“Change your clothes before you become ill.” Lorcan thrust the armful of items at her—what looked like a dark-purple dress and an assortment of dry undergarments. Why he had them in his possession she could only guess—and they were all repulsive options.
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
Evelayn pushed the clothes away, even as she struggled not to shiver. “I won’t wear those.”
“And might I ask why not?”
Evelayn looked away, staring at the wall past his shoulder, refusing to answer.
A sharp tang filled her nose, and she realized in a flash of memory that she could scent emotions—and she was fairly certain that one was irritation. But his expression in the periphery of her vision was impenetrable, a mask of nothingness.
“If you wish to freeze, be my guest.” He tossed the clothes at her feet and turned on his heel. The door to the inner chamber shut, and only then did Evelayn’s shoulders sag forward, her heart pounding a drumbeat in her chest.
Despite herself, she bent to lift up the dress and was shocked to realize it looked to be a perfect fit. Did he just happen to have a mistress her exact size? The fabric was heavier than anything she’d possessed before, but was as soft as butter. Evelayn looked down in dismay at the wet, ragged dress that clung to her body. He was all too right—again. She was freezing. But taking off the dress she’d worn for Tanvir and changing into something Lorcan had provided for her felt like losing a battle in the war they were waging.
And if she removed the dress, she was afraid she would lose the final connection she had to Tanvir.
A sudden pounding directly behind her made Evelayn jump, and she spun to stare at the shut door, her heart in her throat. The pounding came again, accompanied by a shout.
“Your Majesty! It can wait no longer! You must come at once!”
When no one responded, there was another pounding, accompanied by “Sire! Please!”
The bedroom door slammed open, and Lorcan’s scent of frost-laced pine mixed with that heavier hint of velvet night preceded the slapping of bare feet against the stone floor as he pushed past Evelayn to open the door, barely more than a crack. She backed up hastily, shocked to see him dressed in a pair of dry breeches and nothing else.
“I will be out momentarily. You may have the message taken to the council room.”
Evelayn couldn’t tear her eyes from Lorcan’s muscular back as he shut the door once more. Dismay churned the acid in her belly. He didn’t turn yet, keeping his hand flat against the heavy wooden frame.
“I don’t want your pity,” he said darkly, his voice low.
“I don’t pity you.” The words came out brusque, but it was a lie, and she knew he knew it. Even after all he’d done, and all the pain he’d caused, she couldn’t help it. Would she ever be able to erase the sight of all those scars? A veritable maze of angry red and ghostlike white lines, some long and thin, others wide and blunt. A map of torture and abuse she couldn’t even begin to fathom.
Lorcan spun to face her, his silver eyes flashing in the firelight. Her own eyes widened at the sight of even more scars across his sculpted chest and abdomen. Even his shoulders and biceps bore marks.
“Who did this to you?” The question was barely more than a whisper.
“My father’s method of training was perhaps more brutal than those employed to train you.” Lorcan bent and scooped up the undergarments off the floor. “But apparently far more effective.”
Evelayn belatedly realized she still held the dress, clutching it with white knuckles. He moved past her to lay the undergarments on the chair closest to the fire and went on into his room, only to emerge moments later fully dressed. Without another word, he exited his quarters.
She was left standing alone in the center of the room as the scrape of the lock clicking into place dashed her hopes of escape.
The castle was in chaos, servants rushing to and fro, gossip flying as fast as the feet that carried it. It suited Ceren perfectly. She was able to slip in unnoticed, her ears perked and her eyes keen as she made her way through the corridors. She’d worn a drab dress, and her hair was covered in a white kerchief. The outfit of a lower member of court, far enough above the servants not to warrant their suspicion, but low enough not to garner the interest of the nobility who still resided at the castle or who had come for Athrúfar. She’d mastered the art of slumping just enough, of acting meek, to make her veritably invisible.
It was why Quinlen had asked her to come, much as he hated it. She was one of the best spies they had, and he knew it. Evelayn had always told her she was a consummate actress when she wanted to be. If only she could see me now, Ceren thought. What would the queen think of her former friend? She was certainly not the laughing, carefree youngling Evelayn had known a decade ago, before …
“It was a beast of some sort, I’m sure of it. My cousin is friends with the doormale, and he swears the messenger was at least eight feet tall.”
“My sister said she couldn’t sleep and was standing at her window when the messenger came. At first she thought it merely some kind of animal, it wasn’t that big after all. But then it looked up at her, as if it knew she was looking down from her window, and she swears its eyes burned red as fire.”
“I didn’t see it, but I overheard Lady Devroux speaking about the whole ordeal. She was taking a walk around the grounds when the messenger came. She didn’t see it either, but she heard the voice and she said it was like ice, so cold it burned her ears!”
Ceren wandered through the halls, sifting through the rumors for any threads of similarity or truth. Very few of the stories matched up, which led her to believe none of them had truly seen or heard the messenger. And whoever had must have been taken immediately to be questioned—or silenced. But where? She’d caught no sight of the king, his brother or mother, or any of his council.
