11. Conor

11

CONOR

T he first evening stars punched through the darkened sky as Conor paced back and forth at the gates of Wolf's Keep. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so tense. The week before, he'd known his mistake the moment he'd kissed Rowan's skin. It took every ounce of self-control just to calmly walk away from her. Once she'd gone, he'd spent the rest of the night so feral with unspent lust he could do nothing but burn off all of the heat with anger as he searched the woods. He'd spent hours shredding demons and monsters that had escaped the Underlands, furiously trying to figure out how and why they'd managed to escape.

Conor gazed down the trail toward Ballybrine, wondering how long he had before Rowan appeared. He loathed the way the magic affected him and how hard it was to keep his hands to himself.

When he snapped his fingers, the torches by the gates burst to life with crackling flames, casting flickering shadows over the edge of the woods. Charlie still hadn't returned from his scouting mission, and Rowan was late. Conor squinted into the dark, worried something was keeping both of them. The blight had shaken up the monsters of the Dark Wood much more than Conor had anticipated. The shadows stretched menacingly toward the edge of the trail as the flames grew. After so many years, the gates seemed like too much—like he'd built them while trying too hard to seem threatening. In the early days, fear had served him, but now it seemed an old tool that had outlived its usefulness.

"Thinking of a redesign?"

Charlie's voice startled him. The reaper stepped out of the Dark Wood to the right of the trail.

"How is it?" Conor asked.

"All business," Charlie teased. "The blight has spread into the Ashand Orchards."

Conor nodded. "That's farther than I expected. How is the mood in the village?"

Charlie shrugged. "The whole town seems on edge. I'm not sure if it's bad enough that the elders of the Mother will be willing to bargain with us."

Conor shook his head. Though they'd never seen a blight before, he'd seen more than once how the people of Ballybrine responded to things that felt threatening. Their fear often transformed into violence. There was always upheaval when a Red Maiden died, but that transition coupled with the blight had stirred a frenzy.

"No. They're stubborn," Conor sighed. "It will probably have to get worse before they consider it. Was there any talk of Rowan?"

Charlie smirked. "Not much. Certainly, there's gossip about why you haven't taken her to bed, and there's some speculation that something is displeasing about her."

Conor laughed bitterly. "Don't they have eyes? What exactly would I find displeasing?"

Anytime Conor didn't take a Maiden immediately, the village buzzed with speculation that it was because she'd been with someone else. He should have anticipated it would be no different with Rowan.

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Demon's breath! This girl is going to be the death of me."

Charlie clapped a hand on his shoulder and laughed as he passed him, disappearing up the stairs to the keep.

A breeze blew down the trail from the Dark Wood, carrying Rowan's sweet scent like an omen. Her voice rose over the rustling of branches and leaves as she rounded the curve in the trail.

She made her way to the gates and knelt. Conor took care of crossing the spirits as she waited before helping her to her feet and walking her inside.

"I'd like to stay for the night if that's okay. It was a hard week," she said, her bright eyes full of apprehension. She slipped into this meek mask when it suited her, only to lose it the moment her temper stirred to life. He wanted to know which version of her was real and which was the disguise.

Declining her request would have been wise. It was the absolute worst idea to let her stay. It was idiotic, but he wanted to see what she would do. Her presence was the last thing he needed, with so much coming to a head at once, especially after he'd vowed to keep his distance. The blight was prolific. Conor needed to focus on how the town reacted—not on a Maiden prowling around his halls. Still, he couldn't handle any surprises down the line.

"Fine. I'll have Charlie get your room ready."

More than anything, he wanted to know why she was so keen to stay. He wanted to get to the bottom of her scheme.

It had been years since a Red Maiden had asked to stay so soon after starting her tenure for anything other than bad weather. Evelyn, the Maiden before Orla, had been a bit infatuated with Conor and sometimes stayed for a few days at a time. Orla typically spent hours in the keep but rarely stayed beyond sunrise unless there were storms.

Yet Rowan was comfortable enough to stay on her third trek. He couldn't tell if she actually wanted to stay with him or if she simply didn't want to go back to Ballybrine. The elders were exhausting, and Orla had often complained about how the townsfolk treated her like an object. His keep might have been grim, but it was likely better than what she was used to.

Rowan trembled as they made their way into the keep. Was she just cold? He couldn't tell. She seemed more anxious than last time.

Instead of bringing her to the sitting room as usual, he nodded down the corridor.

