Maeve threw her arms out to the side. “Then what is?”
Because she was damn well tired of everyone within these palace walls trying to tell her what she could and could not do.
“The point is that you don’thaveto do all of it by yourself. You’re not alone anymore, Maeve. You’re not that scared little girl sitting in a cage over an angry ocean. Everyone here”—Saoirse gestured around the throne room—“loves you. Values you. It’s not us and you. It’sallof us. Together.”
Maeve shifted on her feet. The heels she wore were pinching her toes, and she was growing weary of having this same conversation. Again. “There’s more to it than that.”
“Then tell me,” Saoirse pleaded. The white petals of the rose tucked behind into hair fluttered in the faint breeze. “Let me help you.”
Saoirse would never know the level of guilt, the compounding sense of remorse that burgeoned within Maeve's soul with each passing day. It was like she was pinned to the ground by a boulder but instead of anyone coming to her rescue and heaving the blasted thing off of her, a new one was continuously being added until her lungs caved in, and it grew more difficult to catch her breath.
Maeve shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, bullshit. Iknowyou.” Saoirse moved closer, her gaze narrowing, and Maeve realized the lines at the corner of her eyes had deepened. She was aging. But Saoirse barreled on, as though she was still as youthful and full of life as ever. “Just like I know you continue tofeel. You may be a badass bitch, but you’re emotional and?—”
Maeve reared back. “I amnotemotional.”
Cahira stirred from across the room, whining slightly.
“Yes, you are. You wear your heart on your fucking sleeve.” Saoirse crossed her arms, glowering. “And until you come to terms with that, it will make it all the easier for Parisa to manipulate you.”
The blow struck low.
Maeve clenched her hands at her side, her magic snapping as a swell of anger simmered to the surface. She sucked in a breath in an effort to maintain control. Her muscles tensed, the power coursing through her quivered. “I don’t have time for this. The meeting is about to start, so if you’d excuse me, I need to go find a way to save us all from dying.”
Saoirse rolled her eyes, but Maeve paid her no mind.
She stalked over toward the table, not allowing herself to make eye contact with any of them. She shouldn’t expect any of them to understand. Parisa was after her, she intended to use Maeve like a weapon to bring Faeven to their knees. Everyone else was just a casualty, a victim of Maeve’s mistakes. Sure, she could tell them she was drowning in a sea of regret, of self-loathing, but she already knew the outcome of such a statement.
No one would ever let her out of their sight. She would be coddled and protected, all while they reassured her that none of this was her fault. They would act as though what she was feeling was normal, and she would be forced to withstand their pitying glances, the sympathetic plights. But they would realize it soon enough. Eventually, once the war was underway, they would all see her for what she truly was—a plague brought down upon them in the guise of a champion.
Which was why she would have to take on Parisa by herself.
There was no other alternative.
Maeve seated herself at the table right as Tiernan said, “Let’s begin, shall we?”
She didn’t miss the worry in his eyes when he stole a glance in her direction. She sought solace elsewhere, lookingfor one person in particular, but not finding him in attendance. “Where’s Rowan?”
“Right here.” He appeared in a swirl of shadows, seating himself across from her. Ever calm, he ignored the way half of the group gaped at him, as though they’d just seen a spirit traverse the afterlife. His lavender eyes searched hers and his brows furrowed. “I thought you might find this useful.”
Rowan slid a book across the table.
The emerald binding was faded at the edges and the pages within had yellowed. Gold letters were etched into the cover, and Maeve stared at the gift with confusion. Why in the world would Rowan give her a book on the history of the Spring Court?
She sent him a questioning look.
He lifted one shoulder, his face giving nothing away. “In case you’re ever in need of some light reading.”
Maeve nodded, and Tiernan’s voice slipped into her mind like a gentle caress.
“Ready?”
She gave him a whisper of a smile and nodded once.
He reached over and clasped her hand, preparing to address the Courts, looking every inch a High King. She interlocked their fingers and held her breath.
“I won’t start this meeting with false pretenses. I won’t tell you that this war will be without challenge, and I certainly will not promise victory.” Tension coiled through him, radiating down the bond, until Maeve clenched her jaw to stop it from trembling. “Because as it stands right now, the outcome is grim.”
