows my mottled complexion is finally receding. “Pheebs, where is your room?”
“Mine? Aren’t you more interested in knowing where—”
I flick his bicep before he can finish that sentence. “I want to know on which door to pound after I’m donebondingwith my father.”
“Cathal made it back?” Aoife asks.
“Oh yes.” Phoebus replenishes the glass I set back down. “And he’s in a jolly mood.”
“It’s great honor for him that daughter is mated with—”
“Phoebus was being sarcastic, Aoife.” I finally hoist myself from the bench. “My father isnotin a pleasant mood. I’ll let Phoebus fill you in since he so loves to gossip.”
“What slander!” Phoebus sputters, which brings a smile to my mouth; the first in a while. “But she speaks true. I do live for gossip.”
After Phoebus explains where he sleeps, I drop a kiss on his cheek, then wish Aoife a good night before slipping around the tables toward the doorway where Lorcan awaits, calm and steady, the outline of his body in perfect focus.
Blood rushing beneath my skin, I stride past him down the hallway. Why does this feel like a walk of shame? Shouldn’t walks of shame involve daylight, rumpled clothes, and smudged makeup? Lore follows me in silence—a silence that isn’t altogether uncomfortable, if not a little nerve-racking.
We cross paths with no one, and when we reach my closed door, we stand facing each other like earlier. Unlike earlier, though, there is no playful banter being exchanged. No smirks either. We are both still like a forest before the storm, except the storm Lore unleashed over Luce has ended, whereas the heavy air between us crackles with new beginnings.
“I never want you to feel as though I’m cornering you, Fallon.” His features are feverish in the darkness—his irises lightning bright, his skin luminescent like the moon, his lips glossed as though he’s just dampened them with his tongue.
I take a step nearer, aligning the tips of my shoes with the polished toes of his boots.
“What of me cornering you, Mórrgaht?” My pulse bangs against my skin, against my eardrums, against my bones. “How do you feel about that?”
