Wicked Lovely (Wicked Lovely 1)

She pulled him away from the door, away from Grams’ home.

“I know, but not here.” She folded her arms over her chest. “This is my grandmother’s house. You can’t be here.”

“So walk with me.” His voice was quiet, filled with that desperation she’d heard at Rat

h and Ruins.

She’d worried that he’d be angry after she ran, that he’d be unwilling to compromise, but instead he looked as overwhelmed as she felt, if not more. His gleaming copper hair looked dull, as if the shine had vanished. He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I need you to understand. After last night—”

Grams opened the door and stepped outside. “Aislinn? Who are you talking—”

Then Grams saw him. She moved forward as quickly as she could, grabbed Aislinn, and pushed her backward. “You.”

“Elena?” Keenan started, eyes wide, hands held open in a nonthreatening way. “I mean no harm.”

“You are not welcome here.” Her voice shook.

“Grams?” Aislinn looked from the near-panic in Keenan’s eyes to the fury in Grams’. This wasn’t going well.

Grams pulled Aislinn through the open door and started to push it shut.

Keenan stopped the door with his foot as Grams shoved on it with all her strength.

He stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind him. “I’m sorry about Moira. I wanted to tell you before….”

“Don’t. You have no right to even say her name. Ever.” Grams’ voice cracked. She pointed at the door. “Get out. Get out of my home.”

“In all these centuries, I’ve never walked away for another, only for her. Only Moira. I offered her time.” Keenan reached out as if he’d take Grams’ hand.

Grams slapped his hand away. “You killed my daughter.”

Aislinn couldn’t move. How could Keenan have killed my mother? She died in childbirth….

“No. I didn’t,” he replied in a low voice, sounding as assured as he had the first night Aislinn had met him, sounding the way he had at Bishop O.C. He laid a hand on Grams’ shoulder. “She ran from me, lay down with all those mortals. I tried to stop her, to—”

Slap.

“Grams!” Aislinn grabbed Grams’ hand and tugged, pulling her away from Keenan, steering her to her chair.

Keenan didn’t even flinch. “Once the mortal girl is chosen, there’s no way to un-choose her, Elena. I’d have taken care of her, even after the baby was born. I waited, stopped seeking her when she was with child.”

Grams was weeping now. Her tears rolled over her cheeks, but she made no move to wipe them away. “I know.”

“Then you know I didn’t kill her.” He turned to Aislinn, his eyes pleading with her. “She chose death by her own hand rather than joining the Summer Girls.”

Grams stared at the wall where the few existing pictures of Moira and Aislinn were. “If you hadn’t hunted her down in the first place, she’d be alive.”

Aislinn turned to Keenan; her voice came out half strangled when she said, “Go.”

Instead he crossed the room, coming toward her, walking past the portraits of her mother without even a glance. He put a hand under Aislinn’s chin and forced her to look up at him. “You’re my queen, Aislinn. We both know that. We can talk now or later, but I cannot let you turn away from me.”

“Not now.” She hated how her voice shook, but she didn’t back away from him.

“Tonight then. We need to speak to Donia, arrange for your guards, and”—he looked around the apartment—“decide what you’ll want to move, where you want to live. There are other, lovelier places we can live.”

This was the faery who’d stalked her—confident and compelling. As quickly as lightning across the sky, he’d gone from pleading to demanding.

She stepped behind Grams’ chair, out of his reach. “I live with Grams.”