19. Conor

19

CONOR

D espite Conor's coldness in the temple, he enjoyed having Rowan in the keep. As difficult as it was to ignore the constant nagging pull to her, like a fishhook lodged in his chest reeling him toward her, she brought warmth to the place.

She'd spent the whole week with him, begging off on Friday morning so that she could go spend some time with Aeoife before she returned the following night with a new group of spirits.

Conor knew he was deluding himself. Playing house with a beautiful Maiden was fun, but they were avoiding reality. Things couldn't stay that way forever. Each time he touched her, she chipped away at the walls he'd built to protect himself. Talking to her was worse because she was clever, funny, and charming in a wholly natural way. It was lovely to see how she bloomed like some wild, exotic rose where most things came to die. She brought the mansion to life in more ways than one.

He'd felt a shift in the energy of the mansion, but it was confirmed when he was wandering by the old greenhouse and noticed that it had gone from dried-out remnants to its former blooming glory. It took him a day to put together that it was due to her sitting at the top of the east wing hall and singing. Even the luminaries—old plant spirits—had returned from beyond to enjoy the flowers.

Conor didn't understand Rowan's magic, but he knew it was something powerful. The house servant spirits seemed just as drawn to her as he was, sneaking away to hear her sing, each relishing the touch of life in her voice.

He should have interrogated her about her power. Several of the other Maidens had spent significant time at the keep, but none had brought with them such a frenzy.

Rowan was still shaken up from her attack in the Dark Wood, so Conor taught her how to fend off an assailant. It had been too long since he felt the adrenaline of a good fight, but the movements were still second nature to him.

Eventually, when being so close to her proved to be a problem, he taught her chess.

It seemed a platonic game. It felt safest to face Rowan with a table between them to keep her at a secure distance, especially with her looking lovely in a light blue dress his seamstress had made to compliment her fair skin and rosy cheeks. There were no innuendos in chess and no touching. There was only Rowan's brow furrowed adorably as she desperately tried to puzzle out how to beat him. At first, she was competitive and frustrated, but quickly got better—good enough that she could carry on a conversation as they played.

"Tell me about your family," Conor said, watching her face carefully.

"Tell me about yours," she countered.

Conor frowned and leaned back in his chair. He tried not to ever think about his family. "What makes you think I have one?"

Her full lips tipped into a half-smile. "The fact that you didn't immediately reject the idea."

Conor hesitated. Just talking about it felt like welcoming trouble. "I don't remember my parents, but I had a brother once. We were close—both of us warriors."

Rowan's eyebrows shot up. "So you were a mortal warrior?"

He nodded. "A very long time ago. So good at killing it made me immortal in the minds of men and then immortal in reality. Such is the power of faith."

"And your brother?" Rowan asked.

Conor looked away. He didn't want to think about that now. Perhaps it was superstitious, but he did not even think his brother's name. It was easier to think of him as a vague shadow that lurked at the back of his memory.

"My brother is gone." Saying it aloud felt like a dare. He could practically hear a hint of dark laughter echoing in his ears. His brother's voice saying, " Then why don't you ever sleep? "

He cleared his throat and focused on Rowan. "Have I earned the right to hear about yours now?"

"I suppose. I'm the youngest of five, and we were destitute," Rowan said. "When my mother figured out what I was, she only hesitated a moment before turning me over. I don't see them much, and it's easier that way."

Conor could hardly breathe around the fury as he tasted burnt sugar on his tongue. "That's a lie."

Rowan sighed, brushing a stray hair from her forehead as she leaned forward. "Fine. I don't know what's easier. I only know what I've experienced, which is that it is hard to listen to them talk about the lives of luxury that they enjoy for my sacrifice. I don't like feeling contempt toward them. Maybe easier isn't the right word, but neither option would bring me peace. If they are around, it's exhausting, and if they're not, it hurts."

They sat quietly as they exchanged a few more moves in their game.

Rowan waved her hand dismissively, as if trying to shake off her hurt. "I don't blame them. It's hard to love what you know you will lose."

"You excuse them?" Conor asked.

"No—I understand them."

"Why are you so content to be invisible?"

She recoiled. "What do you mean?"

"You scrub your dresses like you're afraid of leaving the slightest mark. You touch my books with a delicacy reserved for holding an infant. You deny yourself connection so the loss of you won't hurt the people you love. Are you content to disappear so easily?"