"Go on, have at it. I know you want to explore," he said, taking her cloak to place it in the hall closet.

Rowan's gaze lingered on the closet door, and she shivered in the darkness. Her face was inscrutable as she turned back to the candlelit hallway.

He let her lead the way, trying not to watch the way the white silk of her dress shimmered in the flickering light, or the way it clung to her backside. She explored tentatively until she realized he was giving her freedom to explore the whole western wing of his home.

Rowan wandered the halls like a lovely specter. He followed after her as she peeked into rooms until she found the library and stood in awe at the center of the room.

"I've never seen so many books," she breathed. She turned to face Conor, her eyes bright with joy. All of her earlier nervousness evaporated and he had the distinct feeling he was looking at the real Rowan. "Can I borrow one?"

Conor nodded. "Of course. There's not much else to do here, and that's why my collection is so extensive."

Rowan reached out to touch a book but stopped suddenly and drew her hand back as if burned.

"They don't bite," he teased.

She blushed. "Sorry. We don't have many books at Maiden's Tower, and the ones we do are mostly boring old scripture, and they're so delicate. We get scolded constantly to be careful, and we need permission before we take something."

She turned to face him, and his gaze instantly trailed down the column of her neck to the swell of her breasts beneath the fine white silk. She froze like prey caught in the sight of a predator. Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around her center. Then, as if catching herself showing vulnerability, she forced her arms to her sides and rolled her shoulders back, standing up straight.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She chewed her lower lip. The maddening habit brought all of his focus to her mouth.

"I'm trying to be…desirable." She blushed, clearly mortified that she had to explain.

Conor bit back a smile. "That's not something you can try to be. You either are, or you aren't."

She swallowed hard, evident doubt tugging her smile into a frown. "And I'm not?"

"Not when you're trying," he said thickly.

She held his gaze a moment too long. Her awkward attempt at flirting was disarming.

"Which is your favorite?" she asked.

He moved toward her and she jumped when he caged her in, reaching for a book on the shelf just over her head. It was stupid and unnecessary. His chest brushed against hers, and the scratch of his velvet tunic against the silk of her dress was deafening. The heat of her skin emanating from beneath the fabric was too much. He was a reckless idiot.

He stepped back and placed the book in her hands, hoping she didn't notice the way his hands shook.

" Pyrrha and the Wolf . It's a bit narcissistic, no?" she laughed, flipping through the pages featuring pictures of a redheaded girl and a monstrous-looking wolf.

"Who doesn't love an origin story?" Conor countered.

Rowan's eyebrows shot up. "Is this a true story?"

"Based on one, I suppose. Certainly, it seems there's some artistic license taken," Conor said.

"Can I take it to my room?" she asked, as if it was a massive imposition. "I'd like to read before bed. I promise I'll be really careful with it."

"Relax, lass, it's just a book. Of course you can read it before bed."

She grinned at him, her smile like the dawn cresting the mountains to the north. He was surprised something so simple could bring her such delight.

"Come on. I'll show you your room," Conor said, holding out his arm for her to thread her hand through.

He led her up the stairs and down the candlelit corridor to her room. She stepped inside and took in the space tentatively. Her gaze lingered on the intricately carved bed. They both stood suspended just inside the doorway.

He could envision her there, pinned beneath him on the white linens, her thighs hooked around his hips, her wide green eyes peering up at him.

Conor shook his head, forcing his gaze from the bed. "There are spare clothes in the closet. You can take whatever you need for sleep, and the servants will draw you a bath in the morning and then bring you breakfast in here. I'm busy during the day, but you're welcome to stay as long as you need. Don't go outside without myself or Charlie."

Her eyes brightened with interest at that information. He'd have to keep an eye on her to see what she did.

"Good night, Conor. Thank you for letting me stay, and thank you—" She looked down at the floor. "Thank you for not asking why." She met his eyes again, and the vulnerability in them made his stomach plummet.

He nodded and turned away before he could do something more foolish than let her stay.

Conor expected to find Rowan prowling the mansion the following day, but she spent most of her time in the library before returning to her room. Finally, in the evening, after she'd taken dinner alone in her room, his curiosity got the better of him and he went to check on her.

Finding the door cracked open, he crept inside. The sloshing of water in the bathroom drew him up short, though he figured it would be strange for her to be bathing with the door wide open. Instead, he found her bent over her white silk dress in the large metal bathtub.

