She’s right, he says.Might as well enjoy an afternoon off.
He looks so pleased by the prospect that I dare not object.
Aowen opens a book, Lachlan dips his head back, and I pull out my sketchbook. And thus begins our peaceful respite.
Well, mostly peaceful. Every once in a while, a low laugh, scandalized gasp, or appreciative murmur floats over from Aowen. I wish I could see what book she’s reading. Perhaps I’ll ask her to borrow it later. I could use the distraction.
Lachlan hasn’t moved from the base of the tree. I assumed he was napping, but every time voices drift into our makeshift den, his eyes pop open and bolt straight for me. As if he knows precisely where to find me, always. A thrill jolts through my veins at each glance.
I hope he cannot see what I’m drawing.
His portrait is coming along well. Despite his wild trappings—the long hair, the piercings, his brutal strength—his facial features are quite classical. Elegant, even. There are mythic heroes in Statuary Hall at Harbridge who I’m sure bear a striking resemblance. Maybe he posed for them.
I chuckle, grateful for this quiet afternoon, when a frantic male voice ruins it.
“Sir Cathal?”
Lachlan is on his feet faster than I can blink.
“Sir—”
“In here!” Lachlan calls out.
Sir Quinn—a tall, thin man with cropped silver hair and skin so pale it’s nearly translucent—sweeps through the curtain of pink blossoms. His bald look of fear has me scooting closer to Aowen.
Lachlan pulls him aside. “What’s happened.” A command, not a question.
Sir Quinn flicks his attention toward me and Aowen, then rises onto his toes, whispering furiously. Lachlan’s expression hardens—jaw tensing, eyes narrowing, lips pressing together.The same killing calm he wore in the crypt last week. My heart races and my mouth goes dry.
I want to watch him slaughter things again.
Sir Quinn wraps up his report. “You’ll come then?”
Lachlan nods. “Straight away.”
Sir Quinn clomps off, stirring a snowfall of petals.
“What’s going on?” Aowen asks, rising and pulling me to my feet.
“Take Charlotte back to the suite.” Metal clinks and leather creaks as Lachlan adjusts the straps of his sheath. “Straight back. No detours.” His sword hisses down his back. “Now, Aowen.”
“Yes. Yes, as you say.” Even obstinate Aowen dares not disobey him when he uses that tone.
He takes a long step toward me, his face softening. Unfortunately.
I like it when he’s angry.
His hand starts toward my face before detouring back to his side. “Go with Aowen. Stay in your room. You’ll be fine.”
“Willyou?” I ask, breathless.
Fae are capable of faster healing than humans but, as I have recently learned, they are not immortal. The only reason they appear ageless is due to the time differential between our two realms. They can be ended. And right on cue, there go the worst-case scenarios spinning through my mind, each bloodier than the last.
He says nothing before tearing past the drooping branches. His silence haunts me through the castle and into our suite, where Aowen locks the door. She opens it only once—to let in a hiccuping, zigzagging Vesper—and afterward, we can do nothing but wait.
And wait.
And wait.
