Chapter Five Ronan

Chapter Five

Ronan

“Like hell I will!” There’s fire in her eyes as she hisses the words.

I smile and step into the hall, closing the door behind me. She might have the soft appearance of a nymph, but she’s as spirited as Sabre, and I’ll wager twice as willful. Passing her off as a docile and subservient pawn is likely to be more difficult than it was to saddle break the wild stallion.

But I have never been one to shy away from a challenge, and Elara is nothing if not that.

Elara. Such a lyrical name, as beautiful as the woman herself. It suits her so perfectly that I wonder how I did not guess it from the start.

That softness is why it was so difficult to see her distressed. Though I would feel the same if I found myself in another realm entirely. And truth be told, I probably don’t need her for my plans—I could claim I sold her for a profit and continue on alone. But then again, I may fare better with her. Having her pose as my pawn might grant me access to places and people otherwise closed off to me.

I do intend to keep my promise to help her find a way home, so I’m not entirely the villain. At least that’s how I pacify the nagging guilt gnawing at my stomach.

My ruminations are interrupted by her muffled voice behind the door. “Okay, I’m done.”

I reenter the room, and the sight that greets me steals the breath from my lungs.

The soft brown bodice hugs her waist perfectly, laced delicately down the front, drawing attention to the curve of her hips before spilling into a plain white skirt. It isn’t the kind of outfit meant to impress, but somehow, it does just that. The simplicity only makes her more striking, like she was made for this realm. Her red hair is loose and wild, cascading in soft waves over her shoulders and catching the light in a way that makes her look lit from within.

I’m transfixed. I can’t take my eyes off her. She moves with such quiet grace, unaware of how much she belongs here, how she’s exactly where she’s meant to be. And for a fleeting moment, I can’t imagine being anywhere else myself.

“You’re staring,” she says, smoothing her hands down the front of her bodice. “Did I put it on wrong or something?”

I clear my throat in an attempt to also clear my mind. “You are missing one final detail.”

She frowns, glancing around the room. “I didn’t see anything else. I put on everything that you gave me…”

Crossing to her, I reach into my pocket and pull out the pawn collar—a simple silk ribbon worn by all in servitude to tether the pawn to their owner. Though magick was outlawed decades ago, nobles often turn a blind eye when a particular enchantment works in their favor, and men who trade lives for gold pay little heed to the law. I had to return to that bastard dealer last night to acquire the collar, but without it, her transformation would be incomplete, and our ruse would fall apart.

Her eyes widen at the sight of it. I chose the burnished gold silk to match the amber flecks in those deep pools of liquid green.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“A necessary accessory,” I reply, running the silk between my fingers. I step closer, the space between us narrowing until it’s almost nonexistent. I raise the collar, the cool silk draping over my hands. “Lift up your hair,” I murmur, my voice lower than I intended.

Elara hesitates before gathering the waves at her nape, exposing the elegant line of her neck and the delicate curve where her pearl-white skin slopes to meet her shoulder. A stray tendril escapes her grasp, curling against her collarbone, and I have the sudden urge to brush it back into place.

I slip the ribbon around the back of her neck. My fingers graze her skin, warm and smooth and softer than the collar’s silk or any other I’ve felt. She reacts to my touch with a slight hitch in her breath. Subtle goose bumps rise beneath my fingertips as she holds herself rigid. Her chest lifts and falls in shallow bursts as if she’s torn between leaning in and pulling away.

I take my time knotting the collar at the base of her throat, her pulse fluttering beneath my fingertips. Being mindful to test that it’s secure but not restrictive, I slip a finger under the ribbon.

Her lips part as I drag my palm along the silk to the ends that brush the valley between her breasts. Keeping my hand on her chest, I remove the dagger from my boot and slice the ends of the ribbon so they dust the peaks of her nipples. These collars are intended as practical tools to control unruly pawns, but as I stand here, my mind conjures far less innocent uses.

