“How strange to hear those words out of your mouth.” Ainmire studied the iron blade with narrowed eyes. “I wonder if this will burn you.”
Cillian licked his lips. “It won’t.”
“Ah, there is the lie.” Ainmire reached for his hand, and cool fingers wrapped around his wrist. Cillian kept his fingers curled in a fist, only straightening them out after Ainmire dug his fingers into the tendon of his wrist. “Does he know?”
Cillian’s gaze snapped up from his hand, meeting those silver eyes. “What?”
“Your witch. Does he know your secret?”
Cillian opened his mouth to ask what the hell he was talking about when Ainmire pressed the flat of the knife against his palm,. Cillian tried to jerk his hand free, but Ainmire’s grip was like a vise around his wrist, holding him in place. When he tried to shove Ainmire away, Damarus grabbed his other arm and yanked it behind his back, that dangerously sharp knife of his held threateningly close over Cillian’s throat.
Cillian clenched his teeth against the growing heat and pain in his hand from the touch of iron, glaring at Ainmire as the Fae lord pressed the flat edge of the knife harder against his palm, as if he were waiting for something. Cillian’s breathing came quicker as the seconds became a minute, became more. The burn forming beneath the railroad spike knife got hotter, like a brand was sitting on his palm, seeking to mark him. He tried to yank his hand away again, pain making him panic, but the Fae lord wouldn’t let him. The scream torn out of Cillian felt like a surrender, even if he had no choice but to give in.
“Iron is our downfall,” Ainmire said almost absently as he lifted Bran’s knife off Cillian’s hand. The skin beneath it was burned raw and red, blistered throughout, the reaction worse than it had ever been, even when he was a child. “I’m surprised you forgot our history. But then, you look nothing like you should with this skin of yours.”
The knife at his throat slid away, Damarus letting him go even if Ainmire didn’t. Cillian breathed through his clenched teeth, cold sweat prickling his brow, the throbbing in his hand impossible to ignore. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Another lie.” Ainmire set the knife down on the table and let Cillian go. “One you seem to believe as truth.”
Cillian shook his head, holding his burned hand close to his chest. “You talk in riddles, and it’s getting real fucking annoying.”
“And here I thought I’ve been speaking plainly.” Ainmire removed his gloves and reached for the jar of ointment, holding it out to Cillian like an offering or a bribe. He didn’t know which. Cillian didn’t take it. “The wound on your hand will become infected if you don’t use this.”
“Like you care.”
“I care about making your witch trust me because they break so much better when they do it to please their masters.”
Cillian didn’t realize he was moving until he tried to introduce his fist to Ainmire’s face. He got close before Damarus hauled him back, spinning him around and kicking his legs out from under him. Cillian crashed to the floor, knees taking the brunt of the hit, and he swore as fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back. He watched as Ainmire leisurely walked around to face him again, the jar still in his hand. He looked down at Cillian, a vicious glint of superiority in his eyes.
“You once promised you would never kneel to me, and yet, here you are.”
Cillian’s heart skipped a beat, anger warring with confusion in his mind, and the confusion won. “What?”
Damarus reached down and grabbed Cillian’s sore wrist, yanking his hand up for Ainmire to take. The Fae lord dipped his fingers into the jar and proceeded to slather the ointment over the burn on Cillian’s palm. The ointment was a cool relief, already starting to numb the pain and the itch crawling up his arm. When he finished, Ainmire set the jar aside, and Damarus let go of Cillian’s wrist, if not his hair.
“The Dagda’s right hand arrives tomorrow. You will show them and your witch the truth you so clearly do not believe, and my place in the Summer Court will be elevated above all others save the Dagda himself for my loyalty.”
Cillian didn’t know who or what the Dagda was. He wasn’t about to put himself into any kind of debt by asking.
“You keep talking and not making sense,” Cillian gritted out.
Ainmire bent over and touched Cillian’s ear, tracing the shape of it with his fingertips. Cillian tried to jerk away, but Damarus’ fingers tightened in his hair, keeping him in place. “I know what you have seemingly forgotten, and that will be your downfall. I will relish it, the same way I will relish breaking the witch you care about so much.”
“Don’t youdaretouch him.”
“Your witch won’t want anything to do with you after tomorrow night, and the Dagda doesn’t care for witches at all, so my new pet will stay with me once I present you to the Summer Court. I will enjoybreaking him immensely.” Ainmire pulled his hand away and straightened, something like pleasure in his eyes. “Take him back to his cell.”
Damarus hauled Cillian up to his feet and out of the library, smiling all the while, clearly pleased with that little show. Cillian was taken back down into that cold, dimly lit dungeon and tossed back into the cell. He stumbled from the shove, nearly falling to his knees again but managing to stay on his feet as the cell door shut with a clang behind him. He turned around, glaring at Damarus through the bars.
Damarus looked him up and down before raising an eyebrow. “I would advise you to shed your skin by tomorrow, or my lord will have it done for you.”
He turned on his heel and left. Cillian stood there, breathing harshly, holding his wounded hand close against his body. He stepped back, foot sliding on ice, and he nearly fell before he regained his balance. He stared down at the ice streaking over the dirt floor once more, and he couldn’t tell what made his skin prickle in that moment—fear or the cold.
Taking a deep breath, Cillian stepped off the ice, his hand throbbing, keenly aware of all the warnings his mother had ever given him about witches.
Chapter Thirteen
After delivering Cillian breakfast, Bran thought he’d be left to his own devices as he had been over the last few days, so he was surprised to find Ainmire waiting for him at the top of the stairs, a metal leash dangling from his hand. He nearly missed a step on his way up, wariness making him want to be out of arm’s reach of the Fae lord. He stepped into the hallway, keeping his attention on Ainmire as Damarus closed and locked the door behind him.
