Had touched him.
Bran suppressed a shiver as they returned to the library, the elegant space exactly as they had left it. He was acutely aware of Damarus behind him, with that knife that had barely touched Cillian’s skin and drawn blood. His own knives were in his backpack, and he had no idea where it’d been taken. The only thing with them from the mortal world was Cillian’s rifle still slung over Damarus’ shoulder, but he knew trying to take it back would result in Cillian being harmed, so he didn’t even try.
Ainmire made a lazy gesture with his hand in midair, and a cut-crystal glass dropped into it, amber liquid sloshing against the edges. He turned around and leaned against his desk in a way Bran would findseductive in anyone else, but there was nothing about this Fae lord that Bran would ever trust. Not his looks, not his magic, not his words, and most definitely not his intentions.
Damarus stood some feet away, his knife nowhere to be seen. Bran was under no illusion the knife wouldn’t make a reappearance if he tried anything, but the threat of Cillian coming to harm was enough to keep his fingers still. Bran stood before Ainmire, meeting those silver eyes with a bravado that tasted a little like fear in the back of his throat. He hoped Ainmire couldn’t smell it.
“It has been some time since witches have come through the wyrding,” Ainmire said. “Why are you here?”
Bran bit his tongue and refused to speak, defiantly keeping quiet as he stared at the Fae lord. Something like amusement flickered across that too-handsome face as Ainmire sipped his drink. Then, he set it down on his desk and walked toward Bran, who couldn’t help the half step back he took. Belatedly, he steeled himself and kept his feet planted where they were.
Ainmire’s gaze flicked up and down Bran’s body in a way he didn’t like. He’d been checked out plenty of times by guys in bars back in Boston, but the look in Ainmire’s silver eyes wasn’t enjoyable at all. “Did you come as part of an incursion?”
Bran stayed stubbornly silent, but his defense crumbled at Ainmire’s next words.
“You will answer me, or I will have Damarus practice his knife-work on your friend’s skin.”
Bran swallowed thickly, wishing he had water, anything to wash away the dryness in his mouth. “No incursion. It’s just us.”
“Hm.” Those warm fingers curled around his chin like before, the touch firm, forcing his head up in a way that made it impossible to look anywhere but at Ainmire’s face. “You do not lie.”
He made it a statement, and Bran wondered how he knew. But then, words had always been the purview of the Fae.
Ainmire studied him with unblinking eyes. “Your name, witch. You will give it to me, and you will not lie, for I will know if you do. If you refuse, your friend will pay the price of your silence.”
Bran flinched, the fingers on his chin tightening. Ainmire wanted the one thing they weren’t supposed to ever give willingly to the Fae, what witches were taught to never give up if only to save their minds. A Fae knowing their true name gave the Fae power over a mortal, witch or not.
His one consolation was the handful of iron beads on his bracelet that provided some semblance of protection against a Fae’s power when it came to mental control. Magic kept the iron hidden, the spell so diffused it shouldn’t be noticed. Iron was the Fae’s weakness, and while they might have his knives, they hadn’t taken his bracelet.
Yet.
He hoped Cillian still had his iron on him as well.
And Cillian was the reason he would give up his name.
“Bran.”
Ainmire hummed thoughtfully, stroking his thumb over Bran’s cheek, the touch far too intimate for his liking. “We Fae do revere our ravens.”
Bran tried to jerk free, but Ainmire only tightened his grip. “I’m not yours to do anything with.”
“That is where you are wrong, pet.”
“I’m not yourpet.”
Ainmire’s smirk deepened into something wholly unsettling. “You will learn otherwise. You mortals always do, especially you witches.”
Bran didn’t like the sound of that at all. “I thought you said you had a law to kill us on sight?”
“Would you like me to?” Ainmire forced Bran’s head up before sliding his hand down to fit it around Bran’s throat. “Perhaps I should crush your throat, or perhaps I should give you to Damarus to play with. My right hand is never kind with his pets and treats them rather poorly.”
“I get my enjoyment from them,” Damarus drawled.
Ainmire let go of Bran’s throat in favor of gripping his wrist, lifting it to better study the tattoo on his forearm. Ainmire ran the fingers of his other hand over the design, tracing out the witchmarks in the trees with unerring fingertips. Bran felt like little more than cattle in that moment, poked and prodded for someone else’s enjoyment.
He tried to pull his arm free, but Ainmire tightened his grip until the bones grated together. Bran grimaced as he was yanked forward, right up against Ainmire’s body. His arm was drawn between them at an angle, Ainmire’s other hand sliding through his dirty hair and getting a firm grip, holding him in place. Bran froze, breathing raggedly as Ainmire bent his head and dragged his lips over Bran’s cheek to his mouth, hovering over it.
“Or perhaps I take my fun some other way,” Ainmire murmured, the heated intent in his eyes something Bran couldn’t look away from.
