16. Conor

16

CONOR

C onor stared out into the fading sunlight through his study windows. He had hunted to the northern edge of the Dark Wood but still found no trace of Valen. He didn't know how the vampire managed to evade him so easily. He was certain that Valen was responsible for Orla's death beyond the shadow of a doubt. He'd known the moment he saw her body, but Rowan's encounter only confirmed it.

It made him furious that a monster in his own woods felt confident enough to steal from him. Even the wildest beast in the Dark Wood knew the Wolf's scent and knew that the Maidens were his. It might not have protected them from his own impulses, but it was meant to deter everything else in the forest.

He couldn't escape the haunting memory of Rowan's dying song or the terrified look on her face when she woke up after the attack.

Valen had taken off by the time Conor and Charlie arrived. He must have heard them coming and thought it better to flee. Either way, they'd found Rowan bleeding on a bed of soft ferns.

Conor hated Valen for leaving him with these exhausting visions playing on repeat in his head of all the ways that someone like Valen could ruin Rowan.

Still, those visions were preferable to remembering how it felt to kiss Rowan. She was chipping away at the shield he'd built to protect himself and everyone else. He'd given up fighting the impulse to do it. Her near-death stoked his urgency. He'd kissed her, half-expecting to feel the burnt sugar taste in his mouth that indicated a lie in her action, but it never came.

She'd been just as eager, and not because it was her duty, but because she genuinely wanted to. Conor had quickly shifted from being the aggressor to the one who was falling apart. If he'd let himself continue, they would have ended up naked right then and there. No matter how badly he wanted that, he could not have it. It was a spectacularly bad idea.

Never before had he experienced such a loss of self-control so soon into meeting a new Maiden. It was reckless to both their health and safety.

He shook his head. Get a grip, Conor. She's just a pretty girl with magic designed to make you want to consume her.

Rowan, with her auburn hair, bright green eyes, and scandalous dresses. She would drive him out of his mind. He'd gone through more whiskey in the past month than in the prior six months with Orla.

Rowan would arrive tonight, and he already wanted to ask her to stay an extra night. Perhaps he'd been at this too long and he was tired. Maybe it was a desperate attempt to welcome his own undoing.

Conor needed to stay focused. Valen's ambition was evident, and his latest antics with Orla and Rowan were a clear sign of just how much Conor needed to show his power. The faith of the people of Ballybrine was what strengthened him, and thanks to the blight reaching the edge of the Dark Wood, along with Orla's death, it seemed everyone's faith in him was renewed. Still, people were fickle, and he didn't need them or Rowan to realize the power she had, or the way she could choose which god of death to serve.

He sat there for so long he'd missed the sunset. He felt the moment Rowan entered the Dark Wood like a skip in a heartbeat. The favor he'd given her alerted him to her nearness. He made his way out to the keep gates and waited. The evening was quiet, but it smelled like a storm. Dark clouds blotted out the moon, making the forest appear darker than usual.

A short while later, he heard her voice, angelic and serene as it sliced through the night. She turned the corner, her red cloak covering all but small glimpses of the white silk dress beneath as spirits processed behind her. She paused at the gates and knelt gracefully.

Conor tended to the spirits before reaching out to her.

"Conor," she said, meeting his gaze with a sly smile as she took his hand.

"Rowan," he said, forcing a frown.

She glanced over her shoulder at the Dark Wood. "It seems a storm is coming. Would it be all right if I stayed?"

On cue, the Dark Wood rustled, branches groaning as a gust of wind kicked up dried leaves from the forest floor and ruffled her hair.

Conor was spared from having to ask her to stay, but he couldn't seem too eager. She was growing more confident around him, and he wasn't sure it was a good thing.

"Well, lass, I'm not sure that's the best idea, but I wouldn't want you to get caught in a storm and ruin what I'm sure is a very lovely—though seasonally inappropriate—dress."

She grinned as she took his arm and walked into the keep.

Charlie brought her cider, and Conor gave her his robe. It was as if they'd done it hundreds of times before. Somehow they'd fallen into a pattern that was far too comfortable for Conor's liking.

"I'm afraid I'm very busy tonight, so you'll be on your own, but help yourself to the library or whatever else you need," Conor said.

"Is everything okay?"

"Of course. Just plenty to do."

"Grand. I'll take care of myself," Rowan said. She snuggled into the chair with her cider.

Conor left the room and waited. A while later, Rowan wandered from the sitting room to the library. Instead of tending to the many problems he should have been managing, like hunting down the monsters in his forest, he spied on her in the library until she meandered off to bed.

