13. Rowan

13

ROWAN

N ever bleed in the Dark Wood.

Of course the rule also extended to Wolf's Keep. Rowan tore down the trail back toward Ballybrine. She couldn't believe she'd been so clumsy. Now the Wolf really was going to kill her.

For all her talk of bravery, watching Conor lose control was far more terrifying than anything that waited in the woods. She'd broken one of the four critical rules, and she wasn't even confident the Mother had the power to save her so deep into the Dark Wood. She prayed to her anyway.

If Rowan didn't get back in one piece, Aeoife was the only Red Maiden left, and she would not leave the girl to that fate. Aeoife wasn't prepared for the forest alone, or the Wolf, or—worse—the elders.

Rowan wanted to pause and listen to see if Conor was behind her, but even a second's hesitation might be enough to get her killed. She kept running. She could only hear her heartbeat in her ears and her staccato breathing. The trees lining the trail like a tunnel around her were a blur of bony white spindles.

She chanced a glance over her shoulder but saw nothing. When she turned back, she found a man on the trail ahead of her.

"Bless the Mother! Help!" Rowan called.

He turned and grinned at her. "There you are, lass. You look as though you've had a fright."

He was on the trail, so he had to be a huntsman like Finn. He was tall and broad, and too far into the Dark Wood to be anyone else.

Rowan looked back over her shoulder. "We have to go. The Wolf is coming. I hurt myself, and he's tracking me." She tugged on the huntsman's shirt, urging him on.

"There, there, love. Take a breath. I've been looking for you. It's going to be just fine now. Look at me," the huntsman whispered.

Rowan lifted her gaze and met his bright amber eyes.

"Good lass," he said soothingly. A swirling, dissonant sound rushed around her and sank into her skin.

All the fear in Rowan's body dissipated as he spoke. Everything was going to be fine . She relaxed into his touch as her adrenaline faded. She felt tired, mesmerized by his eyes.

"How do you feel?" the man asked.

"Much better," Rowan mumbled. She was sure she should look away, but she couldn't. She was snared by the man's gaze. "What beautiful eyes you have."

"All the better to see you with, lovely." The man grinned, and she caught a flash of exceptionally pointy canines.

"What big teeth you have," she murmured. The fear that rose at the sight of them evaporated almost as soon as she became aware of it.

"All the better to eat you up, Rowan Cleary. You smell divine," he whispered.

Something wasn't right, but Rowan couldn't say what it was. The man brushed her hair over her shoulder, his fingers trailing up to rest on her pulse.

"How—how do you know my name?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Because you whispered it to the Dark Wood fifteen years ago, and I heard it," he soothed. "I whispered it back. Don't you remember? I've listened to your whispers for years. I've waited for you."

"Waited for me?"

"Yes. To claim you just like you wanted me to," he whispered. "Why else would you give me such power over you by sharing your name?"

Rowan tried to shake off the soothing way his voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket, but she couldn't. She couldn't move or think straight.

The man lifted her hand to his lips, and his tongue laved over the blood on her palm. He groaned. "He's a fool not to take you. You are exquisite. Don't you want to be mine, Rowan? I can make you feel so good."

He's not a hunter. A hunter wouldn't touch you, Rowan.

The thought faded as he spun her, pulling her back flush to his front. A low growl rumbled in his throat, and his lips pressed to her neck.

"Good lass," he soothed. "Now don't scream."

Run, Rowan, run! Her mind pleaded.

But the message didn't get to her legs. His teeth grazed over her neck, and she shivered, trying to squirm away. His hand collared her, tilting her head to the side.

"It will only hurt for a moment, I promise," he whispered.

Before she could protest, he struck. Pain exploded from where his teeth punctured her skin. It was so sharp it stole her breath. The lightning-fast ache sliced into her, burning through her veins like molten ore.

Her mind spun until it caught on one memory—the bite mark on Orla's neck. A sick horror turned her stomach. This monster had killed Orla.

Rowan wanted to fight, but her body refused to move. He must have had some sort of magical influence. It was as if he'd placed her under a spell and all of her limbs were too relaxed to spring into action.

For all her courage with Conor, Rowan felt none now. She was going to die in the woods, just as Orla had. Aeoife would be alone. They'd send Aeoife in here, and this monster would get her too.

Tears streamed down Rowan's cheeks. She tried to yank herself away but only succeeded in squirming a bit.

"Settle, lass. The worst is over," the beautiful monster soothed.

