And, absurdly, it made me want to know more about him.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I turned and climbed onto his bed.
I gathered up my skirt and planted my old, scuffed boots right on his immaculate jacquard cover. Dirt from the soles marked the dark fabric at once, and a small thrill of satisfaction ran through me.
He was not here. There was nothing he could do.
I lay back for a moment, stiff and awkward that I was on his bed. I stared up at the carved canopy above. The mattress was firmer than I expected, as if even sleep was not allowed to soften him. I tried to picture Fionn here, did he lay rigid on his back like a corpse, did he sleep at all, was his face at rest any less cruel than when he was awake.
Again I caught his scent.
Leave.Came a voice.
The whisper was faint.
“No” I replied.
And, absurdly as it sounds, being in Fionn’s room uninvited made me want to know more about him.
And then, my thoughts drifted to him.
To his eyes, that impossible blue that could go light as ice or dark as a storm in a flash second. Eyes that had looked down at me with fury and warning not to cross the line with him. Those eyes that made my insides twist in ways I didn’t want them to.
Even though he was from another world, I couldn’t deny he was striking looking. He was strong and very controlled in everything he did. The way he had held me when I tried to run. Was firm and in that moment, I knew not to defy him.
I tried to ignore the way my heart fluttered lying here, imagining what he was like when he let someone get close, if he ever had. If those cold, piercing eyes ever softened for anyone. If they ever darkened for reasons other than anger.
My fingers drifted to the carved bedframe, tracing the grooves in the wood. Who else had touched these posts? Had anyone ever been allowed this close to him? Or was this room as untouched as he pretended to be.
I try to ignore my thoughts, but I couldn’t help imagine his large frame above me, those cold piercing blue eyes were they the same when filled with desire.
I sank deeper into the pillow, and a strange ache tightened in my chest.
What were the whips for, did he use them for pleasure, or was it ritualistic torture of the marked?
What had shaped him into this cold, distant man who seemed to hate me, even though he said I had to bind to one of them?
Unlike Cillian, there was no charm in him or remorse for taking me, in fact he didn’t seem to care about anything except his cause.
Out of the three brothers, I knew as quick as looking at me, he would put a dagger through my heart.
And yet here I was, lying in his bed, wondering who he was beneath all that ice.
I reminded myself that I hated him.
So why was I lying in his bed wondering how he slept?
Angry at myself, I sat up sharply.
Then I stood.
And before reason could stop me, I began stamping over his pillows in my muddy boots.
One. Two. Three. Jumping up and down and messing everything up.
I jumped on the mattress with all the graceless spite of a child. I didn’t care. The bed hardly moved beneath me, it was solid and stern like it was made perfectly for him.
I laughed under my breath. This was probably the most it had been used in a long time.