As she slept, he sat in his study, sipping whiskey and cursing himself for letting her stay. Her scent hung everywhere in the keep, and it enticed him to go find her in her bed. He could practically feel the softness of her skin under his hands, the way she'd gasp when he nuzzled her neck. He imagined the surprise on her face when he kissed her awake.

He forced himself to think of anything else, but it was too late. All the blood in his body was already heading south.

"Mother slay me," he grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as he settled in for another long night.

Conor felt the same thrill he did when hunting in the Dark Wood as he stalked Rowan around the mansion. If she noticed, she didn't let on. She bounced between the Dark Garden with Charlie and the library, where she spent hours lying in front of the fire reading books. She favored the romances. Occasionally her cheeks pinked and her eyes darted around the room as if she'd been caught doing something terribly naughty before she settled back in, riveted to what must have been the most scandalous part.

Conor had never read a romance, but he made note of each one she read so he could go back and read them later. The romance books in the library were the product of past Maidens' requests to Charlie, who could track down just about anything. Conor wanted to ask Rowan why she liked them, in part so he could watch her blush, but also because he hated to know how someone who'd been raised as she had held onto the hope of romance.

She flitted about the keep as if she owned the place, her tinkling laughter bouncing off the walls, her sweet scent haunting every room she visited like a magical memory.

After a full day of thinking about it, he decided to confront her.

Conor found her in the library. She stood on the first rung of the rolling ladder, reaching for a book on the shelf just out of reach. She looked more herself than she ever had in a simple green dress. Her hair hung loose in curls down her back, and all he could think about was wrapping them around his fist and tugging her head back and?—

He shut down the train of thought before that side of him could take over.

"Good evening, Rowan," he said.

She jumped at his voice. Her hand flew to her heart. Suddenly all his good intentions of asking her about her literature preferences disappeared.

"Goddess above, you scared me," she huffed, stepping down from the ladder. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to startle someone while they're on a ladder?" she scolded. "I could have—" She stopped speaking when she saw his face.

He said nothing as he crossed the room. Rowan retreated until she bumped against the bookshelves behind her.

So she had some sense after all—though not enough to run.

Conor bent down and claimed her lips. He had no idea how she'd react. He hadn't so much as gone near her since their first kiss. He hadn't even seen her in days, actively avoiding everywhere she went in the mansion as if she was the thing to be feared and not the other way around.

But now he claimed her once again, and she did nothing to stop him. Instead, she drew him in like a siren luring a sailor into the depths. He would gladly drown in the feeling of her. She let out a soft whimper, and he drew away.

He stepped back, burned by her intensity, by the surprise and desire in her eyes. She reached for him, and he knew it was a challenge. She wanted to see that he couldn't resist, and he hated himself for having centuries more experience and still being unable to control himself.

Conor scrubbed a hand down his face. "I hate kissing you."

Rowan cringed and blushed. "Am I that bad?"

"Oh no, lass," he chuckled. "Quite the opposite, actually. Your passion is terribly compelling. You kiss with your whole self."

Confusion stole over her face. "Then why do you hate it?"

"Because I can never tell if you really want to or if you feel obligated to."

She looked as surprised by his vulnerability as he was. Now it seemed she had the power to pull emotions out of him he hadn't ever expressed. If he had any sense at all, he would leave immediately.

"Don't you just want to kiss me because I smell delicious?" she countered.

"You look delicious as well," he said. His gaze dropped to her lips, and her cheeks turned bright red. "Especially when you blush like that."

She bit her lip and looked away. Conor hated that she shied away from compliments. It didn't suit someone with so much fire to be so demure.

"Do you?" he asked, prowling closer. "Do you actually want to kiss me?"

She nodded, and he couldn't drag his gaze from the indentation her teeth left on her lower lip.

"Why?" he pressed.

"I like the way it feels."

"And how does it feel?" He wrapped a stray auburn curl around his finger.

"Wild," she murmured.

"That's a good thing?"

She met his eyes and swallowed hard. "It's the only thing in my life that's ever been unrestrained—the only time I've let go."

Conor was so done for. Rowan couldn't have said anything else that would make him more ravenous for her. He practically pounced on her, kissing her almost violently before shoving her back against the bookcase. Her lips parted in a gasp, and he used the opportunity to slip his tongue into her mouth. She sighed as he tugged her hair, tilting her chin up more. One hand caressed her outer thigh and drew her leg up over his hip as he rocked against her. Her hands tugged at his waist, drawing him in.

It wasn't enough for either of them, so he grabbed her thighs and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist. Her hands threaded through his hair with a roughness to match his, and he loved it. She dragged her teeth over his lower lip, and he groaned.