The burn of the bite started to dissipate, and the monster pressed a kiss to the spot before pulling a long drag of her blood into his mouth. She felt like her soul was being rendered from her body in a warm tug that she felt all the way to her toes. It didn't hurt, but she was shocked at how quickly she felt weak. Her knees buckled, but the monster had a firm arm wrapped around her waist.

Rowan expected pain but only found a sinking emptiness and heaviness in all of her limbs. Her vision dimmed as her magic rushed out of her along with her blood. She didn't have long. Her consciousness was fading.

"Please," she whispered, but the man's grip on her just tightened. She had little left but surrender.

A thousand lives she'd never live bloomed in her chest. There were so many things she would have rather been than a sacrifice. The desire to live blew through her like a tempest, but she still couldn't muster a struggle.

Sing, a voice in her head commanded. Sing!

She opened her mouth and a strangled note came out—then another. The monster seemed unbothered by it. It took all her concentration to remember the melody and the words, to force air through her vocal cords.

Sing, her mind begged.

Several more notes came out, and the forest stilled as if listening. Rowan sang a song of angry grief. A song she'd written years before when her mother had missed yet another visitation. The melody was soft, but the words and notes were jagged and angry.

There was a strange pulse around her as the forest shifted. The trees rustled. Perhaps Conor was finally catching up. Maybe he would save her. The rustling grew louder, like the gusts of wind before a storm.

The fear and the fight faded, and Rowan surrendered. She didn't feel terrified. She felt peaceful as the monster drank from her. There was nothing but him and the warmth of his body pressed against hers. She looked up, trying to get one last glimpse of the sky through the spindly trees.

Suddenly, Rowan was struck hard from the side. She tumbled to the ground. There were sounds of a scuffle but she was too exhausted to move. She could barely keep her eyes open. She stared up at the blue sky before her eyes fluttered once, twice, and then closed.

Rowan woke choking on a scream. She sat up quickly and nearly passed out from the head rush.

Blinking her bleary eyes, she tried to focus on her room. It was a meditation technique meant to calm her. She looked at the detail on an elaborately carved canopy bedpost. Her hand brushed over the soft white linens, far finer than the ones on her bed back at Maiden's Tower. A roaring fire burned in a large fireplace, the frame of which was carved with floral patterns similar to those decorating the bed. Pale green velvet curtains layered with sheer fabric lined the windows, and two large, hunter-green velvet chairs sat by the fireplace, just waiting for her to curl up and read a good book.

She was in her room at Wolf's Keep. She wasn't dead.

The horror of the Dark Wood crashed over her. Despite her best efforts to fight it, she was caught in the memory of it. Her whole body trembled.

"Lass, it's all right," Conor said.

Rowan's head snapped toward his voice. He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hands in his.

"Conor?" She stared at him with wide eyes and, to her horror, she started crying. Loud, full-body sobs rocked her.

Conor looked as shaken as she felt. "Oh, lass, I'm sorry. Come now. It's all right. I really shouldn't be this close to you when you're like this." He awkwardly patted her hands.

She looked up and met his stormy eyes, her chin trembling.

"Ahh, Mother slay me," he grumbled. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her into his lap as if she weighed nothing.

She curled into him, tucking her face into his neck, and sobbed. She expected him to pat her on the head and pull away, but instead, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

"There now, you're safe," he whispered. He rubbed her back until her sobs turned to sniffles and her breathing calmed, and she drifted back under the heavy blanket of sleep.

She woke a few moments later, or perhaps an hour. She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but she was still in Conor's arms.

Touch was a luxury in Rowan's life. It was wonderful to be held while he rubbed slow circles on her back. She was ecstatic from the thrill of it. Like a child hopped-up on too many sweets, she was hopped-up on his touch.

He flinched away, realizing she was awake again.

"Please don't stop," she sighed. "No one ever touches me like this."

Conor winced as if the words hurt him the same way they did her. She instantly felt pathetic, like a stray dog waiting to be kicked for being so desperate for love.

Instead, he continued rubbing her back, his body taut.

After a while, he pulled back to look at her. She followed his gaze, and her hand flew to her neck. A bandage was wrapped around the wounds the monster had inflicted. Conor's eyes lit momentarily with hunger, but he shook his head and shuddered.

"What happened? How am I still here?" she rasped. "I thought I was dying?—"

"No, lass, you just lost some blood and passed out."

Her mind was foggy. Her head ached. "Conor, how did I survive?"

"It was the strangest thing," Conor said. "Charlie and I had just spotted you when you flew from that monster's arms like he'd thrown you. He took off. Charlie gave chase, but he didn't want to go far when we didn't know how hurt you were. We got to you in time."

"Who was that?" Rowan asked.

