Fionn was startled to find that Iomhar didn’t seem willing to counter this. Though glancing at the old Minchman’s face, he perceived sorrow in his heavy features.
‘I shall leave you to rest,’ Iomhar eventually said before gliding away. ‘You know where to find me if you need me.’
After a beat, Fionn called out, ‘Thank you,’ after his disappearing shadow. He would miss Iomhar when he was married off to the Redfolk.
Ifhe was married. Although Fionn’s prospects with Rory had taken an absolute nosedive, and recollection of that turn of events only added to his despair.
Who was he fooling? What was the point in continuing to pursue Rory if their interactions were going to keep ending in hostility? Was Fionn’s lofty ideal of serving his kingdom really a good enough reason to keep following the pull of this fated bond?
Truthfully, selfishly, Fionn didn’t want a mate who hated him. Suffering Rory’s loathing would surely be just as awful as being a Redfolk’s marriage possession.
But also, selfishly, Fionnreallywanted Rory to like him. Out of all the things that had gone wrong today, Rory trying to punch him was the one that hurt the most. Did Fionn really inspire such anger in him?
And yet, that same anger was part of what captivated Fionn. Rory’s anger and his empathy for the ocean. The spirit of adventure that clearly lived inside his closed-off heart. Fionn clung to those moments on the beach with Rory and the leatherback turtle.
Fionn had seen something in Rory that he couldn’t let go of: a spark. The sense of a lit fuse burning slowly down to something of shining brilliance.
Perhaps Rory could not see that spark for himself.
A prince and a fisherman,Rory had said, as though the unbelievable part of their match was merely a matter of station rather than the worlds they came from.
So why, when it was now crystal clear that they both harboured attraction for each other, was Rory so resistant to accepting a fate with Fionn?
The dark ocean failed to provide answers.
Fionn floated in his cloud of gloom while the water turned gradually sour.
Chapter Seventeen
‘Need anything else, Dad?’
Rory watched for signs of life from his father’s armchair. The old sod had been more miserable than usual and not offered so much as a grumble while Rory tidied up the house.
Rory moved round to enter his father’s field of view, not quite blocking the television but certainly impeding it. ‘I said, do you need anything, Dad?’
‘A son with his ears open,’ Hamish grunted back. ‘I said no.’
Years of patience had taught Rory not to rise to it. Besides, for the first time in months, he had something he wanted to talk to the old man about.
‘Dad, I need to ask you something.’
‘Y’never stop asking things.’
‘This is important. It’s for… medical records. Stuff I’ve got to tell the doctor.’ Rory chose his words carefully. The worddoctorwas a surefire way to put his father on the defensive, so it had to be smoothed over quickly. ‘So that you don’t have to go in for an appointment. I’ll deal with it, right?’
His father scowled. ‘What do they want this time?’
Rory took a deep breath. Did he really want to do this? Asking the question felt as dangerous as acknowledging that an answer might exist.
‘I need to know if there’s any history of strange medical conditions in our family. Besides Uncle Sam’s heart attack and Mum’s…’ He caught himself just in time.
Still, the wordcancerhung in the air like a foul smell.
Hamish glowered up at him, cheeks appearing more sallow under the blue light from the television screen. Rory held his breath, feeling the smack of the silent reprimand like the whip of a belt buckle across his memory. For a split-second he was eight years old and very small.
Then the moment passed and his father shuffled in his chair, just a withered old man. ‘What kind of strange?’
‘I don’t know. Anything odd. Maybe… deformities?’ Rory exhaled, avoiding the sight of his mother smiling down from the mantelpiece. Her photograph always inspired a tinge of shame, as though it was somehow Rory’s fault that she’d been taken away.