Conor wanted to claim her so badly it hurt. He had a primal instinct to take her right there, and the thought of fucking her up against the bookshelves made him even harder. If her current reaction was any indication, she'd probably love it. He cupped one of her breasts, and she arched into the touch.

"Do you like that?" Conor whispered against her lips.

"Yes," she rasped between kisses.

He rolled his hips against her, and she met the motion with her own. He growled. He was losing control. He needed to fuck her or leave immediately.

"I love everything you're doing. Please don't stop," Rowan whimpered.

Conor cursed and pulled away so abruptly she stumbled and nearly fell as he set her back on her feet.

She stared up at him, her cheeks flushed, lips swollen, hair a tumbled mess. "What did I?—"

He didn't let her finish the question. He tore out of the room and into the east wing before she could follow. He flew through the corridor, his footsteps echoing against the tall ceilings. He rushed into his music room and slammed the door behind him.

He sat down at the piano and played furiously through loud, discordant pieces that drew out his rage. He jammed his fingers down on the keys, avenging himself against his lack of composure. It didn't quite work because he wasn't really angry. He was simply in turmoil, and once he burned through the little bit of frustration, he'd have to confront something much more significant.

In the past, he simply played what he felt. Where his words failed him, music was the way thought and memory and emotion poured out of him, seemingly effortlessly.

So Conor took a breath and played what he felt. It was violently unpredictable, sweeping, and dissonant before it crescendoed in an invigorating swell of sweetness. It was hard to put a melody to the utter chaos that filled him every time he laid eyes on Rowan Cleary.

The woman was a harbinger of destruction, and he wanted nothing more than to turn and run from her disarray. Instead, the magic that flowed through him seemed intent on drawing him into her orbit, burning everything he'd worked so hard for to the ground. He thought that part of him—the part that could care beyond duty—was gone centuries ago. He'd razed the bit of humanity that existed within him and salted the earth that allowed anything but mild affection to grow in his cold, barren heart.

And yet Rowan had managed to grow roots in a dark place where nothing else would. No matter how he twisted and turned, she shined a light into every fissure in him. It was maddening.

He played until his fingers cramped and his back ached and he'd sweat through his tunic.

An hour later, he finally emerged from his music room. Playing so furiously managed to take the edge off the desire to immediately seek out Rowan again, even if the thought of it still sank claws into his mind. He snuffed out candles as he walked back down the corridor when the sound of soft singing stopped him in his tracks.

He walked down the hall, careful to keep his footsteps silent. He didn't want her to stop. Her singing grew louder the closer he moved to the great room. When he reached the end of the corridor, he peeked around the doorframe.

Rowan sat on a rock at the top of the wilderness in the great room, high above the stream that cut through the floor. Unlike how she usually moved around as if trying to take up as little space as possible, her presence seemed to fill the entire space. She sat tall, her spine erect. Her long, auburn hair cascaded down her back. He couldn't see her face, but he didn't need to because her voice was expressive enough that he could feel the emotion in her words.

Conor recognized the song, though he'd never heard it sound quite so lovely. It was an old folk song about a powerful witch who could heal memories or steal them. When her land is invaded, she's forced to either let the invading king kill her love or use her magic to rob him of every memory of her. The song was about reliving their love story while enduring the pain of erasing it.

From Rowan's mouth, the song sounded powerful, vibrant, ethereal.

He sensed notes in her voice he'd never heard quite so clearly. His whole body buzzed with the pleasure of the song. The melody rolled through him like the very pulse of life itself. He had never felt anything like it, and if he wasn't so accustomed to his own stillness—as Rowan had described it—he might have missed it. Her voice filled him with a strange nostalgia for something he'd never known or couldn't quite remember.

She stopped singing abruptly, and he ducked behind the corner so she wouldn't catch him spying.

He wanted to ask her why that song. Favorite songs and connection to music was deeply intimate. He'd never had anyone to talk to about music. The idea of asking her those questions was thrilling, but he instantly shut it down. It would help no one. Getting closer to her would only make things worse. Even now, it was hard not to tackle her to the ground and ravish her in the middle of the hallway—such was the magical pull she had on him.

Conor needed to put distance between them before things got any more out of hand. As it was, he constantly felt on the precipice of pouncing on Rowan, and she seemed delighted to be plundered. Being out of control was his least favorite feeling, so he forced himself back down the hall and into his music room, where he played furiously until his control slid back into place and an idea formed in his mind.

He just needed some distance, and he had a good idea of how to get it.