25. Rowan

25

ROWAN

R owan was tired of waiting. For days, Conor avoided her as she prowled around Wolf's Keep, reading journal after journal so she wouldn't lose her mind.

Despite Elder Garrett's death, Rowan still felt uneasy. She knew that Conor's attack had raised the fear and anxiety in Ballybrine to a fever pitch, and she didn't like being away from Aeoife. She couldn't stop hearing the frenzied voices of the people gathered outside the temple.

Were they harassing Aeoife? She wanted to go back and bring the younger Maiden to Wolf's Keep, but she was worried that would be no safer for the girl.

Most of all, she was tired of Conor's games. She wanted answers.

She marched into the library to confront him, breathing in the scent of ink and parchment. Normally, she found it soothing, but today, she was too frustrated to enjoy it.

"What am I to you?" Rowan asked.

Conor looked startled by her abrupt entrance and the question. He slid his chair back and closed the book he was reading, but said nothing.

"You don't want me, but you also want no one else to have me," Rowan began. "You keep me here but treat me like I'm equally desirable and aggravating. It's disorienting not to know if you're going to pounce on me, hate me, or ignore me altogether. You give me pleasure, and then you won't even come within a few feet of me. You didn't want me to stay here, and now you don't want me to leave, but I'm alone all day except for the few moments you deign to pay attention to me. I'm just lonely ."

The word hollowed her out. It was a feeling she'd lived with so long that it was shocking it still had the power to steal her breath. Speaking it into existence gave it more power, and she felt a black hole open inside her, the vacuum of it threatening to suck her down into an abyss. It was absolutely not the time for self-pity, and yet her rage had burned itself away, and she was only left with a strange, empty grief.

No—get it together, Rowan .

Conor was her enemy. The dagger in the sheath on her thigh was the reminder. She could not forget that loneliness was reliable. She could only count on herself. The Mother was counting on her. Ballybrine was counting on her. Aeoife was counting on her.

She wrung her hands nervously. The vulnerability on Conor's face stripped away her resolve.

Conor ran a hand through his hair and started to pace. "That's not what I want for you, Rowan. I want you to have more than just people who look at you and see an object. It's safest for you here. Until I understand better how you fit into this."

"You think you know what's best for me. How are you any different from them?"

For the first time, she saw the hurt in his eyes.

"You're right," he said.

Rowan was so startled by the admission that she took a step back. She had expected him to argue with her. She'd become so accustomed to the world treating her irrationally simply for having her own thoughts that validation was a foreign concept.

Conor sighed and leaned back against the bookcase, squeezing his eyes closed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. He laughed suddenly, startling both of them. "I've been trying so hard to hold on to my own control that I've resorted to simply controlling you—or at least trying to. It's proven to be a futile effort."

Rowan smiled.

"I'm sorry that I made you feel that you don't know your own mind or that you don't know what's best for you. It's not an excuse—I've lived for a long time, and I've become accustomed to working alone. I should have simply been honest with you from the beginning. I should have just given you all the information and let you decide for yourself how you want to handle things. I didn't trust that you could handle that, and selfishly, I didn't want?—"

He fell into silence, meeting her eyes across the room. She felt like he was looking right into her soul. A flash of heat pulsed through her.

"You didn't want?" she asked breathlessly.

"I didn't want you to stop looking at me with curiosity and start looking at me with fear. I wanted you to be on my side so badly that I made you feel like I wasn't on yours."

Conor was afraid of the same things she was. The words emboldened her.

She crossed the room to him. He stood frozen, his stormy eyes locked on her face as she ran her hands down his velvet tunic. Her gaze followed the touch, as if to validate that he was truly letting her do it. Conor's breath was shallow under her hands. Her heart raced as she met his eyes.

Her mouth was dry, her voice small and frail as she spoke. "What would I see right now if I could see your fear?"

Conor said nothing. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced as if picturing it himself. "I don't know if you'd see anything, but I know what you'd hear."

He grabbed her hand and dragged her out of the room, leading her into the east wing and down to his music room. He sat down at the piano and snapped his fingers. Hundreds of candles in the room fired to life.

In the brighter light, Rowan's gaze fell on a bed under the large windows. "Have you been sleeping down here?"

Conor laughed. "I don't sleep."

"Ever?"

"Ever. I don't need to."

