10 NOTHING WAS REAL

CAILEAN STARED AT his wife. Only, she wasn’t the woman he’d wedded. She was an imposter. A liar who’d fooled him one too many times. The urge to draw one of the blades in his knife belt and lunge at her pulsed in his gut.

Clenching his hands into fists at his sides once more, he fought the impulse.

Watching him, her hazel eyes bright, Bree swallowed. He could see the glamor upon her—as most druids could—as if he were looking at her through a sheet of rippling water.

Aye, she still looked like the woman who’d haunted him ever since he’d watched her walk through the stones, yet there was something insubstantial about her.

Moments passed, and then Bree bowed her head, her fingers flicking by her sides.

And before his eyes, she grew taller, leaner. Her pale skin took on a honeyed hue, and when she raised her chin, a stranger looked back at him.

A beautiful Shee stranger with long pale-gold hair that hung over one shoulder in a thick braid, and tawny eyes with elongated pupils. Like many of the Shee he’d seen over the years, this one had high, prominent cheekbones, and a haughty look about her.

Cailean’s breathing caught in his chest, even as he checked the urge to take a step back. He was used to trusting his own eyes to tell him friend from foe—but it came as a shock to learn that the woman he’d married didn’t exist at all.

Nostrils flaring, he wordlessly unstrapped the knife belt from his chest and cast it aside, before doing the same with the fighting dagger at his hip. He then unsheathed his sword and stuck the iron blade into the peaty ground. It was an aggressive, challenging gesture, but she didn’t flinch.

Bree’s golden eyes tracked every movement, and then, to his surprise, her mouth quirked into a half-smile. “I should pay you the same courtesy, I suppose.” With that, she pushed aside the blue cloak she wore and removed her sword belt, fighting knives, and dagger, tossing them onto a patch of ferns.

They stood then, watching each other, unarmed.

However, Bree’s attempt to lighten the mood between them washed off Cailean. He wouldn’t let his wife distract him. He moved toward her then, stalking her, although Bree didn’t back away this time. “Shades, husband,” she murmured, the smile fading. “That glower of yours could sour milk.”

He growled a curse under his breath. Did she have any idea of the self-restraint he was exercising right now?

Reaching Bree, standing so close he could smell the faint scent of rose that enveloped her, Cailean met her eye. “So, this is who you really are?”

Rage beat against his ribcage like a hammer, although the anger wasn’t just directed at her—but at himself. He’d let himself be thoroughly duped. Had he been that lonely, that easy to mold? All his years of toughening his hide, building walls no one could scale, and all it had taken was three moons married to this … spy.

“Aye,” she whispered back. “But does my appearance matter so much? Inside, I’m still me.”

Cailean’s lip curled. It did when she’d used a false identity to trick him. He wanted to snarl at her, yet something checked him. Indeed, although she didn’t look like the woman he’d married, recognition flickered to life inside him. The shell was different, but it was still her.

All the same, seeing her real form shocked him. It made humiliation burn even hotter.

Nothing was real.

Clenching his jaw, he raised his hand and encircled her throat. He felt her pulse now, fluttering against his palm, and tried to ignore the tingle that shot up his arm at the contact.

He’d expected the Shee’s skin to be cool, but it was warm and damp with sweat.

Pushing aside the observation, he tightened his grip—and those tawny eyes widened, their slitted pupils contracting. And yet, her gaze didn’t stray from his face.

“What will you do now?” she whispered, a challenge glinting in her eyes. “Crush my windpipe?”

“I could.”

“I know … but you won’t.”

Anger writhed in his gut. He’d forgotten how aggravating his wife could be—how she liked to push him. “Why won’t I?” he growled.

“Because I’m yours.”

His fingers clenched against her skin. “No, you aren’t. You’re a fucking liar.”

A tawny eyebrow rose. “Aye, I’ll not deny what I did.” To his shock, she lifted her hand then, her long fingers gliding across his cheek to the line of his jaw. Cailean froze, heat igniting in his belly at her touch. Her gaze shadowed, and she swallowed once more. “But I’m sincere in this, Cailean. I want us to be together again. I know you’re angry … and that you don’t trust me. But trust can be rebuilt … stone by stone. Let me prove to you I’m worthy of it.”

