Page 47 of Heart of the Raven Prince

“Have dinner with me,” he says, and I can’t hold in the shocked burst of laughter that erupts. When he continues to stare resolutely at me, I balk, my mouth falling open.

“No,” I answer quickly, dropping the silk drapes and hugging my arms protectively over myself.

“Oisín,” he sighs, the heat in his voice as tepid as mine. Apparently, he’s just as weary as I am. “The queen is going to make her decision about you very soon, and in the event that she does not decide to kill you, you need to be prepared.”

“And how are you going to prepare me that requires me to dine with you?” I throw back, moving from the bed and crossing to the vanity, trying to put more space between us. I trace my fingers over the combs and brushes laid out, their ivory handles inlaid with hammered silver.

Gods, why am I so fidgety around him?

“I’m trying to help you,” he says, and I snort at how utterly asinine that blatant lie is. Glancing up, I see him studying me in the mirror. Well, not me, he’s looking at the ruby charm still hanging in my ear. I reach up, touching the dangling gem. It’s odd how quickly I became used to the feel of it.

“I don’t need your help, Caden. I’m stronger than I look.”

They are flowery, useless words. I am stronger than I look, but even that is no match for Caden and the queen, and every cursed creature like them. It hits me then how futile my mission has always been, how right Bryan is. I barely had a hope when I thought I was merely facing fae. What possible hope can I have now against a legion of demons? I should just give up; there is no winning against them.

I can’t.

That damn, burning fight inside of me refuses to die. That bright blue flame of a warrior that my father stoked in me every day he placed a weapon in my hand. No matter how much the world rains down on me, it cannot douse that fire. My father did his job too well; he trained me to be a fighter. He never taught me when to quit.

You want me dead, Oisín.

His words circle in my mind as I flick my gaze back to his reflection. He’s no longer studying the ruby in my ear, instead he’s holding my resolute gaze.

“What do you want with me, Caden?”

“Have dinner with me and I’ll tell you,” he says, and before I can refuse him again he pushes off the wall. Striding to the exit, he leaves without another word, shutting the door behind him and leaving me bewildered and alone. Looking back at my reflection I pause. The puncture wounds on my neck, they’re gone. I run my hand over the newly healed skin, and I realize two things at once:

My captor might just have a way out of this nightmare. And if I want it, I’m going to have to dine with him.

Fuck.

She actually showed up.

I keep the shock off my face at the last second when I look up from my whiskey to find her standing in the open doorway. She’s glancing around the parlor, her hands fidgeting at her sides, and I get the distinct feeling she’s purposely avoiding my gaze. I see she made use of the bathroom, and the wardrobe. Her hair is plaited in a crown of braids that twist around each other. She’s also changed from the wisp of a dress she wore as a Vessel, a small blessing. That much of her skin being on display was doing nothing to help cage the beast inside of me.

Not that this gown is any less revealing.

There were dozens of outfits in that wardrobe, why did this dress have to be the one she chose? It’s not like the fashion at court, with the ladies stuffed into layers of corsets and billowing skirts. It’s a style from my old court, from when my parents still ruled. She's wearing a single long, silky slip made of shifting green and gold that drapes over her curves, hugging her ample hips and thighs, and plunging low in the neckline. I get momentarily lost looking at her cleavage, before I yank my gaze away. Luckily, she is still avoiding looking at me, so she didn’t catch me salivating over her. I take a long drink, desperate for something to calm me down.

I truly have no idea why I asked her to dine with me. This conversation doesn't require a four-course meal or candlelight. But something about seeing her dirty, bloodied, disheveled, and spent made me want to…what? Prove to her that this world can be civilized? That the fae are not the monsters she believes them to be? I don't know why I care. It would have been easier if I just tied her to the chair in my study and forced her to listen to me.

The image of her bound and in my bed is launched at me from that feral creature inside my mind and I flinch against the sudden onslaught. The wicked beast cackles before I firmly shut a door on him. Civilized. I am civilized.

“I wasn’t sure you would come,” I say to break the strained silence between us.

“Neither was I.” Her face is guarded as she finally looks at me and steps into the parlor. The dress changes under the flickering chandelier, and I find myself wondering what the material feels like. Would the flecks of green shift to gold if I trailed my fingers over it?

You just want an excuse to put your hands on her.

I freeze at that thought. I want to deny it, to shout that there is nothing I desire about this human, but that argument is becoming more and more hollow. There is clearly something about her that is calling to me, and I think it is far more than just the flavor of her blood. She is my one, fleeting chance at freedom, so it shouldn't surprise me that I'm as drawn to her as I am. I see her eyeing my whiskey collection and I ask, “Would you care for a—”

Before I can finish offering her a drink, she’s moved past me to the bar situated in the corner. She grabs a bottle at random, sloshes a portion into a glass, and tips the entire thing back in one gulp. A shudder rolls through her, but she pours another drink, before turning to me and snapping, “Cut the bullshit and stop pretending like I’m here of my own free will. You wanted to talk to me? Talk.”

And just like that, my curiosity sharpens. Everything about the way she approaches me, how little she fears me, is so vastly different from what I'm used to. Such a defiant creature. Infuriating to the point of driving me insane, yes, but fuck she’s so gods-damned intriguing. No matter how often I remind myself that she is merely a means to an end, my attention keeps returning to her. I cannot seem to help it.

Were she a woman at court, I would spend weeks luring her to me, turning this goddamn infatuation back on her and making her do the chasing. I frown, when I see the mark she has stubbornly kept in her ear—a forceful reminder that she is not a woman at court. She is not someone I can pursue; she’s not even someone I can simply fuck. She is a means to an end. To my end. That is all. Tipping back my drink, I focus on the sharp bite of the whiskey and hope it douses some of this desire.

“Very well, Oisín,” I say, sweeping my arm wide and indicating the way to the dining room. She glides by me, as I take another sip and I nearly choke when I see the gown she’s wearing is entirely backless, dipping low, stopping just above her ass.