Rowan had no way to confirm that. It wasn't as if she'd shared a bed with him. She looked around the room, which she'd only lurked outside of before.

Most of the keep was neat and tidy, but this space was much homier. Sheet music was stacked on the bookshelves, while pages and pages of scattered notes in surprisingly neat penmanship littered the piano's surface.

She tucked her legs under her and snuggled into the plush chair facing the piano.

Conor sat down on the bench. He fidgeted with the sheet music, his gaze drifting to her several times before he flexed his fingers over the keys. For the first time, the stillness around him broke apart, and tiny fissures of buzzing anxiety broke through like frenzied bells.

Rowan welcomed the noise. It was the first sign that he felt anything at all.

"You know I've heard you play before," she said.

"Of course—when you were spying," Conor said dryly.

"So why are you nervous?"

"Because this matters. It's—" He licked his lips. "I've never been good with words, but you asked what you were to me. When I see you, this is what I hear. This is what I think of. This is what my fear sounds like, Rowan. You told me that I sound like stillness to you, but this is what you sound like to me."

He started to play.

Rowan didn't realize she was holding her breath until he'd been playing for a full minute and her chest began to burn. The music was beautiful—lovely and tinkling in some moments and loud and bold in others. It swelled and crested and soared, all while a strange melancholy thrummed through it. There were lines that sounded like the frenzied longing in the breathless kisses they shared, the sharp fury she felt when she first stood up to him in the garden, and the true contentment she'd felt when he danced with her in the greenhouse. It was a song of joy and hurt and savage longing.

Beyond the song, Conor looked pained as he laid all of his feelings bare. She could clearly hear his struggle in the music, and she was stunned at how closely it mirrored her own. She didn't realize she was crying until he stopped playing and looked at her, startled by the sight of her wet cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Rowan closed the space between them and pulled his lips to hers. She kissed him with everything in her, climbing into his lap and running her fingers through his hair. He only hesitated a moment before wrapping his arms around her, crushing her against his body.

It felt so good to be held like that—like he never wanted to let go. If he kept doing it, she might never want him to—she would lose herself.

She could not afford to forget who he was and what he meant to her—destruction.

Rowan brushed a hand over the sheath on her thigh. She brought his hands to her breasts so he wouldn't notice it. She didn't want to give him any reason to stop kissing her.

Conor pulled back breathlessly. "I take it you liked the song? I must admit this is the best review of my music I've ever had."

"Yes, you could say that." She cupped his face in her hands. "Conor, it was so beautiful."

His face grew solemn, and he looked at her with reverence. "I know—" He swallowed hard. "I know what you think—that you'll disappear…but Rowan, I'll remember you. Rest assured that you've left a permanent impression on me. I'll never stop hearing that song. I'll never stop playing it. I'll never stop wanting to hear it."

Rowan blinked away tears. It was so beautiful and personal. He spoke directly to her deepest fear. It was far from a profession of love, but it was, perhaps, the only kindness the god of death could offer her. They were who they were. He could no more stop wanting to devour her than she could stop being drawn to him.

It's just magic that weaves us together. That makes me feel this way, she tried to remind herself. But still, her heart raced as he kissed the tears from her cheeks.

She needed to end this now. She needed to kill him tonight. If she got any closer, she'd never be able to detangle herself. Even as she tried to convince herself it wasn't the case, she felt herself growing roots in a life there in Wolf's Keep.

She liked the quiet darkness of the space. She loved her garden. She loved Conor's music and playing chess with him.

But Conor had said it himself: the only thing there for her was death. She couldn't build a life where everyone else's ended, and she could not protect Aeoife unless she killed Conor and the Mother made a new bargain with a new god of death.

Her hands trembled where they rested on Conor's chest, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to summon courage. She needed to end him before she lost her nerve.

She blinked her eyes open. "Take me to that bed right now."

His eyebrows shot up. "Rowan, I?—"

"Don't say no. I want you to. I want this. I get to choose nothing about my life. Let me choose this. I want you. I trust you."

"You shouldn't," he gritted out.

"I know, but I have to choose to trust someone eventually, and you've been nothing but honest with me."

Conor squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers digging into her hips, then opened them and laughed. "Demon's breath, you are stubborn."