Conor's eyes glowed with fury. "His name is Valen. He is a parasite who lives off the blood of others."

"Is he the evil you're holding back?" Rowan asked.

Conor sighed. "Among many others and one much worse."

"He killed Orla," Rowan choked out.

"I suspect he did, yes."

"What is he?"

"A powerful demon of sorts."

Rowan paled. Cade was a demon. Did he want to do that to her? If so, why hadn't he? She'd been young and vulnerable when they met. Perhaps the urge had been suppressed until she became Red Maiden. He had been distant recently. She shook her head, trying to shake away the bad thoughts.

"Is that what you want to do to me?" Rowan asked Conor.

"No. Rowan, I'm sorry I lost control. Your blood is just a much more potent version of your scent, and you smell like—" He sighed. "You smell irresistible."

"How are you keeping control now?" she asked.

"An herbal tincture that helps tame the urge. It's still there, but it's not nearly as powerful," Conor explained.

"How does it work? How do you devour me?" she asked.

He shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"No," she said firmly. "I almost died. Tell me how this works. I refuse to walk into the woods while you keep me in the dark. Tell me how it works."

"I don't. That's how it works for you. I don't devour you, and you live out your term."

"Conor, I've already been attacked twice on the trail where I'm supposed to be safe," she said. "I think you need to decide right now if you're going to trust me or not. If you don't, I'm going to die much sooner than we both would like."

" Twice ?" Conor asked. His eyes were incandescent, blue and gray swirling like storm clouds in his irises.

Rowan realized her mistake too late.

"When? How did you get away the first time?" he asked, his eyes full of suspicious anger.

"My second ferrying. Cade," she lied.

"Who the fuck is Cade?" Conor asked. He licked his lips, and she knew he was tasting the lie.

"My best friend. He's—he's a demon," she mumbled.

Conor froze. His silence made her more nervous, and everything spilled out of her mouth at once.

"I wasn't trying to hide him. I met Cade when I was young. He's how I was found out as a spirit singer, and he's just always been around. I know he's evil. I get it, but he's different. You would have met him already, except he couldn't cross into the keep?—"

"Of course he couldn't," Conor said. "The boundary magic is meant to keep evil things out. Which is what he is, Rowan. You'll stop talking to him immediately."

An indignant laugh bubbled out of her. "You may have dominion over my death, but you certainly don't hold any over my life."

"Don't I?"

Conor's eyes blazed, and the way he looked at her sent a warmth pooling low in her belly. His hand cupped her cheek, and he forced her to hold his gaze. He paused, as if waiting for her to pull back or to knock his hand away. It was a game of chicken she had no intention of losing.

"I bet I could get you to do anything I wanted right now, and I wouldn't need to use compulsion like that vile beast in the Dark Wood," Conor murmured.

He tipped her head back, and his lips drew over the curve of her jaw, sending a wave of shivers through her body. She should have pulled away, but instead, she tilted her chin up to give him better access.

"Mm, yes, I bet you'd be such a good lass for me, wouldn't you?" he murmured against her skin.

She swallowed hard. Conor drew back suddenly and lifted her so she straddled his lap.

She stared at him, stunned. "What are you?—"

His fingers tangled in her hair, drawing her head back, and he brushed a line of kisses up the column of her neck. She gasped. The contrast between the pleasure that spun through her and the pain she'd felt earlier was staggering. Her heart beat wildly, trying to escape the cage of her ribs.

"Say it. Say you want it," Conor whispered. His breath danced over her lips, his words containing a desperation she couldn't fully grasp.

She was confused by his request for permission. Her whole life, she'd been taught that Conor had a right to her. She was his. But still, he wanted her consent. Control was a heady rush, but with it came responsibility for her actions.

Rowan knew what awaited her in Ballybrine if she didn't succeed in seducing Conor. Even more compelling was the relentless tug of attraction she felt whenever he was close. She wanted him to kiss her. Once again, she felt as though she'd lost her mind, perhaps for good this time.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

Conor cupped her face and roughly brought her lips to his. There was nothing tentative or gentle about it. He showed Rowan exactly what it was to be devoured, and she was surprised to find that she didn't want it to stop. She wanted him to raze her completely—burn through her like wildfire until nothing of what she was before existed. She was done being meek and obedient. She wanted to be something else entirely.

A growl rumbled up from his chest. He tugged on her hair—the bite of the pain perfectly complimenting the wild pleasure of kissing him.

His kiss was greedy and ravenous. His hands shook as he pressed Rowan's body against his, and she didn't know if it was nerves or restraint that he struggled with.

It was so very different from how Finn kissed her. Finn was soft and gentle, but Conor kissed her like he wanted to take everything from her and replace it with something new and better.