My body responds to these forbidden fantasies—muscles tensing, heart racing, every nerve ending acutely aware of her closeness. This is not the time for distractions. Yet, the more I try to ignore it, ignore her , the more insistent the feeling becomes.

Her breathing matches mine in its unsteady rhythm. I glance up to find her eyes fixed on me, her pupils beginning to eclipse the green of her irises. “Is this the latest fashion for servants or something?”

“It is a pawn collar. It marks you as—” I pause, the word property catching in my throat. The very idea makes me sick. Instead, I shift the meaning to something else entirely, a different kind of ownership—one born of desire. “It marks you as mine.”

She touches the ribbon lightly, her fingers brushing against mine for the briefest moment. The contact is fleeting but sends another electric thrill through me. “I don’t like the idea of wearing a collar.”

“If we’re to convince others, you need to look the part.”

She nods slowly, her eyes lifting to meet mine again, her lashes framing them like dark curtains. There’s a vulnerability within her gaze that tugs at something inside me, a protective instinct I haven’t felt in years.

An unspoken tension hangs heavy between us, a magnetic pull drawing me toward her. My gaze drops to her lips, parted ever so slightly, and I crave knowing how they would feel against mine.

I take a deliberate step back, breaking the spell. The loss of her warmth is immediate but necessary. I can’t afford to lose focus. She is a distraction—a dangerous one at that. I have a mission to complete, revenge to enact that has consumed every part of me for the past year. I can’t allow anything or anyone to interfere.

“We should get going,” I say, clearing my throat to mask the unsteadiness.

“Right,” she agrees, swallowing thickly. “Actually, wait, no. I need to know how I’m supposed to act.”

“For now, all you must do is follow me as we walk through the square. Do not speak to anyone, and keep your gaze lowered. If I purchase something, you will be expected to carry it. Our objective is to listen for anyone discussing the Mabon Festival and how I might garner an invitation. Understood?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “Fine, let’s get this over with.”

She moves toward the door, and I can’t help but watch the sway of her hips beneath the skirt. My hands itch to reach out, to pull her back, to truly make her mine. The urge is almost overpowering, a primal instinct that surges within me, but I restrain myself. Now is not the time.

We leave the Gilded Coin and step into the bustling streets of Pentacles. The morning air is crisp, filled with the mingled scents of freshly baked bread, spiced meats, and dried herbs. The cobblestone streets are bustling with activity—vendors shouting their wares, children weaving through the crowd, townsfolk haggling over goods displayed in colorful stalls.

I adopt the demeanor of a traveling nobleman, my posture straight and confident, moving with purpose through the throng. Elara follows a few paces behind me, her head slightly bowed, playing the part of a dutiful pawn. I keep my ears open, listening intently to the snippets of conversations around us. Occasionally I stop at different stalls, pretending to inspect the goods while subtly eavesdropping on nearby discussions.

I’m also acutely aware of Elara.

I tell myself it’s merely to ensure she doesn’t wander off, but a part of me—a larger part—is concerned for her well-being.

Suddenly, a shift ripples through the crowd. Voices lower to murmurs, and gazes turn toward the wooden stage used for the auction the day before. A woman stands in the center, her posture stiff, chin held high, dressed in rich gold velvet and shimmering jewels that reflect the sunlight. A well-dressed servant stands beside her, sharing the same pinched expression as his employer.

“Look!” The woman in front of me taps her friend on the shoulder before pointing to the stage. “It’s Lady Clayton!”

My blood runs cold.

Lady Clayton. The woman who ruined my family. Ruined my life.

She surveys the gathering crowd, her eyes gliding over faces without truly seeing anyone. People like her are too cloaked in privilege and arrogance to notice anything other than their own reflections and wealth.

She doesn’t host the Mabon Festival to celebrate with the people of Pentacles. If that was her aim, the townsfolk rushing to hear her decree would also be invited to revel in the merrymaking. No, she does it for attention and notoriety. Every one of her actions is self-serving, and damn anyone who gets caught in her wake.