She had to push it. She hiked up her dress and unsheathed the dagger. "I want?—"

Conor sucked in a breath and froze, his gaze trained on the blade. His eyes became incandescent. "What do you want?"

"I want you to take some of my blood. You've kept me safe, and I trust you. I want you to bond with me?—"

"How do you even know about bonds?" he asked.

"The Red Maiden journals," she lied. "Evelyn wanted you to do it with her, but you didn't like her enough."

"What makes you think I like you?" Conor challenged.

She laughed. "Your song."

"I suppose you have me there," he sighed. "You need to understand what it will mean. I'll be able to feel what you feel. I'll be able to sense when you're in danger. But, my tempting little Red, it will be very hard to hide anything from me." Conor studied her carefully. "Are you sure you want that?"

Aching desperation pulsed through her body. "Only if you'll take me to bed. Only if you'll finish what you started in the greenhouse. I don't care about what anyone else thinks. I only care about us. I'm tired of dancing around this. I want something that I choose. Something that's mine," she rasped.

"And you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Rowan, I don't even trust me." He looked pained as his hands drew the hem of her dress higher.

His mouth said one thing, but it was clear from the way he looked at her that he wanted her. He was trying to talk himself out of it, but she could see his resolve sliding away. She had him. She couldn't believe it. The feeling of holding sway over someone so strong was a heady rush. For the first time in her life, she felt truly powerful. She wanted more.

"Do you trust me?" Rowan asked.

He laughed. "Against my better judgment—yes."

She leaned closer so that her cheek brushed against his, and they both shuddered. Her lips brushed the shell of his ear as she whispered, "Then take me to that bed right now."

Conor growled as his hands came to her bottom, and he lifted her. She reflexively wrapped her legs around his waist as he began to kiss her in a maddening, harried way. She kept her grip on the dagger in her hand, careful not to cut either of them as he carried her to the bed, where he laid her down as if she was the most delicate thing he'd ever touched.

He kissed down her jaw to her neck as he unbuttoned the front of her dress. His mouth followed his fingers, greeting every new bit of skin with soft kisses. She brought her free hand to the back of his head and moaned.

"Mother slay me, you taste so good, it's like your skin is dusted in sugar," he whispered into the space between her breasts.

"Don't stop," she begged.

His restraint broke all at once, and he ripped the front of her dress open. She was startled by the display of strength, but it was more out of surprise than fear.

Rowan reached for him, and it wasn't until she saw her hand on the hem of his tunic that she realized she'd dropped her only weapon. She didn't dare look at it for fear of him noticing.

Focus, Rowan. He's not your friend. He can't be , she reminded herself.

Conor dragged what remained of the dress down her body and froze. His eyes raked over her, and she held perfectly still as he took in the delicate lace underthings. He unstrapped the dagger's sheath from her right thigh, his gaze slowly wandering back up her body.

"What on earth are those?" he asked. Although he'd seen her undergarments before, she hadn't worn anything quite so elaborate.

She giggled nervously at the ravenous look on his face. "I was apprehensive about being completely nude under my dresses, so the seamstress made them for me. Do you like them?"

He bent down and kissed along the edge of the lace at her hips, alternating between soft kisses and nips with his teeth. The competing sensations of pleasure and pain sent her heartbeat into a frenzy. She fought to hold on to her sanity as he kissed his way up her stomach, pausing at the lace that covered her breasts. He dragged his teeth over one nipple through the material before darting his tongue under the edge of the fabric.

She felt like a puppet, helpless to the ministrations of her puppet master. Her breathing was shallow and her skin buzzed everywhere his hands and mouth drifted.

It's just magic, Rowan. It's not real. It's just the bargain trying to ensure that it's completed.

Still, the chaos in her body was incredibly compelling.

"This lace is very pretty, but I've been dying to see you naked," he murmured.

She blushed as he deftly peeled away the lace underthings. His fingers brushed over her delicate flesh, and she shivered.

"You're so soft—every part of you," he murmured as his tongue laved over one of her nipples.

She cried out in surprise, and he chuckled against her skin. She was losing control, and all the power she'd felt before seemed to have transferred to Conor. She could not have that. Not when she was so close.

She hiked her legs up around his hips and rolled so that she was on top. Conor stared at her in stunned admiration, but she was unsure what to do with the position change. She leaned forward and kissed him, letting one hand roam down his bare chest as he groaned into her mouth.