Cailean stared into her eyes, glimpsing tenderness and compassion in their depths—and it made an ache rise in his throat. It hit him then that she understood what her deception had done to him and was sorry. Fighting the urge to soften, he reached up with his free hand, curled his fingers around her wrist, and drew it firmly away from his face. He couldn’t have her touch him. “You wield words like a bard, Shee,” he ground out. “Are you trying to enchant me?”

She huffed a laugh, the sound vibrating against the palm that still pressed to her throat. “You credit me with too much power,” she replied, her mouth curving into another wry smile. “ We can’t ensnare Marav into doing our bidding. We’d rule Albia if that were the case.”

Cailean’s gut cramped, his fingers flexing against her throat once more. He then yanked his hand away, trying to ignore the tingling in his palm as he did so. “Enough,” he snarled. “You’ve had a wasted trip. Crawl back to Sheehallion, where you belong.”

“It isn’t my home any longer.” Her expression sobered, her jaw setting in an expression he’d come to know well in Duncrag. Despite that she’d dropped her glamor, this female’s expressions reminded him of the woman he’d married. “And you won’t get rid of me that easily, mac Brochan.”

“Fine. Go wherever you want … but it’s over between us, Bree .” A familiar sourness flooded his mouth as he moved back from her. “None of it was real, anyway.”

Heat flared in her eyes. “Aye, it was. You know it.”

Ignoring her comment, even as his stomach clenched once more, he picked up his knife belt and fastened it about his chest. He then buckled on his dagger at his hip and yanked his broadsword from the damp ground, sheathing it behind his left shoulder in one easy movement.

Without another word, he turned on his heel then and stalked off through the woods. The scent of fir enveloped him, and around him, The Sweeper made branches creak and groan. A few yards on, the trees opened up into a small glade, where Feannag cropped grass, and Skaal reclined by the ashes of the previous evening’s fire.

Upon spying him, the fae hound rose smoothly to her feet.

Her golden gaze glinted then, disturbingly like Bree’s, and he knew he’d been followed. And when the fae hound’s tail started wagging, he snarled a curse. Heart kicking against his ribs, he cut a glare over his shoulder. His wife was, indeed, just a few yards behind him.

He whirled around to face her. “Get—”

“Tell me whom you’re hunting, Cailean,” she cut him off, a husky edge creeping into her voice. “Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t,” he grunted. “And it’s none of your Gods-damned business, anyway.”

Heat flared in Bree’s tawny eyes. “Pig-headed bastard,” she muttered.

“Deceiving bitch,” he shot back.

Their gazes fused, and the fury that simmered like a pot on the boil inside him started to spit and bubble. His patience had reached its limit. “Go,” he ground out. “Before an iron blade lodges itself in your throat.”

The words were vicious, but he was desperate now. He needed her to leave.

He didn’t need any distractions in his life—especially now he’d finally picked up Eilig’s trail—especially from the Shee spy who’d made a fool out of him.

A heavy silence fell before Skaal gave a low whine. The sound was almost pleading, and it made Cailean grind his teeth.

The moments drew out, and then Bree’s lovely face veiled. It was like watching the sun slip behind a cloud. A shadow fell over the glade where they stood.

Bree’s throat bobbed then, the only sign his words had wounded her. Stepping back, she pulled her cloak around her. And then, without another word, she turned and disappeared into the trees.

Her departure was so abrupt, so swift, that Cailean blinked, staring into the dark firs.

Behind him, Skaal whined once more.

Raking a hand through his close-cropped hair, Cailean cast the fae hound a glower. “Disloyal beast,” he growled. He then turned away and moved over to the fire pit. A stack of kindling and firewood sat next to it, ready for this evening’s campfire. Hunkering down, he withdrew a flint from a pouch on his belt and focused on coaxing the dry tinder into flames.

However, when he marked the slight tremor in his hands, he stilled. This was new—a sign that more than just anger seethed inside him this evening. His wife’s reappearance had torn open a wound that had just started to scab, and he was raw in the aftermath. “The Mother’s tits,” he muttered. “What has she done to me?”