It was easier—safer—to keep to the wings of the castle frequented by servants or the lower nobility, but if she wanted answers, Ceren realized she would have to venture closer to the main parts of the castle. It increased the risk of being recognized if any of the Light Draíolon were up and about, but if she had to think of an excuse quickly, so be it. Quinlen needed information.
The talk was quieter in the more lavish wings of the castle, the gossip more subdued, but no less sensational. Ceren pretended to inspect statues, to admire paintings, but never paused for too long. She did nothing to garner notice.
She scented King Lorcan moments before he strode down the hallway, his adviser Judoc hurrying to keep pace with him. Ceren’s instinct was to quickly turn away, before he could see her face, but nothing caught attention more than sudden movement. Instead, she forced herself to slowly turn to face the tapestry behind her, as if she hadn’t noticed the king coming.
“But, Sire, it is unheard of for you to leave a guest unattended in your personal quarters!” Judoc protested as they sped past Ceren, his voice lowered, but not enough to escape a Draíolon’s keen hearing.
“Leave it to me to decide what to do with my personal guests. It is none of your concern—nor anyone else’s. Do I make myself clear?” Lorcan’s words grew harder to decipher the farther away they got, but Ceren dared not follow—at least not right away.
“Oh, Your Majesty! We were just speaking of you!” One of the Dark Draíolon standing nearby with a friend called out after her king, but he ignored her, turning the corner that would lead to the council room Evelayn had once used—and which Lorcan now utilized for his own meetings.
“Come. Perhaps if we hurry, we can catch him.” The two females rushed after Lorcan, which left Ceren by herself in the hallway for the moment.
A guest? Alone in his rooms?
Ceren’s heart pounded life-sustaining blood through her body, but her hands went cold with trepidation. Did she dare even attempt something so risky? They had been her rooms for most of her life, after all. She knew them better than anyone.
There was no chance she would
be able to listen to the meeting Lorcan was no doubt assembling. The council room was heavily guarded and there were no hidden doors, entrances, or passageways she could use to spy on the king.
But there was a way to get into his quarters.
The rumors had been ridiculously unhelpful. If she could find out who his guest was, at least she would have something substantial to take back to Quinlen. Unless Lorcan caught her, and then she would likely never return to Quinlen again. Or Saoirse and Clive.
Ceren stood undecided for a long moment, thinking of her younglings, of her Mate. Was it worth the risk? There was a chance the “guest” was merely a distraction … for Lorcan’s baser wants. But it was common knowledge among all the nobility and servants that Lorcan had never once taken a female to his rooms before, for any reason, so there was little reason to believe he would start tonight—and it was even more baffling why he would leave such a person alone, unguarded, in his private quarters. No, there was someone important up there, she was sure of it.
Ceren took a deep breath and turned to trace a path that was as familiar as breathing to her. For the first time since Lorcan had taken control of her former rooms, she was going back.
THE PARCHMENT SAT ON THE TABLE IN FRONT OF HIM, the candelabras nearly burned down to their nubs in the now silent room. Lorcan held his head in his hands and stared down at the words, scrawled in blood-red ink. For all he knew, it was blood.
To send a demand like this, to the castle … it was too blatant. The rumors were surely flying out of control by now. And on the same night that changing Evelayn had no longer worked. It wasn’t a coincidence, he was sure of it.
But what could it possibly mean?
He couldn’t leave her alone in his quarters much longer, he knew. Either she would grow desperate enough to try something dangerous, or someone would hear about his guest and become curious.
As if in response to his thoughts, the door behind him opened.
“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but Lord Crenwheal sent me to see if you or your guest would be needing anything tonight?”
Of course he did. Lorcan took a long, slow breath to calm his frayed temper before he snapped at the servant.
Without turning to look, he answered, “How solicitous of Judoc. But no, thank you. My guest has already been taken care of and is no longer with us. And I wish only for solitude.”
“Of course, Sire. I will relay the message and beg your pardon, once more.”
Lorcan lifted a hand in dismissal and waited until he heard the door shut before he glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was truly alone again and then slammed his fist down against the table with a dull thud. “Darkness curse you,” Lorcan swore at Judoc. Now the entire castle would be abuzz with news of his “guest.”
The heavy chair scraped across the stone floor when Lorcan pushed it back and stood. Most Draíolon feared him and wouldn’t dare go to his quarters without his express permission or his summons. But with all the events of the night stirring them up into a flurry of agitation, he didn’t dare take chances with the queen of Éadrolan alone in his rooms.
He picked up the parchment and folded it back into a square, staring down at the seam where he’d sliced through the hardened sealing wax. Thankfully, the seal hadn’t been tampered with when he finally came into possession of the message. As it was, just the news of who had delivered the message had sent the Draíolon into a frenzy of gossip and speculation, from what his advisers had told him. If anyone had read its contents, he could only imagine what chaos and panic would have ensued. It was fortunate he was well practiced in the art of keeping his expression blank when under scrutiny, no matter how shocked or upset he truly was. He had his father to thank for that. And tonight it had served him well, as a handful of his advisers had been present when he opened the parchment and read the contents of the message.