She slid her hands up his chest, enjoying the soft velvet of his tunic and the ridges of the firm muscle beneath. He went stiff at the touch before yanking her closer. One of his hands came to her lower back, and he pushed her hips down, giving her friction that sent chills through her body. She bit down on his lip, and he growled again, forcing her to roll her hips against him. His other hand went to the back of her head. She parted her lips, and he welcomed the invitation to take more from her.

He tasted like whiskey and cider, and she savored the bittersweetness. She let him open her up. After years of being bound, closed, starved for touch, she felt so completely overwhelmed by him. The momentum of what they'd started felt right. It felt unstoppable, inevitable, glorious. She wanted to drown in it.

Her hands threaded through his hair, and she tugged him closer. He groaned into her mouth, and it occurred to her that he felt the same way. He was devouring her, yes, but she was also devouring him. They exchanged the role of predator and prey in a precarious dance.

Conor pulled away suddenly, practically tossing her back on the bed. He crossed the room in great strides to put space between them.

She blinked at him, her mind too foggy with lust and fatigue to comprehend the sudden shift in his demeanor. He stared at her for a long moment before tearing out of the bedroom and slamming the door behind him.

Rowan giggled, her hand flying to her lips to stifle the sound. Her whole body still tingled with the pleasure of the kiss. Her laugh turned into something high-pitched and hysterical in her throat.

She knew the look on Conor's face before he stormed out of the room. The Wolf of the Dark Wood—the god of death—was afraid of her .

The Mother's words came back to her. " You're a weapon, Rowan. The moment that he's taking from you, he's vulnerable. That is when you strike. That is when a victim becomes a warrior. "

If the Wolf knew that, it meant he wanted to take something from her.

Rowan's hand flew to her right thigh, where the dagger and holster the Mother had presented her with were still hidden. She let out a sigh of relief.

What if he'd felt it when he was kissing her, and that's why he ran? He could be preparing right now to kill her.

She stood and crossed the room on tiptoes. She tried to ignore the vicious spinning in her head. How much blood did she lose to feel so faint?

She ignored the not-so-subtle requests from her body to slow down. She cracked the door open and peeked out. The entire mansion was silent. She sharpened her senses as she stepped out into the hall. Her mind still felt fuzzy and her mouth dry, but she forced herself to focus on the magic that still curled and uncurled inside of her, like leaves reaching toward the sunshine.

Rowan was drawn down the corridor by the stillness that surrounded Conor. She found that she could follow its signature through the mansion with ease. She traced it down the stairs through the main sitting room to the foyer. She hesitated for only a moment at the entrance to the east wing, a place Conor had forbidden her to go. She walked through the dim corridor until it opened into a cavernous hall.

Arched ceilings and large glass windows cast the space in a strange, pale light that made the shadows appear twice as sinister and consuming. Rowan stilled. Sadness permeated the room, which must have once been quite grand. Nature had taken over, crumbling the dark green marble floor, which split to reveal a babbling stream and moss-covered rocks that led down to a dark tunnel. It was beautiful in a lonely, haunted way—the same way the Dark Garden was.

The impulse to explore was consuming, but Rowan forced herself back to the task at hand. She wasn't a princess in a magical abandoned mansion like in the fairy tales she read to Aeoife. Rowan was a lonely sacrifice in death's house. She could not afford mistakes.

She needed to confront Conor, and she was too lightheaded to be trusted on a hike down to an unknown dark place. She wanted to stay for a while and see why the space was forbidden, but the soft tinkle of piano music drew her attention.

Turning down the first hallway, she followed the passage as the music grew louder. Finally, she reached the doorway from which it emanated. She peeked through the cracked door and found Conor bent over the piano. The music was lovely—somehow sad and angry at the same time. His fingers flew over the keys, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration. He swayed as if the melody moved through him before he played the notes.

She couldn't explain why seeing him so consumed by the song made her want to cry. Rowan had never witnessed anyone else so overwhelmed by music. She didn't know anyone else felt what she did when she sang—like she'd willingly be swept away by it if it would take her. The same emotion she poured into the songs she made up—the songs that held all her loneliness, heartache, rage—he poured into his playing. It was mesmerizing.

When the song ended, Conor leaned his forehead against the keys and sighed heavily. It was too vulnerable. Rowan felt like the ignorant hunters who wandered into delicate habitats, not realizing the damage they might do.

Guilt twisted her stomach in knots. She ducked away and rushed back to her room. Laying down in her bed, her heart still pounding, she stared into the dark and waited for the confusion to subside.