Rowan scrubbed at the fabric with meticulous gentleness. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, and her teeth pressed into her lower lip. She huffed and threw the dress at the side of the tub.

"What did that dress ever do to you?" Conor teased.

She jumped as she whipped her head up to look at him. "Nothing…it's just—I need to get the soot stains out, and they're so stubborn. I accidentally touched the dress after I stoked the fire in the library. If I was back in the tower with my laundry supplies, it would be easier."

"You do your own laundry?" Conor asked.

Her cheeks pinked as she brushed a stray hair back from her forehead. "Well, technically, we have servants for that, but I have a tendency to get very muddy when gardening. I feel bad giving the maid my dresses when they're so badly stained, so I usually launder them myself first so that most of the stains are gone."

"Why are you blushing?" Conor asked.

"Because I'm embarrassed to be such a mess." She tucked a curl behind her ear. Her white linen nightgown clung to her skin, transparent in all the places the water had splashed. Conor shifted his gaze to her red, pruned hands. "I just don't want the next girl to have a stained dress. I try to leave everything how I found it or better."

She wrung her hands. He didn't understand her frenzied nervousness.

"I want the dresses to be nice when—" Rowan cleared her throat. "I want the dresses to be as nice as possible when Aeoife inherits them. It's not fair for her to get a bunch of stained dresses all because I'm so careless."

She began furiously attacking the stain again, and Conor was struck speechless. Despite her explanation, her nervousness suggested that she'd be punished for the stain, and that realization spread fury through his body like a fever. Anger was a catalyst for bad behavior, and he could not lose himself to her when he didn't trust her at all. She was probably just playing on his sympathies.

Conor stormed back to his sitting room. He would not let this girl into his head any more than she already was. Especially not when she was hiding something. She'd asked him to reconsider his bargain with the Mother, but he suspected that wasn't all she wanted.

He slammed the sitting room door and poured himself a whiskey before slumping into his chair by the fire. Several minutes later, Charlie cracked the door open and made his way into the room.

"You can't just ignore her, you know," Charlie taunted. "You can't just brood around, slamming doors, hoping she leaves you alone. Why are you letting her stay if she's too tempting?"

"Because she asked," Conor grunted.

"It's not a good idea. We were supposed to be working on the blight. This is not a time to be distracted."

"I know, Charlie. I know, okay?" Conor barked. "She wants something. I'm just going to figure out what it is so that I can get rid of her without issue. I cannot have her here long-term. Her scent is everywhere, and it's driving me out of my mind."

"You could always try?—"

"I'm not going to bed her," Conor snapped. He ran a hand through his hair.

In the past, taking the Maidens to bed brought relief from the relentless desire temporarily, but he was almost certain it made it worse in the long term.

"It's taken the edge off in the past," Charlie chided. "I would be happy to be there just in case you lost control." He winked.

A low growl erupted from Conor's throat.

Charlie just laughed. "All right, easy, lad. I'm only teasing. Mother's tits! You're territorial about this girl." He crossed the room, placed a jar on the table, and sat in the other chair by the fire. "The Crone had that sent over. It seems she knew you'd be struggling with your new Maiden, or perhaps she's attached to the girl. I understand this one is good friends with the Crone's daughter."

Conor opened the lid, and the pungent herbal smell burned his nostrils. The Crone had made the tincture to help him resist previous Maidens, but only at his request. What did the Crone know that he didn't?

"I'm sure I don't need to remind you what happened the last time you felt that way about one of the Red Maidens," Charlie said, interrupting his thoughts.

Conor scrubbed both hands over his face. "The problem is that I've never felt?—"

Charlie dropped his glass of whiskey on the table with a clatter. "Demon's breath! It's that bad?"

Conor grimaced. "I don't know. You don't smell her?" He used the jar's dropper to sprinkle a few droplets of the tincture into his whiskey.

"Of course, but all of them smell like that—you know, like life, daylight, springtime," Charlie said, waving his hand dismissively. "It's lovely, but I don't find it any more compelling than Orla or Evelyn or any of the rest."

Conor downed the glass. The whiskey and tincture burned all the way down. "Well, I do."

Charlie sighed and patted him on the shoulder. "If you change your mind, I'm happy to play chaperone," he said before ducking out of the room and leaving Conor alone with his thoughts.

Conor poured another large glass and leaned back in the chair. He took a fortifying gulp and began his torturous vigil.