“We are leaving,” Damarus said.
“What?” Bran asked, voice raspy and coming out of swollen lips. His entire face felt hot and sore from what he’d endured yesterday. “No breakfast?”
“You haven’t earned it.”
Bran slowly got to his feet, still in yesterday’s clothes. The bloodstains down the front of his shirt and coat had dried during the night. The sleeves were stained as well from when he’d tried to wipe his face before giving up. He knew he looked a mess, and he knew no one wouldcare. Witches weren’t worth such compassion, not here in the Otherworld.
“Where’s Cillian?”
Damarus laughed at the question, gesturing for Bran to leave the bedroom. “Here I thought you would want nothing to do with him now that you know the truth of his skin.”
Damarus led the way to the front of the house, the forecourt with its burbling fountain crowded with carriages that had travel trunks lashed to the tops. Farther down the drive, Bran could see a group of riders on horses in different uniforms, armed with bows and swords. Servants darted about with additional supplies, and Fae were already situated in two of the four carriages.
“Your pet, my lord,” Damarus said, pushing Bran down the porch steps to the cobblestones.
Ainmire stood near the second carriage, dressed far more grandly than all the long days Bran had been the Fae lord’s prisoner. He was beautifully handsome in the black pants, silk shirt, and coat edged in silver embroidery, the color matching the waistcoat, cravat, and his eyes. Bran’s attention was drawn to him in a magnetic sort of way he chalked up to fear.
“You didn’t clean him up,” Ainmire said.
“Was I supposed to? I’m sure Lady Etain wouldn’t appreciate the delay.”
“Where’s Cillian?” Bran asked again, not seeing him or Etain anywhere in the flurry around them. Their absence didn’t put him at ease.
“She is securing the prisoner. You would do well not to speak in her presence,” Ainmire said, looking at him with half-lidded silver eyes.
Bran touched his fingers to his swollen lips, the holes from the thread forced through them stingingly tender. He knew the cost of speaking, but he also knew he couldn’t stand by silently and watch Cillian be hurt, even after knowing the truth of what he was.
Ainmire’s gaze flicked up and down Bran’s body. “Curious that you care for him, even now after he has lied to you and caused you pain.”
“I grew up with him. He was mortal.”
“Was he?” Ainmire asked, cryptic in the way Fae loved to be.
There had always been stories of changelings in their history, of children snatched away in the dead of night and replaced with someone else—somethingelse. Parents of changelings might not know the truth of their child’s existence, but witches always would, and Cillian had never seemed like one.
What’s more, Cillian’s mother had loved him. She had raised him and worried over him, and if she knew of his true origins, she’d never said. Cillian had appeared human in all the years Bran had known him, with rounded ears and no hint of magic in him.
But Fae were masters of lies. Maybe even to themselves.
A commotion at the front door had Bran looking over, taking a step toward it as he saw who came through. Ainmire grabbed him by the arm, hauling him close against the Fae. Cool lips brushed over his ear, making Bran jerk his head away. “When we get to Murias, you will never see him again. I can’t wait to see his eyes when he realizes that you will remain with me.”
“I want to ride with Cillian,” Bran said, gaze locked on Cillian as he was half carried out of the mansion between two Fae, Etain sweeping down the steps ahead of them like a blazing star in the gold gown and glittering diamond tiara she wore. “Please.”
“If you dream of escape, it will not happen. There is no place for you to run and not be hunted down and killed for it.”
Bran swallowed, half-formed, hysterical plans shredding themselves in his thoughts. Still, he had to try. “I want to say goodbye. Give us that time.”
Ainmire touched his fingers to Bran’s bruised cheek, turning his face so he had to look up at the Fae lord. “You think me kind to ask for that?”
“I think you’ll enjoy it.”
A slow smile spread across Ainmire’s face. “Get on your knees and beg me for the chance.”
Maybe it was meant to be a humiliating request, but Bran didn’t think twice about kneeling before the Fae lord, those cool fingers cupping his chin, forcing his head up. He stared up at Ainmire and the covetous look on his face, as if Bran was some prize to be won and owned for reasons that still weren’t clear.
“Let me stay with Cillian,” Bran said, not needing to fake his desperation. “I want to say goodbye.Please.”
Ainmire’s thumb touched his bottom lip, pressing down hard, pain singing through Bran’s jaw. “Please what, pet?”