One week. That’s all she’d given him. A week to return with her stipulations completed. After a decade of little to no success.
Lorcan shoved the parchment into the pocket of his vest and finally quit the shadowed room where he’d once stood before the council of Éadrolan and told Evelayn he would make a vow. His right hand closed into a fist over the scar on his palm as he shut the door, ignoring the sentinels standing guard, and strode down the darkened hallway back toward his quarters and the very female who had forced him to make that fateful cut.
Evelayn sat on the floor in front of the fire, no longer cold, as her dress and hair had finally dried. She’d managed to resist the temptation of changing her clothes—but only just. Even now, she held the dark-purple gown in her lap, fingering the plush material absently as she stared into the flames.
She was a stranger in her own home—trapped in her own home. And to what end? What game was Lorcan playing now? He’d seemed angry when he’d claimed he couldn’t change her back, which led her to believe that he was in earnest. But he was also a flawless actor, and could just be playing yet another part. Why, though? Why keep her in this form now—why make her visible after all this time?
Evelayn tried to keep her mind focused on those questions, but the longer she was left alone, and in her true form, the harder it was to keep her memories and pain at bay. She couldn’t help thinking of the night everything had exploded in her face—the night she’d gone from supreme happiness to horror in the space of a few hours. Too many years had passed to hold on to the details of his face, but with effort, she could summon the memory of Tanvir’s amber eyes and his smile. The feel of his hands on her back … and his lips on hers.
She still wore his ring on her hand.
The fire blurred in front of her. Evelayn lifted the dress and pressed it against her mouth, trying to force the sobs that threatened to escape back down into the depths of her shattered heart. She couldn’t bear the thought of Lorcan walking in on her crying, to scent the triumph he would no doubt experience at her suffering.
A soft click in the lock sent Evelayn scrambling to her feet, dropping the gown and swiping at her face to erase evidence of her weakness. She searched frantically for a weapon of some sort—anything with which to defend herself from whatever Lorcan intended to do to her. Not that it would be any use against his power, but she had to at least try. He hadn’t made a violent move yet, but there had been the message to occupy him. Now that he’d been gone some time, surely he had taken care of whatever it was, and was ready to come back and deal with her.
Before she could find anything, the lock scraped and Evelayn froze. The door cracked open, only a sliver at first, and then wide enough to permit a body to enter. Not Lorcan, Evelayn realized with simultaneous relief and terror. It was a female, backing in slowly, as if making sure she wasn’t being watched. Someone from the lower nobility, based on the clothes she wore, and someone nearly the same size as her. Was this the female he entertained here, whose dress he’d tried to give her?
Evelayn glanced wildly about the room, searching for somewhere to hide, but the door clicked shut softly, the lock sliding back into place. The female turned to face her.
And then she screamed.
THE STRENGTH WENT OUT OF CEREN’S LEGS, AND IT was all she could do not to fall to her knees.
“Evelayn?” The name was a whisper of sound, slipping across her lips. The other female stayed frozen in place, staring back at her. Her lavender-streaked hair hung limp down her back, her dress was in tatters, and she was rail thin, her violet eyes two round wells of despair. But … it was her.
Ceren shook her head, her mind refusing to accept the evidence her eyes presented. It couldn’t be … it couldn’t. Here? In Lorcan’s quarters, after all this time—after all the years of searching and praying? Perhaps she wasn’t real. A spirit, come to torture her.
But then the specter spoke. “Ceren?”
Ceren needed no more incentive—she rushed forward and threw her arms around Evelayn, who had always been more sister than friend to her. Ceren had never felt her so frail, so diminished. Evelayn’s sh
oulders shook with sobs as she hesitantly put her arms around Ceren, returning the embrace.
“How is this possible? What happened to you—where have you been? We’ve searched everywhere and—”
“What a touching reunion.” A voice as smooth as velvet interrupted.
Ceren gasped and whirled to see Lorcan standing by the door, his handsome face set in his usual indecipherable mask.
“How did you get in here?” When his cold silver eyes landed on hers, Ceren had to suppress a shiver.
“These were once my rooms. And I often had need of getting in or out through … unorthodox methods.”
“Ah, yes, that’s right. The elusive Lady Ceren.” He sketched her a mocking bow.
Evelayn still hadn’t said a word; she stood frozen at Ceren’s side. Her fear was a bitter tang to Lorcan’s wintry ire.
“You do realize I will have to punish you for this. Severely. Sneaking about my castle, breaking into my rooms? Whatever will others think?”
“My castle,” Evelayn finally spoke, her voice quiet but made of steel.
Lorcan’s gaze slid to hers, and Ceren detected an odd note in his voice, an unfamiliar undertone to his scent when he lifted one brow and responded, “As you say. But, unfortunately, in my control at this time. If word got out that a Draíolon had broken into my rooms and left unpunished, what kind of chaos do you think that would inspire?”
“No one need find out that she came in here.”
“True,” Lorcan conceded with a tip of his head, “but …”