"Tell me what to do," she whispered.

"Rowan, don't rush. We have to go slow. I want it to feel good for you, which means we need to slow down so I can get you ready."

She knew what he meant in theory from her years of learning about the Wolf's appetites, but she felt suddenly self-conscious. She unbuttoned his pants tentatively.

"Do you want me to?—"

Conor grabbed her wrist. "I would love that, but this isn't about me, lass. This is your first time, so why don't you let me steer?"

She bit her lip and nodded.

"As appealing as this position is to me because you look incredible, it doesn't work for what I want to do," he said.

"What…what do you want to do?" she asked.

"I want to do what I did in the greenhouse," he said, letting his fingers trail up and down her side in a mesmerizingly soothing pattern.

She tried not to look too eager as he flipped her onto her back and sat back on his heels. Her skin heated under his gaze. He'd seen parts of her before, but never all of her naked at once.

"Are you okay?" Conor asked.

She nodded. "Just nervous."

"Don't be. I'm going to be as gentle as I can."

"And if I don't want you to?" she challenged.

Conor scrubbed a hand over his face. "Mother slay me, Rowan. Are you trying to kill me?"

She froze. How does he know?

He laughed and shook his head, and she let out a shaky breath.

Before she had a chance to calm her hammering heart, Conor kissed up from the inside of her knee with a patience that was both wonderful and maddening. By the time he reached the apex of her thighs, the anticipation stole her breath.

Just like before, she squirmed under his touch. He was so attentive to her every whimper and moan, so expert with his mouth, that her mind emptied of every thought. She couldn't tell if she wanted to run toward or away from the sensations building in her body.

She tried to ground herself by glancing at the dagger on the sheets beside her but was instantly distracted by the wet glide of his tongue. It was only moments before she couldn't stop bucking her hips in rhythm with his movements. She was so close to release that she almost cried when he drew away.

Conor chuckled at her discontented whimper. "Relax, I'm going to keep going. I know you're close. I just wanted to use my fingers to warm you up a little more. Is that okay?"

Rowan nodded, her mouth too dry from panting to speak.

He kissed her as one of his fingers slid inside her. She moaned, her head falling back against the bed. The competing sensations of his finger and his mouth were almost too much. He played her as expertly as he played the piano.

"Conor," she whimpered.

His name on her lips was enough to send him into a frenzy. He pumped his fingers faster as her muscles drew taut with pleasure.

"Please," she begged in between sounds of utter nonsense. Suddenly the tension snapped, and she felt suspended in time as she fell apart.

Conor didn't stop moving until she settled back to the bed, feeling boneless and satisfied. He kissed her inner thigh and then her hip, slowly making his way back up her body until he found her lips.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered between kisses.

"Don't stop," she begged. She couldn't think straight. Her mind was shrouded in a pleasant lustful fogginess.

Her hand brushed the dagger, and her thoughts snapped into focus. Get him to take you so that you can take something from him, you idiot, she chided herself.

She held the dagger out to Conor. He sat up and took it from her before taking her left hand in his. He brought the tip of the blade to her pointer finger.

"Are you sure you want this?" he asked. "This is your last chance to back out. I won't be upset?—"

"I want it," she interrupted.

Still, he hesitated.

"What's wrong?" Panic sharpened Rowan's mind.

"I'm just worried that you wouldn't want this if you hadn't been told to make me happy. I don't like feeling you've been pressured to want me," he said.

She sat up so they were eye to eye. She brought her right hand to his cheek, and he leaned into her touch before kissing her palm. It was something lovers did, something so intimate, yet he did it as casually as if they'd done it a hundred times.

"Conor, I don't want you because of that. I want you because everything I believed was wrong. Because of the greenhouse and the library. Because you saved me when no one else did. Because of that beautiful song. Because you speak to my fear with tenderness. I could worry that you only want me for the same reasons, or because I smell like dessert."

He laughed, and it broke all the tension between them. "That you do. All right, if you're sure. I'll just take a drop, and then you have to say that you accept the bond."

He pressed the dagger into the tip of her finger, and she winced at the tiny bite of pain. He drew the blade away and dropped it on the bed beside them. She tracked where it landed but was instantly distracted as he drew her finger into his mouth and sucked gently. His eyes closed, and he groaned. A flare of heat shot through her body.

