Rowan could almost hear the words Aelin was struggling to keep in. Liar. Piece-of-shit liar.
“Then who did?” Rowan demanded.
“I left.”
“If we’re on the same side, then put your rutting knife down,” Rowan growled.
Lorcan chuckled. “I don’t want to hear the princess yapping. What I have to say applies to both of you.” Rowan waited, taking every second to assess and reassess their surroundings, the odds. At last, Lorcan loosened the blade slightly. Blood slid down Aelin’s neck, onto her suit. “You made the mistake of your short, pathetic mortal life when you gave Maeve that ring.”
Through the lethal calm, Rowan felt the blood drain from his face.
“You should have known better,” Lorcan said, still gripping Aelin around the waist. “You should have known she wasn’t some sentimental fool, pining after her lost love. She had plenty of things from Athril—why would she want his ring? His ring, and not Goldryn?”
“Stop dancing around it and tell us what it is.”
“But I’m having so much fun.”
Rowan leashed his temper so hard that he choked on it.
“The ring,” Lorcan said, “wasn’t some family heirloom from Athril. She killed Athril. She wanted the keys, and the ring, and he refused, and she killed him. While they fought, Brannon stole them away, hiding the ring with Goldryn and bringing the keys here. Didn’t you ever wonder why the ring was in that scabbard? A demon-hunting sword—and a ring to match.”
“If Maeve wants to kill demons,” Rowan said, “we won’t complain.”
“The ring doesn’t kill them. It grants immunity from their power. A ring forged by Mala herself. The Valg could not harm Athril when he wore it.”
Aelin’s eyes widened even more, the scent of her fear shifting to something far deeper than dread of bodily harm.
“The bearer of that ring,” Lorcan went on, smiling at the terror coating her smell, “need never fear being enslaved by Wyrdstone. You handed her your own immunity.”
“That doesn’t explain why you left.”
Lorcan’s face tightened. “She slaughtered her lover for the ring, for the keys. She will do far worse to attain them now that they are on the playing board again. And once she has them … My queen will make herself a god.”
“So?” The knife remained too close to Aelin’s neck to risk attacking.
“It will destroy her.”
Rowan’s rage stumbled. “You plan to get the keys—to keep them from her.”
“I plan to destroy the keys. You give me your Wyrdkey,” Lorcan said, opening the fist he’d held against Aelin’s abdomen, “and I’ll give you the ring.”
Sure enough, in his hand shone a familiar gold ring.
“You shouldn’t be alive,” Rowan said. “If you had stolen the ring and fled, she would have killed you already.” It was a trap. A pretty, clever trap.
“I move quickly.”
Lorcan had been hauling ass out of Wendlyn. It didn’t prove anything, though.
“The others—”
“None of them know. You think I trust them not to say anything?”
“The blood oath makes betrayal impossible.”
“I’m doing this for her sake,” Lorcan said. “I’m doing this because I do not wish to see my queen become a demon herself. I am obeying the oath in that regard.”
Aelin was bristling now, and Lorcan closed his fingers around the ring again. “You’re a fool, Rowan. You think only of the next few years, decades. What I am doing is for the sake of the centuries. For eternity. Maeve will send the others, you know. To hunt you. To kill you both. Let tonight be a reminder of your vulnerability. You will never know peace for a single moment. Not one. And even if we don’t kill Aelin of the Wildfire … time will.”
Rowan shut out the words.
Lorcan peered at Aelin, his black hair shifting with the movement. “Think it over, Princess. What is immunity worth in a world where your enemies are waiting to shackle you, where one slip could mean becoming their eternal slave?”
Aelin just bared her teeth.
Lorcan shoved her away, and Rowan was already moving, lunging for her.
She whirled, the built-in blades in her suit flashing free.
But Lorcan was gone.
After deciding that the slices on her neck were shallow and that she was in no danger of dying from them, Rowan didn’t talk to her for the rest of the journey home.
If Lorcan was right … No, he wasn’t right. He was a liar, and his bargain reeked of Maeve’s tricks.
Aelin pressed a handkerchief to her neck as they walked, and by the time they reached the apartment, the wounds had clotted. Aedion, mercifully, was already in bed.
Rowan strode right into their bedroom.
She followed him in, but he reached the bathroom and quietly shut the door behind him.
Running water gurgled a heartbeat later. A bath.
He’d done a good job concealing it, and his rage had been … she’d never seen someone that wrathful. But she’d still seen the terror on his face. It had been enough to make her master her own fear as fire started crackling in her veins. And she’d tried—gods damn it, she’d tried—to find a way out of that hold, but Lorcan … Rowan had been right. Without her magic, she was no match for him.
He could have killed her.
All she had been able to think about, in spite of her kingdom, in spite of all she still had to do, was the fear in Rowan’s eyes.
And that it would be a shame if he never knew … if she never told him …
Aelin cleaned her neck in the kitchen, washed the little bit of blood from her suit and hung it in the living room to dry, then pulled on one of Rowan’s shirts and climbed into bed.
She barely heard any splashing. Maybe he was just lying in the tub, staring at nothing with that hollow expression he’d worn since Lorcan had removed the knife from her throat.
Minutes passed, and she shouted good night to Aedion, whose echoing good night rumbled through the walls.
Then the bathroom door opened, a veil of steam rippled out, and Rowan appeared, a towel slung low across his hips. She took in the muscled abdomen, the powerful shoulders, but—
But the emptiness in those eyes.
She patted the bed. “Come here.”
He stood there, his eyes lingering on her scabbed neck.
“We both are experts at clamming up, so let’s make an agreement to talk right now like even-tempered, reasonable people.”
He didn’t meet her gaze as he padded toward the bed and slumped down beside her, stretching out over the blankets. She didn’t even reprimand him for getting the sheets wet—or mention that he could have taken half a minute to put on some clothes.
“Looks like our days of fun are over,” she said, propping her head with a fist and staring down at him. He gazed blankly at the ceiling. “Witches, dark lords, Fae Queens … If we make it through this alive, I’m going to take a nice, long vacation.”
His eyes were cold.
“Don’t shut me out,” she breathed.
“Never,” he murmured. “That’s not—” He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I failed you tonight.” His words were a whisper in the darkness.
“Rowan—”
“He got close enough to kill you. If it had been another enemy, they might have.” The bed rumbled as he took a shuddering sigh and lowered his hand from his eyes. The raw emotion there made her bite her lip. Never—never did he let her see those things. “I failed you. I swore to protect you, and I failed tonight.”
“Rowan, it’s fine—”
“It’s not fine.” His hand was warm as it clamped on her shoulder. She let him turn her onto her back, and found him half on top of her as he peered into her face.
His body was a massive, solid force of nature above hers, but his eyes—the panic lingered. “I broke your trust.”
“You did no such thing. Rowan, you told him you wouldn’t hand over the k
ey.”
He sucked in a breath, his broad chest expanding. “I would have. Gods, Aelin—he had me, and he didn’t even know it. He could have waited another minute and I would have told him, ring or no ring. Erawan, witches, the king, Maeve … I would face all of them. But losing you …” He bowed his head, his breath warming her mouth as he closed his eyes. “I failed you tonight,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “I’m sorry.”
His pine-and-snow scent wrapped around her. She should move away, roll out of reach. Don’t touch me like that.
Yet there he was, his hand a brand on her bare shoulder, his body nearly covering hers. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she whispered. “I trust you, Rowan.”