“You visited his tent in broad daylight, micara. All of Luce knows.”
My heart hammers the ribbing of my dress.
What a mistake that had been.
What a mistake Dante had been.
I drain my glass and take it to the basin full of sudsy water that Riccio must’ve fired clean because the water is limpid. I submerge the glass, then pull it out and watch the bubbles snake down the sides as I upturn it on the drying rack.
“Thank you for the wine.” I cannot look Catriona in the eye as I say it, not because I’m embarrassed but because I’m ashamed that a man I’ve no consideration for, and who evidently has never had any consideration for me, can still affect me so.
With Aoife hot on my heels, I return to my bedroom. She thankfully doesn’t try to speak to me. Doesn’t even wish me a good night as I slide my doors shut and swap my pink day dress for the short white one I wear at night—a lacy number that feels as smooth as water against my skin.
I expect another sleepless night, but I must sleep because I’m sitting atBottom of the Jugwith Dante and Lore, discussing Meriam, while an apologetic-looking Beryl straddles Dante’s lap. I turn fully toward Lore just as a girl slides ontohislap. And not just any girl, but the princess of Glace. As much as the sight of Beryl and Dante disgusts me, the sight of Alyona languidly running her delicate fingers through Lore’s black hair while whispering sweet nothings inside his ear makes me want to commit murder.
Some part of me is aware that the scene is a figment of my imagination, yet my dislike of the Glacin princess takes on a whole new dimension. One that makes me soar out of my nightmare and plummet back into my darkened bedroom.
I’m about to feed the flame of my bedside lantern to vanquish the darkness when the fine hairs along my arms rise, because someone is watching.
Thirty-Five
As quietly as possible, I twist around and squint into the obscurity until I lock eyes with the figure seated in the armchair in the corner of my bedroom.
Pulse a mess, I grumble, “Fucking Cauldron, Mórrgaht,” then grip the edge of my nightgown and yank it down over my lace underwear before tussling with the sheets until I succeed in drawing them back up my body. “Has no one ever taught you that it is impolite to watch someone sleep?”
Lore hooks one ankle over his opposite knee, forearms resting languidly at his side. “Had pleasant dreams,Behach Éan?”
My heart holds still as I ponder whether his question is meant to be conversational or taunting. Did he mind-walk into my subconscious and toss in Beryl, Dante, and Alyona, or did I do that? I still don’t really understand how it all works.
“How long have you been sitting here?” I end up asking.
“A while.”
“Creepy much,” I mutter. Then again, watching me sleep seems to be a favorite pastime of his considering the amount of times he’s done so in the past.
“I came to discuss Eponine.”
I slide my lips from side to side as he uses the same trick he used the other night to capture my attention. “Fine.” I sit up in bed, keeping the sheets tucked snugly around my body. “Why don’t you step outside so I can get dressed?”
“Dressed? To go where?”
“To talk.”
“I wasn’t aware one needed to wear clothes in order to talk.”
“You’re just bursting with humor tonight.”
“I’m bursting with many things. Humor is not one of them.” The twin gold orbs extinguish for a moment. “Just stay put and talk, Fallon.” He sounds so exhausted that I indulge him.
“How’s Phoebus?”
“I thought we were discussing Eponine.”
“We will, but first I’d like to know how my friend is.”
The glow of Lorcan’s irises burns a path through the darkness. “He’s enduring his daily torture sessions with great aplomb.”
“Funny.” I press my lips together. “Does he hate me?”
