“I hated Ainmire’s collar on you,” Cillian said in a low voice. “And I’ll hate any Fae who tries to put one on you.”
“So you’ll end up hating yourself?”
“Not if it will keep you safe.”
Bran met his gaze, the steadiness of it like the calm eye of a hurricane. There wasn’t any of the sick satisfaction that had been in Ainmire’s eyes there in Cillian’s, only a depth of worry and care he couldn’t look away from. “I don’t want to.”
“I know. But if it keeps other Fae from hurting you so we can find Aisling, then I will ask you to please wear it. You can take it off as soon as it’s safe.”
Bran laughed harshly. “Safe? We aren’t safe so long as we stay in the Otherworld.”
“We’ll get out. We’ll get back home. But we need to make you as safe as we can in order to do that.” Bran watched as Cillian picked up the collar and leash, holding it out to him. “So, please. Would you wear it?”
Bran clenched his teeth so hard he thought he might crack one. He couldn’t help the way his breathing sped up at the thought of having that physical form of ownership locked around his throat again. He remembered what it had felt like when Nature was taken from him and his magic had been blocked—the horrible emptiness it had left him with. It would drive him mad if he had to suffer through that again.
But he’d suffered through that indignity once before to keep Cillian safe. He could do nothing less to find Aisling.
“I couldn’t touch Ainmire’s collar without it hurting,” Bran said stiffly.
A hot rage flashed across Cillian’s eyes and the air in the room went sharply cold. “I think Niamh knows I wouldn’t stand for that. If it does, I’ll let my displeasure be known.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“Please. For me. I want to know you’re safe.”
Bran ran a hand through his hair, trying to stifle his nerves and failing. Mostly because—because it was Cillian asking, and Bran had never been good at telling the other man no when they were kids. It seemed that habit was still alive.
He slowly reached for the collar, fingertips grazing the metal, steeling himself for pain, but none came. It was made out of silver and hinged to open, cool to the touch. The same crest on Niamh’s pendant was welded to one spot, the crown protruding like a ring for a leash to attach to. Delicate filigree was etched into the metal around it, none of which flared with magic when Bran’s fingers brushed against the design, ready to snatch his hand back at the first touch of pain. Tiny sapphires and diamonds framed the base of the crest, whatever magic was in those jewels quiet.
Grimacing, Bran took the collar from Cillian and thumbed at the small latch, opening it. With a shaky breath, he lifted it to his neck and closed it around his throat, locking it in place. It wasn’t constricting, not how Ainmire’s had felt, resting at the base of his throat, but it still felt as if it were choking him.
Cool hands cupped his face. “Hey, look at me. I need you to breathe.”
Bran stared up into Cillian’s eyes, breath hitching in his throat as he realized how close the other man was. His skin buzzed from the touch on his face, and Bran wanted desperately to pull Cillian closer, like he once had the right to. Only a few inches separated them, but it felt like a chasm in that moment. Cillian’s gaze dropped down to Bran’s mouth for a split second before jerking back up again to meet his eyes. A jagged bolt of heat shot through Bran as he held Cillian’s gaze, wondering for a fleeting moment what Cillian would taste like if they kissed.
He immediately strangled that thought.
Cillian cleared his throat and dropped his hands, stepping back, which was the last thing Bran wanted, but he couldn’t make himself reach for the other man. He swallowed hard. “I’m okay.”
“Let’s get dressed,” Cillian said roughly.
Bran was more than happy to get out of the clothes Ainmire had put him in, still stained with blood from Etain’s cruelty. The clothes Niamh had brought fit him well enough, though Cillian’s looked like they fit perfectly. Bran’s pants were a dark brown, and the shirt felt like linen, a dull cream color with long sleeves that covered his tattoo. No cravat or tie was anywhere to be seen, and the shirt didn’t have a dresscollar that would cover the one around his throat. Bran scowled down at the leash coiled in the box, and the disgust he felt at picking up the thin metal chain made him want to throw it across the room.
“Do you want me to put it on you now or when we’re on the shore?” Cillian asked.
“Shore,” Bran said immediately, handing it to him. The longer he could stave off the inevitable, the better he’d feel.
“Okay.” Cillian picked up the hat and put it on, the angle of it giving him a rakish look. “Let’s find Niamh.”
They left the room, making their way back up to the deck. The ship swayed a bit beneath his feet, and Bran had to brace himself against the pitch of it. Niamh caught sight of them from her spot up on the steering deck. She waved to acknowledge them but kept talking to the Fae who stood at the ship’s wheelhouse. Crew up in the rigging shouted to each other as the sails were repositioned a little to catch the wind, angling the ship toward a break in the cliffs.
Niamh finally made her way across the deck to them after a few minutes. “We’ll anchor in the cove and take a boat to shore.”
Bran peered past Cillian at the cove in question. “Are we in Summer Court territory?”
“Unfortunately, yes. We’re still within Tír na nÓg.” She eyed him, sizing him up. “I do not know where your magic will lead us.”
“Ainmire said every city and town had a map to mark the wyrding. Would the village have one?”
