Page 49 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

“That…”

“That you are strong?” He yawns, flashing rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth.

“That I’m a monster, too.” My eyes sting. I want to hide from the mirror, want to close out the light and become lost in the shadows. If my mother saw me now, she’d hate what I’ve become.

Aed slithers beneath my skin, dragging a long scaled tail. His claws are sharp, and his footfall holds more power than I could ever put into words. “We all are. Embrace your darkness. Do not hide from it.”

Black silk glides over my body as I march down the passage, now alight with the midday sun. The silk slip left on my bed was the only item available to wear and feels as though I’m wearing nothing but a cool breeze. My pulse speeds with every step I take, anger being the poison that inflames my skin.

“Calm yourself, young one,” Aed warns. “Confrontations should be entered with a clear mind and a plan.”

“Fuck you too! I’m tired of everyone making decisions on my behalf.” A vein pulses at my temple.

“Careful!” he snarls at me. The warning is harsher than the previous, and I’m not entirely sure what he’s warning me against. Angering him or confronting the man who stole my clothes and my freedom of choice. I take it as being both, and I don’t care.

The living room is dark despite its lack of curtains and it being lunchtime on a sunny afternoon. Shadows curve along the glass panes, leaving frosted trails and sealing out the light. It only takes a second to spot their source sprawled out on the massive curved couch. His feet are bare, and his shirt is missing. Sweat beads on his skin, the set of his jaw, and the furrow etched between his brows.

I kick the couch’s wooden leg, and it groans in protest. “If you think you can tell me what to do, what to wear…” I seethe. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. “Odhran!” I shove his shoulder. His skin is warm beneath my palm and damp with sweat. He’s an immovable force, even when unconscious. I take a step forward, and something clinks at my feet. A glass, half empty. The remaining liquid is a bright amber. Of course. I sigh, rolling my eyes. I don’t need to taste it to know what it is. It’s not the first time I’ve found him asleep with liquor at his side.

“You can’t go in,” Àine’s voice is distressed, coming from the other side of the closed door leading to the dining room.

“Wake up, dammit.” I grind my teeth, shoving the man before me once more, harder this time. I don’t want anyone to find him like this, even though he deserves humiliation. The eye of the raven on his arms stares back at me, blinking. I freeze, caught in it’s gaze. It’s so much like Odhran’s. So much like the one in my room.

“Odhran. Son of King Darragh, second prince to the Seelie throne, I command your presence this instant,” an authoritative voice booms from the dining room.

“Bloody hell!” I pick up his glass, and without further thought, I empty its contents over his face.

He gasps, lunging from the couch. He’s on his feet at a staggering speed, daggers drawn from who knows where. One of those daggers is aimed at the base of my throat, the other points toward the door. His chest heaves, and his eyes are wild, darting across the room as he takes in his surroundings. His eyes meet mine, but the ire remains in his expression. “Do you have a fucking death wish, woman?” His voice is a rumble of thunder, low and powerful, like boulders crashing together.

“I hate you,” I tell him, swallowing against his blade, its sharp edge scraping against my skin.

He draws nearer. Our bodies are so close together that his warmth radiates against my chest. Slowly, he takes in my appearance. From my bare feet to the fluttering of my pulse in the hollow at the base of my neck. “You look… nice.” He clears his throat.

I open my mouth, prepared to unleash a scathing insult in response to his arrogance, but before I utter a word, his blade vanishes to be replaced by his fingertips gently grazing my skin. The door swings open, cutting off our exchange.

TWENTY-FIVE

DECLAN OWYN DUSKRUN

As a side note, my single subject was refusing nourishment of late. This my or may not affect my observations on faerie blood.

The Legends of The Forgotten, by Tibor Harper

Prince Eamon pushes past the lesser faerie and into a room decorated in the same style as the castle. I follow after him, admiring the grandeur of its design, with high arched ceilings fashioned of stained glass, causing a full spectrum of colour to flood the floor, while tall trees sway gently overhead. The golden embellishments adorning the room serve as a regal reminder of its royal ownership. It’s a work of art.

Stepping out from behind my prince, I see his brother towering over Bryn. Immediately, my muscles quiver with tension. My Bryn, hardly clothed, in the company of a faerie prince, just as sparsely dressed. It takes them a moment too long to acknowledge our presence, and when they do, Bryn’s cheeks glow a delicate pink. White flashes in my vision as I stare at them. Memories of them together at the manor haunt me like fresh wounds. I can still see him pinning her against the wall on that fateful night of the fire and then cunningly whisking her away from me after the ball. The way he touched her, as if he had the right to. The way she allowed it. My lip curls with contempt.

“Get your hands off of her!” I shout. My feet are moving of their own accord, forgetting their place, which is behind the prince.

Prince Eamon’s hand splays across my chest with an aggressive slap, sending a jolt of pain through my ribs. A look of disapproval mars his features.

“Call down your dog, Eamon. This is my domain,” Prince Odhran says with a smugness in his eyes that begs to be removed by force. “I’ll touch whatever I desire, as long as the lady enjoys it as much as I will. I have yet to receive a complaint in that department.”

My prince looks at me, but I don’t dare meet his eye. It would be disrespectful, and after my outburst, a risk. “Wait outside the door,” he commands. His voice is a spear of ice, cold and lethal. After being called a dog, it’s a reprimanding slap to my cheek. Odhran’s smirk widens as he slides his hand to the small of Bryn’s back, her posture stiffening.

“Bryn, light of my life, why don’t you go see that my brother’s new pet behaves himself?” Every word is elongated to convey a bored and snobbish tone. She covers her breasts with her arms as he guides her first step. Bryn, the girl I met in an empty stable when we were mere children, doesn’t meet my gaze. Instead, she narrows her eyes at him. My jaw aches from gritting my teeth.

Her body is warm against mine as she throws her arms around my neck, hugging me. “I’m so sorry,” are her first words. My stomach clenches, and my mind starts racing, trying to come up with all the possible reasons for her apology. Every single option has a common element at its core, a man with platinum hair. My fingers clench into fists, pushing into her hair and gripping the thin straps over her shoulders. Deepening our embrace, I breathe her in. Citrus and lavender and honey. I’ve missed her.