8 THE WILL OF THE KING

"YOUR MOVE."

CAILEAN gave a brusque nod and replaced the lid upon the small clay pot sitting in front of him. He then picked it up, methodically shaking the pair of dice within.

Across the table, Torran huffed an irritated sigh.

"Don't rush me," Cailean growled. He shook the pot for a while longer, deliberately taking his time now, before removing the lid and looking inside. "A three and a four."

Torran watched him carefully, his grey eyes narrowing. "Liar."

Cailean handed the enforcer seated opposite him the cup .

Torran peered inside, his mouth quirking. "I knew it!"

Cailean frowned. Indeed, he had lied—instead of a three and a four, there were two ‘ones' inside the pot.

"That's your last life gone … I win," Torran pointed out. "Three games in a row. You're not normally this easy to read."

Cailean reached for his tankard and took a deep pull of ale. Indeed, he was usually better at playing ‘Liar'. "I'm distracted."

"Poor loser." Torran flashed him a grin, his teeth gleaming in the lantern light. "Play again?"

Cailean shook his head.

"What?" Torran inclined his head. "Don't want a fourth thrashing?"

"No."

The two men sat in Cailean's meeting alcove, where he'd met Fia mac Callum earlier. They often relaxed in here after they'd finished work for the day. And Cailean usually enjoyed ‘Liar'.

However, tonight, he wasn't in the mood.

"Cheer up." Torran set the pot down between them. "At least you aren't wedding a hag." He cut Cailean a sly look then. "Some of the lads got a look at your bride-to-be earlier … they say she's—"

"Enough," Cailean cut him off. "We aren't discussing her."

Torran minded him, although the glint in his eye made Cailean's hackles rise. Aye, he'd also noted Fia's attractiveness, and it unsettled him. Mother Gelda had promised to send her plainest Maid, yet a sensual woman with delicious curves and knowing eyes had stepped into this alcove. She wasn't at all what he'd expected. Not at all what he wanted.

Meanwhile, his friend topped up his tankard from the jug by his elbow. He then viewed Cailean, his expression veiling. "You really don't want this, do you?" he asked after a few moments .

Bitterness flooded Cailean's mouth. "I told you I didn't." He picked up his tankard and took another gulp. "I'm only going through with it to please the High King … he's obsessed about continuing the druidic bloodlines."

Torran nodded, although his brow furrowed. "For good reason … we're dying out."

Cailean screwed his mouth up in response. He knew all that, but let the other enforcers produce children—let them ensure there were warrior-druids for generations to come.

"There are worse things than taking a wife, you know?" Torran pointed out after a heavy pause.

Cailean grunted.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Torran folded his arms across his chest. Like Cailean's, they bore inked swirls of druidic tattoos. And like his captain, he wore a sturdy leather vest with a knife belt strapped across the front. His dark-blond hair was cut short, cropped against his scalp. "Maybe this marriage will surprise you," he said, his mouth curving once more. "Maybe you'll grow to enjoy her company."

"Shut it, would you," Cailean snarled.

Heedless of his warning, the warrior merely grinned. Out of all those in his guard, Torran was the only enforcer who didn't fear him. They'd entered the High King's guard together—new enforcers who'd worked their way up the ranks shoulder-to-shoulder.

These days, Cailean was chief-enforcer and Torran was his second.

But Torran still didn't mind him—even when he should .

"Miserable goat," Torran goaded, swirling the ale in his tankard. "I hope they teach the Maids of Albia patience … the lass will need it."

Cailean drained the last of his ale and slammed his tankard down on the table. The move was so violent that Skaal, who'd been dozing by the hearth, lurched up with a grunt, her golden eyes fixing upon him.

Meanwhile, Torran hadn't flinched. He was still watching Cailean, amusement twinkling in his eyes.

"That's it." Cailean pushed himself up from the table. "You and me in the training yard … now."

Torran arched a tawny eyebrow. "This late?"

"Aye … it's time I gave you a beating."

His second rose to his feet. "Go on then … but if you fight like you dice, it'll be me handing you your arse."

A while later, Cailean climbed the steps to his quarters. He was still sweating after sparring with Torran, and his ribs were bruised from the punches he'd received.

However, he'd bested his second in the end. Torran had limped off, spitting out a gob of blood, and Cailean had watched him go with grim satisfaction. The fight had helped, had taken the edge off the fury that simmered in his gut.

Only, it didn't change anything.

This time tomorrow, he'd be wedded.

Cailean's pulse thudded in his ears. Curse the High King, he didn't want to go through with this. But Talorc had made things clear. Take a wife or step down from his position.

