On Cainon—standing at the balustrade with his hands planted on the railing, looking straight at me. Watching his four heavily armed guards escort me back to the palace clothed in the filthy garb of shame that clings to my skin more than the rain.
My heart plummets like a rock, bare feet hitting the stones in synchrony with my human barricade, and I swallow the nausea rising up my throat.
I’m escorted through the palace gates, the front door, across the pristine floor, and up the sweeping staircase, shoulders shoved back as we enter my suite.
The guards release me into the lobby, then fall back.
I clear my throat, drag the door open, and step through wearing a mask of confidence, stopping once I catch sight of Cainon—dressed in gray pants and a dark blue shirt rolled to the elbows. Still standing in the same spot overlooking the bridge, despite being doused in heavy pelts of rain while bolts of lightning crackle across the bulbous clouds. The curtains have taken on a life of their own, whipping like flags yielding to the gusts of wind baying into my room.
Cainon’s back swells with a full breath, the veins in his arms pushing to the surface of his sun-kissed skin slathered in rain. His grip on the railing tightens, whitening his knuckles.
Another crackle of lightning lifts the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck.
“Nice of you to return,” he snips, and there’s a warning in his low, abrasive tone that grates across my skin.
“Cainon, I—”
“Did you fuck him?” He spins, catching me off guard with a stare that flays. “Did you split your legs and let him take what youpromisedme?”
There’s no disappointment in his eyes, but something much worse. A look I’ve seen before—years ago—hollow of humanity.
The look of a man set on a path that can only end in death.
“No,” I whisper. “I didn’t—haven’tdone that with him.”
“Thenwhat?” he blasts, head canted, lips curled back as he spits his fiery rage. “What could you have possibly been doing with that barbaric beast of a man that left you looking like a sodden street rat and smelling like his whore?”
The words lock their jaw around my throat and clamp down.
Hard.
Another gust of wind and rain batters the side of the palace, plowing through the open doors and dusting my face in spray. He stalks forward, and for some reason I picture an axe hanging from his hand, dripping blood all over the floor.
My feet move of their own accord, carrying me backward through the suite until my spine hits the wall beside my bed, breath punching from my lungs as he advances. “We’re not officially coupled,” I rasp, feeling smaller by the second. Like I’m sifting through the ages, body crimping down to a much younger version of myself.
A weaker, more vulnerable version.
“You wear my cupla.” His hands slam against the wall either side of my head, and I flinch, his thick, muscled thigh notching between my legs and pressing againstthatpart of me. “You’remine!” he roars, stamping his forehead against mine, the blow of his words smacking my face and my fucking pride.
Eyes squeezed shut, teeth bared, he sucks in a deep breath, and I realize I’m holding mine. That I’m preparing for the worst. Perhaps he’s going to call those guards back in and drag me to the stake to be flamed before his people? A fitting end, all things considered.
He shoves back and spins, spitting a snarl.
My lungs labor over their freedom as he drags a hand down his face, his muscles seeming to swell.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m letting my anger feed on my fear, and I’m taking it out on you.”
Fear?
A frown sweeps over me. “Is … everything alright?”
“No.”
The word is lumped on my chest like it’s made of stone.
He turns, and his sea-swirl eyes have softened, his face composed into regal refinement, all traces of anger combed away. “No, Orlaith. It’s not.” He reaches out a hand. “I need you to come with me.”
“Why?”
