The Iron Crown (The Darkest Court)

“We are,” I protest. “We talk all the time.”

“When?” I’m about to tease him for not knowing how often we speak to each other, except he pulls back to watch me with the same fascination I remember from that first moment in my burning village, as if there’s nothing in the world except the two of us. “You said it changed. When?”

“When you brought the bones of Igna’s brother back to the village a few weeks ago,” I confess. “We touched and I’ve never...it’s never felt like that before. I didn’t know it could. And since then, I haven’t been able to stop wondering what it would feel like if I...”

Tousled hair. Bright eyes. Wide grin. “If you?” he prompts, impatient as ever.

I grasp his chin between my thumb and forefinger, holding him still, and lean down, closing those last inches between us. His warm breath hits my mouth when I press my lips to his. No dream can compare to the reality. The kiss is soft and gentle. Lugh’s pliant in my arms and his delicate whimper echoes in my ears. His hand reaches up, fingers skimming over my cheekbone before sliding back into my hair, tangling there like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets me go.

He protests when I end the kiss, but I need space. I don’t recognize the fire smoldering under my skin, but I want to push it, to learn if it can spread, especially when the tip of Lugh’s tongue darts out and wets his lips. He’s hard against my thigh and I know my body’s reacting too, though the sensations are muted, drowned out by my need to memorize Lugh’s mouth, now that I finally can.

“You’ve felt this way all along?” I ask, amazed by his patience and needing to hear him say it one more time, to make me believe it’s worth the risk we’re taking.

“Yes.” He draws back to examine my face. “Is it too much?”

“It’s...intense.” I won’t lie to him anymore, about anything. “It’s more than I imagined,” I admit. “But I like taking the time to touch you. To taste you.”

“I like that too.” He stretches up on tiptoe and tilts his face toward mine, smiling as he whispers against my lips, “Whatever you want, it’s yours. I’ll never change my mind about that. It’s always been you, Keir.”

He doesn’t finish closing the distance, content to let me decide what I want. Him. Only him. So I take his mouth again and let the world and war outside our door fade away.

Chapter Seventeen

Lugh

The best part of the morning is how nothing has changed. Well, nothing important, I guess. It’s strange to wake curled against Keiran, and for a half second I wonder why he’s here beside me. Then I remember last night—our confessions and kisses—and have to bite down a smile because this can happen every night now. No more suffering. No more keeping each other at arm’s distance.

Keiran grumbles when I sneak out from under his arm and escape the tangled blankets, but doesn’t wake. I wash quickly, knowing I’ll be able to take a longer soak later, and get dressed. I’m adjusting the sheath for my smaller seax when Keiran sits up in bed, hair wild and beard in good need of a combing. His bleary eyes search the room until they fix on me, and his shy, sweet smile brightens the chamber more than the winter’s cool sunlight coming through the windowpanes.

“Morning,” I say, giving in to the smile I can’t tamp down any longer.

“Morning,” he rumbles back. His stretch is wide and luxurious and for the first time in centuries, I can stare openly. He chuckles when he catches me at it, but only says, “Give me a few minutes. Then breakfast.”

He takes even less time to ready himself than I did. Most of his routine is dedicated to arming himself. He forgoes the axes, a polite expression of trust for the peaceful expectations of Krigsmöte, though he’s wearing no fewer than five blades when we finally open our chamber door and find Breoca, hand raised, about to knock. The Hunt stands behind him, grim faced.

“A messenger arrived a few minutes ago,” he informs us. “The last clans are almost here.”

“Are you expecting trouble?” Keiran asks.

“Aage needs to speak with you,” Breoca says, an answer without an answer.

We cross the hall and follow Breoca into their chamber. Aage is up and moving. He’s pulled his hair back so the iron crown on his brow is displayed more prominently. He gives Breoca a stern look when he spots us all.

“I told you to bring me the seidhr,” he says.

Breoca scowls. “Keiran deserves to know.”

“Know what?” I ask, at the same moment Keiran asks, louder and angrier, “Are you expecting trouble?”

Aage gives his attention to Keiran first in an effort to placate him. “Breoca believes these three huscarls may voice their discontent openly. They’re the root of our people’s troubles.” Breoca grunts his agreement, and Aage continues, “But Breoca’s job requires him to be suspicious and cynical. I doubt they will risk the wrath of the Northern clans by acting out violently against me here. They may not respect our traditions, but this is a sacred place and they will lose much support if they break those expectations. That said,” he continues, looking to me, “it would be wise to stand on ceremony with them. The messenger warned that he found a letter in Boros’s possession discussing the need to overthrow a false prophet.”

“Could they mean the murderer I’ve seen in my visions?” I ask.

Aage frowns. “Perhaps. We couldn’t discover the origin of the note without causing greater suspicion, but Breoca worries it may be referring to you.”

Beside me, Keiran burns even hotter and I can sense a shift in the air around him, one I associate with fur and claws and teeth and Mother’s magick making its presence known. I don’t miss the way his fingers stroke the handle of one of his knives as if he’s feeling something else under his fingertips, even though the motion seems distracted and thoughtless. At least he keeps his hands on the weapon, rather than reaching for the berserkir belt.

“You think they’ll try to attack Lugh?” he asks. His words are edged with the bear’s anger, the wildness that overwhelms him when he transforms.