"Fuck," he murmured. His eyes glowed brightly, swirling blue and gray as he looked at her. "Say it."

"I accept the bond," she whispered. She waited for something to happen. "I feel the same."

Conor closed his eyes and smiled. "Well, I don't. I feel how turned on you are, so I suppose I should stop making you wait."

He kissed her fingertip and released her hand so she could lay back. She glanced the dagger in her periphery, only an arm's length away.

Conor stripped out of his pants and climbed between her legs. He was strong, beautiful, and ethereal. His entire body was toned—as if he did nothing with his time but heavy manual labor—with a smattering of vicious-looking scars. Her hands raked down his chest, the muscles rippling under her touch as he prowled over her. His eyes glowed with power as he drew her into another kiss. His hips rolled against her, and she groaned at the friction.

"Rowan, look at me." She blinked her eyes open and met his gaze. "Are you certain this is what you want?"

"Yes," she said breathlessly. Rowan was surprised at how utterly desperate she felt for it while at the same time dreading what she'd have to do.

"I'm afraid I'll lose control," he murmured. He looked so ashamed as he said it.

She brought a hand to his cheek. "You won't. I trust you."

Conor brushed a stray curl back from her face and kissed the tip of her nose. "It might hurt, but I promise I will make it feel good for you. You just have to try to relax, okay?"

She nodded as he started to press into her. It was slow going. Though her mind was fully on board, her body seemed unwilling to yield to him.

Above her, Conor clenched his jaw in concentration, studying her face as if waiting for any sign of pain. His hands wove through her hair. It felt so nice to be touched that way.

"Breathe, lass. Just try to relax," he murmured, kissing her between words.

She hissed in a breath. Even though she was expecting some discomfort, she was startled by the ferocity of it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, covering her face in kisses. "Just breathe. It will pass."

She slowed her breathing, and he slid in deeper until he was fully seated inside her. He paused, allowing her to adjust.

"You're okay?" he asked.

Rowan nodded. She was startled by the raw vulnerability on his face—by the intensity of his attention. She hadn't expected him to be so careful with her. Despite his words, she thought he'd be rougher. Everything she'd learned from her years of training and even from his own threats had set her up to expect something vicious. Instead, he touched her like she was made of delicate porcelain he was afraid to break.

She looked at Conor—really looked at him. His brow was furrowed in concentration, and his arms shook with the effort of holding back. Once he started to move, she would need to act quickly.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

"I'm waiting for you to be ready," he said through gritted teeth. "I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm ready," she said, bringing a hand to his face. "You won't hurt me."

She wasn't sure it was true. If he didn't die right away when she stabbed him, he might hurt her. She couldn't exactly blame him. Still, she felt that whatever wound he dealt her would pale in contrast to the wounds the rest of her life had inflicted on her.

He relaxed and began to move his hips. Rowan's head fell back as she moaned. It still stung the slightest bit, but pleasure swelled up, eclipsing the ache. She closed her eyes, wanting to commit the rawness of the feeling to memory.

"Rowan," Conor groaned, his lips skimming her jaw. "Eyes on me."

She snapped her eyes open. He looked wrecked, gazing at her as if welcoming his undoing.

"I need to see your eyes to know that you're okay," he whispered.

Conor moved his hips in a steady, slow rhythm, and she found herself involuntarily lifting hers to meet each movement. Tension wound through her like it had before, but this time, it was much more intense. She dug her heels into his back, trying to draw him closer.

He paused. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Wasn't the point of this," she said, holding up her finger, "that you know what I'm feeling?"

He nodded.

"And what am I feeling?" she asked.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "Too much for me to discern any one thing."

"Are any of them bad?"

He squeezed his eyes shut in concentration. "Just some fear."

She held her breath as her mind spun. He couldn't know what she was going to do, only what she felt, but she needed to act soon.

"This is a new experience. Of course I'm nervous. I'm not afraid of you as much as the unknown," she whispered. "Please don't stop." Please don't figure out that I'm about to kill you.

"So demanding," he chuckled.

She held his gaze as he started to move again. The intensity of looking into his eyes as he moved—the kindness reflected back—nearly brought her to tears.

