And oh,therewas the humiliation, the sick fear that made bile crawl up Bran’s throat. He choked it back with the same determination he choked out the words that put such a pleased glint in Ainmire’s eyes. “Please, master.”
Ainmire slid his thumb past Bran’s lips and teeth to stroke his tongue, making him want to gag, but he didn’t. He held Ainmire’s gaze, let him touch so Bran could get what he wanted while he knelt on the cobblestones, quiet and still.
Submissive because he had to be.
“I see you shortened its leash,” Etain said as she approached.
“He will break in time. They always do.” Ainmire slipped his thumb free of Bran’s mouth and pulled his hand back, but Bran stayed put, trying not to hunch his shoulders. “I would ask that Cillian ride with us.”
“I intend to deliver him alive to our king.”
“And you shall.” Ainmire’s fingers ran through Bran’s hair before getting a fistful and turning Bran’s head around. Bran stared past Etain at where Cillian stood, slung between two Fae guards, in a new ice-blue courtly outfit, barely aware of what was happening around them. “But I want Cillian to know what he has lost.”
Bran held his breath, knowing that even though he’d begged Ainmire for the chance, it was Etain who would decide their fate that morning. It wasn’t benevolence that made her eventually agree, Bran knew, but cruelty.
“Very well. Put them both in your carriage.”
Bran let out a breath that was buried beneath the sound of Cillian’s groan as the Fae guards hauled him toward Ainmire’s carriage. Bran winced as he was dragged to his feet by his hair, skull throbbing. He was hauled aside before Ainmire let his hair go. Bran kept his eyes on Cillian, hoping not to catch Etain’s attention. He’d had enough of it to last him a lifetime.
Once Cillian was deposited into the carriage, Ainmire allowed Branto climb in. He found Cillian sprawled across one cushioned bench, legs dangling off the side and one arm trailing to the floor. Bran scrambled to his side, bracing himself over the bench so he could look down at Cillian, staring at a face he’d thought he’d known well.
It was like looking through a dirty window that was suddenly wiped clean. This close and Bran could see the way Cillian’s Fae blood made his features a little sharper, more beautiful, how his ears tapered to a point that Bran’s fingers hovered over. Someone had shaved off the stubble that had been growing over the days he’d spent in that cell, leaving his skin smooth to the touch. Cillian’s eyes fluttered open, gaze slowly focusing on Bran, but recognition was slow to come.
“Bran?” Cillian rasped. “You’re…hurt.”
Bran closed his eyes, stomach twisting at the worry and care in Cillian’s ruined voice. It made him ache in the back of his lungs, chest tight with everything he couldn’t say. “I’m fine.”
It took some maneuvering, but Bran managed to lift Cillian’s upper body and slide onto the bench beneath him, hauling the taller, heavier man up against his chest to hold Cillian in his arms for the first time in years. Cillian clumsily reached for Bran’s hand, fingers shaking, strange silver cuffs embedded with pink sapphires clasped around his wrists. Bran tangled their fingers together over Cillian’s chest, the embroidery on the coat soft against his palm.
Bran bent his head and hesitated only a second before brushing a soft kiss over the top of Cillian’s head, breathing in the clean scent of the other man. “I’m sorry.”
They should never have met, not on the same side—their side. But they had, growing up together in Pelham for years. Cillian had been his best friend, and it was no wonder Bran had fallen in love with him when they were teenagers—with his kindness and the way he looked at the world, like it was something to save rather than conquer. Bran could admit now that seven years hadn’t been enough to kill that love, even as it had cultivated a hurtful anger that could so easily become hate now that Bran knew Cillian was Fae.
But in that moment, the only thing Bran wanted was to never let Cillian go again.
“I see begging was worth it,” Damarus said as he finally entered the carriage, settling on the other bench.
Bran raised his head, glaring in defiance, refusing to be shamed. “Yes.”
“Such sentiment for one who wouldn’t think twice about gutting you in the past.”
Bran tightened his hold on Cillian, the other man not making a sound, eyes closed as if he slept. “You don’t know Cillian.”
“Perhaps not now, but I knew him then.” Damarus smirked lazily at Bran. “You are a witch. Even his Court kept pets, the same way Ainmire will keep you.”
“His Court?” Bran echoed. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Damarus looked away from him, the dismissal impossible to ignore. Bran followed his gaze, watching as Ainmire climbed into the carriage and took the seat beside Damarus. A servant closed the carriage door, and Bran flinched at the sound it made.
“Bran?” Cillian murmured, twitching in Bran’s arms.
“Here,” Bran said. “I’m right here.”
“Not for much longer,” Ainmire said as the carriage lurched into motion.
Bran swallowed, staring at his and Cillian’s hands where they were clasped together over Cillian’s heart. “How long of a ride do we have?”
