“And you’ve only just gotten your memories returned to you.” He smiled, but it was contrived, and he tucked his hands behind his back. “I thought you might need?—”
“Might I remind you, my lord,” she interrupted, silencing him, “that I am not in need of coddling.”
Tiernan stared at her, seconds of strained tension pulling taut between them. Then he arched a singular brow, his voiceinfiltrating her mind.“Perhaps you’re in need of something else, then?”
Heat bled into her cheeks, but she schooled her expression into one of neutrality. “Do not change the subject.”
The corner of his lips twitched.
Damn him.
“Forgive me, my lady.” Tiernan reached for her hand, pulling her to him. He wrapped his arms around her waist, his palms skimming her flesh, and her blood hummed. “The next time something of importance comes up, I’ll ensure you’re informed right away.”
She pressed a kiss to the underside of his jaw.
“You’re looking rather pretty tonight, Maeve.” Ceridwen nodded toward her gown, a smile pulling at her ruby lips. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that one before.”
Maeve softened. “It was my mother’s.”
“It’s beautiful,” Saoirse agreed, before sending a scathing look at Casimir.
Merrick nodded, leaning back in his seat. “An Archfae in every sense of the word.”
Wariness slithered down Maeve’s spine. Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, her nails digging into the wood. “Why do I get the feeling your compliments have an ulterior motive?”
Silence descended upon the verandah. Everyone was looking at her, but no one could quite meet her eye. Awkward tension thickened in the air, made even more uncomfortable by the fact that every one of them seemed to know something, and none of them had the decency to tell her.
“Enough!” Maeve threw her arms out to the side, exasperated. She couldn’t stand it anymore. She was sick of them tiptoeing around her, of treating her like she was some delicate flower that would wither away to nothing at the slightestthreat of a breeze. “Stop this. Stop acting as though I’m going to shatter at any moment. I am not fragile. I willnotbreak.”
She turned, her brows furrowing as she faced Tiernan. Out of everyone, she would have thought he would be the one to understand her, to never underestimate her, to believe in her. “Do you really think I’m so weak that I can’t handle whatever it is you need to tell me?”
Rowan coughed, clearing his throat. “Told you we should have woken her up.”
Low thunder rumbled and Tiernan’s gaze darkened, his eyes swirling with the threat of an incoming storm. He glared at Rowan before returning his attention back to Maeve. “Of course not, you are far from weak. We just?—”
“Then say it,” Maeve demanded. “Whatever it is, say it. Now.”
“Garvan escaped.” Casimir’s abrupt announcement cut through the stifling resentment burrowing itself inside of her.
Maeve’s gut clenched, a harrowing sensation that scalded the back of her throat with hot bile. Her chest caved, hollowing out as the sickening memories haunted her and took up residence in the forefront of her mind. Garvan, who sold out the Summer Court and condemned Tiernan and Ceridwen’s parents to death. Garvan, who skinned the merrows and sold their scales. Garvan, who murdered Shay, leaving him to bleed out and die in the courtyard of Niahvess. His atrocities were numerous, a list of crimes Maeve would not soon forget.
She expected to be overcome with fury, maybe even a shred of fear, knowing that he’d somehow broken free of the iron binding him within Kyol’s dungeon. But instead, cold vengeance pierced her straight through and she sharpened its blade, ready to strike.
“How?” The word croaked out of her.
“The only plausible explanation is that it was an inside job.” Casimir’s voice was eerily calm. He steepled his fingers together,his face a mask of untroubled indifference. “Garvan was under lock and key. His cell was guarded every hour of every day.”
That seemed like a rather pertinent piece of information for someone to have, especially when that particular someone was working with the enemy.
Maeve scowled, yet she seemed to be the only one exuding any kind of caution. Even Saoirse looked as though she believed him, though her lips were pressed into a firm line. Her glare cut to Casimir, like she was ready to plunge a dagger into his chest.
“And how are you so sure he escaped?” Maeve questioned, doubt tugging steadily on her conscience.
Casimir spread his palms open and lifted his head, faerie fire burning in the lights overhead illuminating his face. It was then Maeve saw the bone-deep exhaustion, the discoloration beneath his eyes, the lines of weariness embedded into his tanned skin. He looked like a man who’d fought a thousand battles, winning none of them, even though Maeve knew that was the furthest thing from the truth.
He possessed the soul of a warrior. Bloodshed pumped through his veins. He’d seen much, lost much, and every battle, every conflict he’d ever faced, harbored itself in the depths of his dark gaze.
“I bide most of my time in the Autumn Court.” He said it as though it was the only explanation he needed.
