Page 48 of Heart of the Raven Prince

Fuck the old gods for torturing me like this.

Why her? Why this woman? She is clawing her way under my skin and getting stuck there. Knocking back the rest of my whiskey, I set the glass down and follow after her.

The dining room is dimmer, lit by only a few sconces on the walls, and several tapers lining the table. The space is small, nowhere near as grand as the dining room in the palace. Then again, this place was never intended to host a great gathering. The table is big enough for just four chairs, this space only ever intended to host me and my family. My chest aches as it always does when their memories rise to haunt me.

I wish I could think back on my mother and father and not see betrayal in their eyes. Rubbing my hollow chest, I step to the table and pull a chair out for her. She falters for a moment, before sitting rigidly, like she’s doing everything she can to avoid touching me. Pushing her chair in, I have the perfect view down her back. My eyes trace a line down her exposed neck, to her spine, dipping lower to the top of her ass that is trying to peek out from her dress.

Get a gods-damned grip on yourself.

Yanking my eyes up, I move to my chair across from her and sit. The candlelight glints over her skin as she turns her eyes to the place setting in front of her. I note her glancing over to the empty table in front of me, free of anything but a glass. I grab a nondescript dark green bottle and reach across the table to fill her cup, and her face pales when a deep maroon liquid spills out.

“Wine,” I say, barely hiding a chuckle as relief flashes in her eyes. I pour myself a glass as well and set the bottle down. She’s looking at her plate again, and because I feel like being a show-off, I snap my fingers. She yelps in surprise when her empty plate fills in a blink with roast meats, vegetables, and even a fresh baked roll sitting on a dish beside a pat of butter. She eyes the food like it’s going to grow a head and bite her, and I have to fight to keep from laughing.

“It’s just dinner, Oisín,” I chuckle.

“Why do you call me that?” she asks, and my laughter quickly fades.

It was a slip of the tongue the first time I uttered it, when she was bound and helpless in my tent. The name is only fitting, considering what it means, and now it has apparently stuck. Leaning back, I tilt my head as I watch her, nodding at her full plate. She makes a show of rolling her eyes, but picks up the utensils, and begins slicing into the roast chicken.

“The fae are a myth in your world, is that right?” I ask as she chews around a mouthful before nodding.

“Myths, bedtime stories, but nothing more than that. Not until…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, and I don’t blame her.

Me. Not until me and what I brought to their world.

“Would it shock you to know that humans have never been a myth to me?” I ask. She spears a potato, shoving it into her mouth and continuing to glare at her food. “The Offsprings of Niamh may be rare in the mortal realm, but they’re prevalent throughout Fomoria. Or…they were.”

“That name…you called me that name earlier,” she says, setting her utensils down and pulling her wine toward her. She gives it a sniff, before taking a cautious sip.

“Yes, a Daughter of Niamh,” I say. “Niamh is our goddess, the mother of this realm, the source of all of our power. She created the fae.” She continues to slowly eat, but I know she is listening intently, no matter how she might try to appear uninterested.

“Legend has it the goddess grew restless. She loved her creations, her children, but she felt herself drawn elsewhere, something calling to her from across realms. She followed the trace of it, until she found herself in a forest glen and before her stood the source of that call. It was a human man, who was aiming an arrow directly at her heart.”

She spreads some of the butter over the roll and takes a delicate bite. There is a sheen of butter on the side of her mouth, and I’m overcome with the urge to lean forward and swipe it clean with my thumb. She dabs at her lips with a napkin and fuck I’m suddenly jealous of a napkin. She takes a sip of her wine, and glances at me, giving me a look that says go on.

“I won’t bore you with the details of their relationship, but they fell in love, residing in the mortal realm for some time. Eventually Niamh took the man, Oisín, back to Fomoria with her.” She glances at me, not even bothering to hide her interest now. “He fell in love with her world and her creations, so much so that she decided to bestow the gift of immortality on him. She changed him into a fae. The transformation was difficult, nearly killing him. Human bodies are not made to carry magic. But, he survived, and—”

“Let me guess, then they ruled together eternally and lived happily ever after?” Fawn scoffs.

“More or less, though I can’t speak to their eternal happiness,” I say, shrugging. “They remained in Fomoria for some time, before eventually disappearing. No one is sure where. Some say they disappeared into the ether; some say they are alive among the stars. No one knows for certain. However, before they left, Niamh rained down a blessing on the mortal realm, granting magic to many bloodlines, including Oisín’s. But, as I said, human bodies were never meant to hold magic. It became difficult to pass on the power, often killing mothers in childbirth as the magic moved from one body to the next. The Offsprings dwindled, turning from reality into myth in your world.” Fawn goes so suddenly still, her fork freezing over the plate. I can’t stop myself from asking, “Did your mother have an easy childbirth?”

“That’s none of your fucking business,” she hisses, and it is all the answer I need. Her knuckles whiten around her knife before she hacks furiously at the roast hen. “So what, you call me Oisín because you suspect that my bloodline is blessed by a goddess I’ve never even heard of?”

“I didn’t have to hear about the Raven Queen for her to be frighteningly real,” I say, my voice hushed. “But, no, that is not why I call you Oisín. Did I tell you Oisín was the prince of a nation? The future king of a small, desolate island in the mortal realm. I'm curious, does Gaelynn have any legends of an heir to the throne going missing? As though he disappeared into thin air?”

Her fork clatters to her plate, the harsh sound jarring in the muted quiet surrounding us.

“I neglected to tell you one thing about their story,” I say, leaning forward and trapping her in my gaze. “When Niamh first entered the mortal realm and stumbled upon Oisín, the legend goes that she asked what a little fawn was doing hunting such powerful prey.” She's rigid, her chest rising and falling rapidly, a vein ticking in her neck that is uncomfortably distracting. “In the old tongue of the fae, Oisín means ‘little fawn’. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to stop pretending that I haven’t always known exactly who you are.”

She hasn’t moved.

He knows. He knows. He’s always known.

The words are all but written across her features, and I can’t help but glance at the serrated knife still clasped firmly in her hand.

“Why haven’t you killed me yet?” she asks, her voice soft but no less deadly.

“Why would I kill you when I’ve been searching for one like you for decades?”