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If he was going to grill me while I was drunk, he could at least join me.
“I do not think—”
“Drink.” There was a deadly threat in my voice, and I glared up at him.
His mouth thinned into a line. He took the bottle from me, popped the cork, and took a sip.
“Count to ten, Dagda,” I said.
He stared at me, but then tipped the bottle, taking a long swig. I only counted to three before giving up but figured by how much he’d drained the liquid after he lowered it, that it was good enough.
“What happened today,” he said. “When you went rigid and fell over the railing. That was not your sister’s doing. That was something different, was it not?”
Damn. I hated my ability. It always scared the hell out of me or made me feel like shit. “I detest seeing visions. Take it away from me.” I tried not to slur my words, but was pretty sure I was failing.
Dagda said nothing, his brow furrowed in thought. If he came closer, I’d reach out and massage that crease between his dark, heavy eyebrows.
He was so serious about everything. I let out a laugh. “Now you see how messed up I am.”
He seemed confused, though I didn’t know why. He said, “Morrigan did not have visions of the future before she left. It was something she took upon herself to defeat the Fomori. Illya mentioned you had inherited that power, but I did not realize the effects it had on you.”
I gripped the bedpost and tried to pull myself to my feet, so I’d no longer look like a pathetic mess on the floor. “Well, the whole kingdom saw today. And Badb… Badb’s going to kill us all.” It was serious. So serious.
I giggled.
Dagda reached out a hand as if to help me, but I swatted at him. “Drink,” I hissed.
He took another swig that left the bottle half empty. A morbid sense of satisfaction shot through me.
“I have come to tell you something about the latter,” he said.
The slow drawl to his voice, the nerves behind it, and the dull sense of surprise at his response was all so ridiculous. I leaned on the bedpost, a grin splitting my face. “What? No asking me what I saw in my vision? Everyone always asks.”
“I imagine such things might be personal.”
I took in his broad shoulders and shadowed jaw. The way his sleeveless tunic showed off the swirls of the fiery tattoo on the warm golden skin of his muscled bicep. His long fingers gripped the bottle of mead, and an ache started in my core. I hated looking at him.
And loved it.
I stepped toward him. He watched me totter, his clouded expression guarded. So worried.
“Are you afraid you’ll upset me, Dagda?”
Silence.
My grin faded. That wasn’t fair. This whole thing wasn’t fair.
I pressed a finger into his chest. The room careened wildly. I lurched forward, and then tried to overcompensate by jerking back. Dagda’s arm came around to steady me, tugging me against him.
“I see. Don’t upset the poor, volatile Chels,” I muttered. “You never know when you might set her off and she will unleash her sadistic, murdering sister to come after you…”
His warmth felt good against my clammy skin.
I gazed into his handsome face, his eyes watching me warily. “I don’t like you.”
“I know.”
A sorrow moved through me at the words that had me gritting my teeth. “Drink.”