She clung to the last threads of her resolve as she slid her hand out to the side, her fingers brushing the cool hilt of the dagger. It slid into her palm, and her heart pounded in her chest, both from the building frenzy in her body and the racing torrent of her mind.

Just stab him, Rowan. End this. If you do this, you and Aeoife will finally be safe .

Conor kissed her neck, groaning into her skin as she hugged him close.

Now, Rowan—you have to do this now. The dagger trembled in her slick grip.

Conor nipped at her neck, and she nearly dropped the dagger. He did it again, and she shuddered as shivers danced over her skin.

You won't get a better chance. Do it now, you idiot. This is bigger than you.

Rowan thought of the elders. She thought of the Mother, who hadn't bothered to save her from Elder Garrett. She thought of her own family, who'd given her up. No one could truly make her safe, and maybe now she was close enough to get Conor to renegotiate without actually hurting him. Maybe she could convince him to change. He'd already changed so much with her. She'd never felt secure anywhere in her world. Could she really kill the only person who might have the key to the freedom she wanted so badly for herself and Aeoife?

She dropped the dagger and brought her hand to Conor's shoulder. He pulled her into a kiss that stole her breath as he moved faster.

"Conor," she moaned.

"Mother slay me! I'm going to lose it if you say my name like that," he grunted.

His movements became more frenzied. He pushed her knees up higher and slid deeper, and she groaned so loudly she worried the whole keep would hear her. She didn't understand what was happening, but for once, her lack of control felt good.

She hooked an arm around Conor's neck and drew him close as all the tension in her body broke. Her back arched, and she cried out. Conor kept moving until he grunted, shuddered, and collapsed with his head tucked into her neck.

They lay together, panting, in silence.

"I don't know what you were so worried about. I feel fine," Rowan whispered. "Actually, I feel incredible." Her body buzzed pleasantly in the wake of her climax, and all her limbs felt heavy and relaxed.

Conor laughed and kissed down her neck. "I don't think you appreciate the amount of restraint it took to be gentle like that." He rolled to the side, propping himself on an elbow. He brushed his fingers over her collarbone. "Do you feel different?"

Rowan shook her head. "Not really, just pleasantly sleepy."

Conor smiled. His smiles were rare, but that was part of their beauty, and Rowan found herself chasing them more and more.

His gaze trailed over her body, frowning. "Are you sore?"

"Just a little bit." She followed his gaze and, for the first time, felt the blood sticky on her inner thighs. She knew to expect it, but it was still startling.

"I'll draw you a bath so you can clean up."

She grabbed his arm and curled into him. "Just relax for a moment."

He seemed to sense what she needed. She wasn't sure if it was the magic or just his experience, but he pulled her close, tucking her against his chest, and kissed the top of her head.

"I'd nearly forgotten what it's like," he whispered after a long silence.

"Sex?" Rowan asked, trying to contain her surprise.

"Yes. It's been a long time."

All at once, the puzzle pieces clicked together in Rowan's mind. "Goddess above! You never slept with Orla?"

Conor shook his head. "We were friends, but I never took her to bed."

"Then why did she change to red?"

"She asked, and I gave her my blessing."

Rowan propped herself on an elbow. "Then why wouldn't you let me?"

He stroked her cheek. "Oh, my lovely, fiery little Red. It's quite complicated."

"Wait, if you didn't sleep with Orla, that means—" Her mind spun wildly.

It meant that Evelyn was the last Red Maiden he'd taken to bed. She'd written extensively about it in her journals. Evelyn had been a little bit in love with the Wolf, but unless Rowan had missed something major, it was a short-lived affair, and she spent the next few years of her service being bitter. No wonder she hadn't been kind to Orla and Rowan. They were the next in line to win over the god Evelyn was in love with.

"Yes, it means I haven't been with anyone in many years," Conor sighed. "If I was a better god, I wouldn't have taken you, but I'm not. Now let me draw you a bath because I may have had enough tincture to hold on to control, but I can't keep laying next to you when you smell like blood and sex and dessert. I've already stretched myself as far as I can for one evening."

Rowan tried to hide her disappointment, but Conor knew what she felt now, so there was no point.

Conor laughed as he kissed her cheek. "Settle now, lass. Who knew you'd be so insatiable?"

As he made his way to the washroom, she tucked the dagger under her pillow and prayed that she'd made the right choice not to use it.