Her servant raises his hands, and the crowd quiets, eager to hear his announcement.

“In one week’s time, Lady Clayton will graciously host her annual Mabon Festival for the noble families of the Kingdom of Pentacles!” he cheers, his voice ringing out over the square. “As always, the lady requests that you, the good citizens of this kingdom, submit your pawns to work the night of the festival. There will be a trial the night before in which Lady Clayton will choose the ten most exemplary applicants for this honor.”

Behind me, Elara lets out a snort of laughter. I have to work to suppress a grin when I turn my head to give her a quelling look. Rolling her eyes, she lowers her head, resuming her role as the obedient pawn.

“This year, however,” the servant continues, “Lady Clayton is generously offering a boon to the owners of the pawns chosen: an invitation to attend the festival!”

An excited murmur sweeps through the crowd, and I catch snippets of conversations swirling around us.

“An invitation? She’s never done that before!”

“About time she gave something back.”

“Guess she noticed we stopped sending our pawns when we got nothing in return.”

“There’ll be a slew of them submitted now, mark my words.”

An idea begins to crystallize in my mind, each piece clicking into place with precise clarity.

“That is how I get in,” I murmur under my breath. “Elara will perform in the trial and be chosen.”

Her gaze snaps up to mine, eyes wide. “What? I don’t know the first thing about being a servant or pawn or whatever. You heard him. She’s going to pick the ten best. I don’t have a chance of making the cut.”

The cogs of my plan are already turning. “Yes, you will, I will make sure of it.” Leaning in so only Elara can hear me, I add, “And if you do not want to cause suspicion so soon, you should address me properly. Remember, once you have helped me, I will help you.”

Straightening to my full height, I regard her coolly, the embodiment of one in my supposed station, and wait for her to recognize her place. It grates on me to assert dominance in this way, but it’s necessary for the facade we have to maintain.

The small muscles in her jaw tick, defiance flashing in her eyes. Then, with a subtle exhale, she relents. “As you wish, my lord.”

By the gods, I could not have predicted how profoundly her words would affect me. Hearing this spirited nymph yield, even if only in words, sends my cock stirring to life and carnal desire licking at the base of my spine. Her voice is demure, yet her eyes throw daggers, a storm of rebellion barely contained. I cannot recall the last time I desired a woman with such intensity.

Needing a distraction, I nod my approval and resume our walk through the square, careful not to reveal to any onlookers that I’ve already found what I was seeking—a way into the festival. A path to fulfilling my destiny.

I continue perusing the wares of various vendors, and as I pause to examine a stall laden with ornate dagger hilts, I notice a subtle shift out of the corner of my eye.

Turning slightly, I see Elara slipping away, her movements swift and deliberate as she weaves through the crowd. She darts down a narrow alley, disappearing from sight. Sighing, I chastise myself for not expecting this and follow after her. There’s no need to run when all I have to do is wait for—

She reaches the next street and glances over her shoulder. Just as she’s about to break into a full sprint, her body seizes midstride. For several agonizing seconds, she stands rigid before crumpling to the ground. People pause, their gazes lingering, but no one comes to her aid. They see the collar around her neck and know better than to intervene.

When I get close enough, my pointed scowl sends the remaining onlookers scurrying away. I crouch down and give her a cursory once-over to ensure she didn’t injure herself in the fall. Her breath is steady, her pulse strong. My instinct is to scoop her slight frame into my arms and carry her back to the Gilded Coin, but showing concern for a pawn who just attempted to escape would raise suspicion.

With a resigned sigh, I lift her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, banding my arm around her thighs to hold her in place. I make my way back through the bustling streets, ignoring the curious glances from passersby.

The jolt from the collar will keep someone of her size out for the rest of the day, maybe even through the night. However long, I fully expect her to be furious when she wakes, and I must be mad, because I’m rather looking forward to it.