Frustration surged up once more, making him clench his hands at his sides. By the Reaper's scythe, he didn't have time for this. The past year had been a blur of patrols and Shee- hunting expeditions. The High King's hatred for the faery race beyond the veil knew no bounds.

Cailean's mouth thinned. Before entering the High King's service and working his way up through the ranks to his current position, he'd never given the Shee much thought. Aye, they were as dangerous as they were beautiful. However, he'd always believed that if you left them well alone, they wouldn't do you any harm either.

There were plenty of tales though, of people who'd strayed too close to barrows at sunrise or sunset and been killed or stolen away; and other stories of babies ripped from their cradles and replaced by a sly changeling.

Cailean had hunted them, fought them, for years now—and carried scars on his body from every encounter—but unlike the High King, he couldn't bring himself to loathe the Shee. The campaign Talorc waged against them was wearying.

Skaal padded silently behind Cailean, claws clicking on stone. The hound's name meant ‘Shadow' in the Albian tongue; indeed, the dog behaved like one. Silent, watchful, and always at Cailean's side.

Cailean cast the dog a glance. "What did you think of her?"

Skaal's golden eyes gleamed in the guttering light of the cressets burning on the walls. It was said that the Shee could communicate with fae hounds by thought, yet as a Marav, he'd never managed it. Even so, he sometimes swore Skaal understood him when he spoke to her.

He'd expected the blood to drain from Fia's face at the sight of the fae hound. Few people liked being close to Skaal—but his bride-to-be hadn't quailed.

"The woman is too bold," Cailean ground out. "She'll have to learn her place. "

Reaching his quarters, which sat a few yards away from his meeting alcove, he shoved aside the heavy curtain and strode in. Skaal padded in after him and headed straight to the sheepskin rug in front of the large hearth. The hound was so big that she took up the entire space.

Cailean's gaze shifted to the platter of food that sat upon the scrubbed oak table in the center of the stone-walled alcove. A servant had brought up his supper, and it smelled like boar stew. He didn't have much appetite this eve; however, the mead he'd drunk earlier had left a cloying taste in his mouth, so he crossed to the table and took a seat.

After a couple of mouthfuls of stew, he threw down his spoon and leaned back in his chair, raking his hands through his short hair.

"The Mother's tits," he ground out. "I'm going to fucking regret this."

His gaze cut to the shelf above the hearth then, where the four rosewood figurines he'd whittled himself years earlier gleamed in the firelight. Mouth compressing, Cailean ducked his head in apology for his blasphemy, even as frustration still pulsed in his gut.

Torran thought he was making a fuss over nothing. Most warriors eventually took wives—and at thirty-three winters, he was the only unwed individual in the druidic council. But Cailean had sworn he'd never be shackled. The High King's command felt like a chokehold.

He'd sacrificed enough for Albia. Talorc could have spared him this .

Shifting his attention from the Gods, he surveyed the rest of his quarters: the swords, daggers, and axes hanging on the walls, and the single high-backed chair next to where Skaal dozed .

He'd given up the warmest spot in the chamber to his dog but didn't mind.

However, he'd need another chair in here—for his wife.

Cailean's mouth compressed. This place was his sanctuary. He liked solitude and looked forward to drawing the curtain on the world every evening.

But from tomorrow onward, a woman would be sharing this space.

It would soon look and smell different.

He glanced over at his sleeping nook at the far end of the rectangular alcove, his gut clenching when his attention rested on the pile of furs he retired to every night.

This would be his last night sleeping alone.

He wondered then if he'd have to remind Fia of the conditions she'd agreed to. She seemed to have forgotten them earlier. Aye, he would, especially since there was something he hadn't mentioned in his missive.

No, he'd have to spell it all out to the woman. It was best to make everything clear from the start.

Cailean spied items draped over the furs then—garments he hadn't left there earlier in the day. Pushing himself up from the table, he crossed to his sleeping nook. Halting, he surveyed the leather breeches and a beautifully embroidered vest. A golden torque sat next to the clothing—a snake swallowing its tail.

The Serpent of Infinity, a symbol of rebirth.

The irony of it wasn't lost on Cailean. Lips twisting, he bent down and picked up the torque. It was a fine piece of jewelry indeed. However, like the clothing, it didn't belong to him. The High King had provided him with garments and jewelry for the following day's handfasting. He would be expected to wear them .

Cailean's hand tightened around the torque, anger pounding inside him like a war drum. Fuck new beginnings . He was the chief-enforcer to the High King, a powerful warrior-druid who commanded a host of men and struck fear into the Shee. He'd worked hard to earn his place at Talorc's side.

But none of that mattered. He couldn't escape the will of the king.