He wasn't mad at her; he was angry at the world, and the rage made him itch for his piano. He stretched his fingers toward phantom keys.

Rowan swallowed hard and blinked rapidly.

Conor froze. She was going to cry, and he felt an unnatural panic when that happened.

"I don't see what's wrong with controlling what I can." Her words were clipped.

"So it's about control?" he asked.

"I suppose."

"You don't like to feel out of control."

Rowan nodded.

How would she like Conor taking control? Would she enjoy it if he showed her how good it felt to let go, to let him take charge, to feel blissfully out of control? Demon's breath! He'd love to see her reaction to that. He wasn't sure if she'd slap him or give him one of those angry, heated looks of hers, all while letting him do whatever he wanted. He lived for those looks.

Rowan wrung her hands uneasily. "You judge them, but you don't even know them," she snapped, dragging him from his filthy thoughts.

Conor reached across the table and tilted her chin up. "I judge anyone who would look at this face and see only a payday."

"As if you see something different. All anyone sees when they look at me is what I can do for them. Don't pretend you're different when you just look at me like I'm your next meal," she scoffed.

Rowan's eyes burned with fury and a familiar heat spread through him. He wanted all of that rage. He could practically taste it. Her lies were sweet, but her anger was like a sharp spice that tingled on his tongue. He wanted to lick every smart word from her mouth. He needed some distance, or he would do something idiotic.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

She was more startled by that apology than anything else.

He pressed on. "For presuming to know your life. I should have let you answer. Tell me about them."

"There's not much to tell. My mom found out what I was, and for about a minute, I saw conflict in her, but we were so poor, Conor. I'm not excusing it because, honestly, I would never dream of doing the same thing, but it's worth mentioning. I went to bed hungry…often. I can't imagine how hungry she and my father were. Anyway, she saw her chance and took it, and she never looked back. I didn't see my family very often after that. I've always felt a bit like—" She cut herself off and flushed as she looked away.

Her admission filled him with fury. She must have been wretchedly lonely. He'd always thought Orla was the loneliest person he'd ever met, but Orla was made for solitude. Rowan clearly thrived on connection.

"Please continue."

She hesitated. "It's horrible, but I always felt a bit like my mother went so far in the other direction to prove something to herself. The way she chases status and wealth is unnatural after what we've been through. But I felt like maybe she was just all in because she very badly needed to convince herself that she'd made the right choice. Maybe you're right, and I'm excusing her, but I can't help but think it still. Maybe there's a naive part of me that wants to believe that at least her motivations were good."

Rowan was so bright and analytical. Conor wasn't sure that he could have evolved enough to accept such a thing even after centuries.

"Anyway, I can't imagine my life any other way now. I am what I am because I've been without them for so long. I'm fortunate to have Sarai, and I was fortunate to have Orla for so long, and Aeoife." She was smiling at him even as tears filled her eyes; even as she sounded like she was trying to convince herself that was enough.

"Rowan," he whispered. "You're allowed to want what you want. No one can take that from you. You're allowed to want better for yourself even if no one else will."

"Wanting is for people who have futures," she said softly.

"No, lass. Wanting is especially for those who live short lives. You get to want more, want desperately. You have a shorter time to claim those desires, but it should not stop your trying."

Conor tried to pull her up from the depths with his words, but he saw her floundering. Grief followed death around and he was well acquainted with it.

Rowan had already grieved many times for what her family could not be, and he'd ripped open old wounds to satisfy his curiosity. It was unforgivable. He could not stomach her tears, even as she tried desperately to hide them, brushing them away with a vengeance reserved for someone who'd done her a great wrong.

Panic tightened his chest like a vise. He needed to fix this. He loved watching the way she brightened when he introduced her to something new, her eyes filled with wonder and fascination. She never seemed to think anything was strange, only delightful and unique. It might be the only thing to distract her from his questions.

"I want to show you something," Conor said.

"But our game," she protested, gesturing to the chessboard.

"We'll come back to it."

Her face lit up, though she also looked apprehensive. He would be the first to admit his surprises had been a mixed bag. It was his fault she seemed unsure whether to anticipate something pleasant or terrifying, but she showed no hesitance.

"It's a surprise, though," he amended.

She bit her lip but nodded as he held up a silk handkerchief. He tied it over her eyes.

"Also, I'll need to carry you because it's a little treacherous, and you can't get there blindly."

He chuckled as her pulse kicked up.

"Okay," she rasped.

With no ceremony, Conor scooped an arm behind her knees and swept her into his arms. She was clearly startled, but she still leaned into him. She wrapped an arm around his shoulder, her hand tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. It felt divine.

"Sorry," she mumbled, drawing her hand back.

"No, it's actually nice. It just surprised me," Conor murmured as he started to move. "I like the way you touch me."

"Tentatively?" she laughed, running her fingers through his hair again.

"No. Gently—like you're afraid to hurt me."

She was struck silent by the admission. Of course, she was probably just afraid he'd hurt her . She'd lived her entire life one false move from being struck, and although he'd never given her the impression he'd do so, touching the entire world with that delicacy seemed a hard habit for her to break.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and rested her other palm on his chest. Her fingers skimmed the opening of his collar. Her hand was cold against his skin. It was mesmerizing how such a cool touch could inflame him so easily.

Conor's hands were made for violence and death. Even before he became the god of death, he'd been a fierce warrior. But the first time he held Rowan, he believed perhaps they were made for more. He didn't just want to consume her. He wanted to explore a capability for tenderness he'd never thought he possessed.

His footsteps echoed louder as they entered the eastern wing with its high ceilings and oppressive darkness. The stream trickled, and he could sense Rowan trying to get her bearings. Conor took several jerky and unsteady steps to climb down the mossy rocks.

He jumped, and she let out a surprised squeal and clung to him even tighter. Conor chuckled as he landed with ease a few feet below.

"It's a smoother walk from here," he whispered.

His footsteps echoed louder, and Rowan seemed surprised they weren't heading for the music room where she liked to spy on him. He let her watch and pretended he didn't notice because he spent the rest of his time spying on her. It was only fair to indulge her curiosity.

The air grew warmer as he walked into the greenhouse. He breathed in the scent of moss and the musty humidity of wet dirt and pollen.

Conor hesitated, enjoying the feeling of her in his arms, before he set her on her feet. He untied the blindfold and let it fall from her eyes.

She blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dimmer lighting. Through the large glass windows, a neon sunset cast an array of pinks and oranges on the lush greenhouse full of ferns and huge, exotic flowers in bright reds, purples, and pinks. Rowan's eyes went wide as she spun to take in the whole room.

The entire greenhouse was vibrant with new growth. Vines climbed the large glass windows and hundreds of plants had either bloomed or were on the verge of doing so.

"What—what is this?" Rowan asked as she took a few tentative steps forward.

"It's the old greenhouse. These are some of the rarest and most unique flowers in our world."

"But they're alive ," she murmured dumbly.

Conor smiled. "Not until recently. You did this, Rowan. They're alive because of you."

She turned and stared at him.

"I know you come down to the east hall to sing."

Her eyes widened in panic. "I know I'm not supposed to, but the acoustics are so beautiful with the tall ceilings?—"

Conor held up a hand. "I'm not upset. I'm just hoping you'll explain."

She bit her lip and looked out the windows at the gathering dark.

"I promise I'm not angry. I'm just trying to understand how this is possible. The plants here have been dried up for a long time," Conor said. "I haven't done anything. The only change has been you and your singing."

Rowan swallowed hard. "My voice is magic. I don't know why. It's unique to me and not something all Red Maidens can do. When I sing, it brings things to life."

It explained why Conor found her so incredibly compelling. Rowan breathed life into his whole world. No wonder he was so helplessly drawn to her. No wonder she smelled and tasted like life itself.

"Clearly," he laughed, gesturing to the lush garden. "I can't even remember the last time I saw them bloom. I came down here the other day for the first time in a very long time and noticed. Also, the luminaries have returned."

"The luminaries?" Rowan asked.

"Yes, they're plant spirits who come to life at night and glow. You'll see them soon," Conor replied. She stared at him like she thought he was messing with her. "You'll see something pretty spectacular from the plants, too. I haven't seen it since I was younger."

"And when was that?"

His lips quirked into a smirk. "Some time ago."

"How old are you?" she taunted.

Before Conor could answer, the first glowing golden light caught her eye. Rowan gasped as she watched it float up from a large pink flower that was about to bloom.