by Henry, Jane
I think he’s asleep when I reach the bed. He’s bare from the waist up, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers. I stare at him for a moment, surprised at how peaceful he looks like this, one arm up and over his shoulder, the marks of ink on his arms clearly visible, his eyes closed in slumber. My heart sinks a little. I don’t want him to be asleep yet.
But when I step beside the bed, he opens one eyes. “You’re like a little fairy,” he says. “One of the fae.”
I’ve read enough I know what he means, and it feels like a compliment?
“Oh? How so?”
He folds down a corner of the blanket and pats the bed. It’s oddly welcoming and homey. I slide under the sheets beside him, roll over onto my side, and place my hands under my face. I watch him as he takes in every detail. He sits up, takes the same key that he used to unfasten the cuffs, and unlocks the cool metal collar. Placing it in the drawer beside him, he explains.
“In Irish mythology, the fae, the aos sí, live in underground fairy mounds. The good ones are called our good neighbors, as they dwell in fairy rings and bring peace and protection. They’re mystical and powerful, spreading good will and cheer among those they encounter. And they are stunningly beautiful.”
“I like that,” I say, my hands still tucked under my cheek as I watch him. “I like that a lot. Especially the part about being stunningly beautiful.”
He smiles, both sad and gently, his eyes crinkling a bit at the edges. “This feels like a stolen moment,” he says. “A tryst between lovers.”
Lovers.
“Does it?” I whisper. “And what does… what does a lover do after such a… tryst?”
“Kiss,” he says, reaching for the back of my head and drawing me closer to him. I close my eyes seconds before his lips meet mine.
This. This was what our heated exchange was missing. The intimacy and connection of a moment shared. I sigh when his tongue gently slides past my lips, the heat and warmth of his kiss sending tingles of awareness and pleasure through my limbs.
He pulls his mouth off mine with reluctance, draws my head down, and kisses my forehead. “I’ll sober in the morning and have to deal with the aftermath of my weakness,” he whispers. “But tonight, just for tonight, let me hold you.”
I don’t know what he means, what he refers to, but when he reaches for me, I have no power to stop him. I want this. I want him. I want this togetherness. I didn’t know I was lonely until he filled my world with his presence.
He draws me onto his chest and holds me, breathing in deeply, then exhaling as he tightens his grip around me. He doesn’t release me but holds me for long minutes, then quickly reaches for the covers and tosses them on both of us.
“Sleep, little fae,” he whispers.
So I let him. For tonight. Just for tonight… I let him hold me. I fall asleep to the sound of his slow, rhythmic breathing.
Chapter Fifteen
Keenan
I wake with the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on sleeping beside me, curled up to my chest. Her long, long, black hair hangs down her back in waves of silk, and the purity of her expression gives me momentary pause.
What did I do last night? My head pounds from the drinks I had, my mouth as dry as cotton. Motherfucker. I haven’t had a hangover since I was a fucking teenager. She barely stirs when I sit up and get out of bed. I tuck the blanket back in around her, a sort of pride or maybe joy filling me at the opportunity to take this tender moment of caring for her.
I’ve never cared for anyone before. I’ve protected them. I’ve defended them. I’ve learned and led, listened and spoken. But never have I taken care of anyone, not like this. When my brothers were little, I was off to Saint Albert’s, boarding with Malachy, and not brought back to be with them until I’d been trained in the way of The Clan.
I sit on the edge of the bed, cradling my head in my hands with a smashing headache, and reach for my phone.
“Pain relievers,” I croak into the phone when Sebastian answers.
“Sending them up, captain,” he says. “And drink what I send you as well.”
He’s no fool. He knows why I’m hungover and will help me relieve my misery.
I hang up the phone, when I feel gentle hands on my back.
“Are you okay, Keenan?”
“Hungover, lass, but I’ll be fine.”
“You said last night that you would be.”
“Did I?”
I don’t remember. Fucking hell.
“Yes,” she says softly, looking up at me with those wide eyes that steal my heart with every flutter of her lashes. “You said you’d deal with the aftermath today. And here you are. I’m sorry, I wish I could help.”
Is the girl that innocent that she thinks my headache is the aftermath I referred to? Jesus.
I get to my feet and head to the shower. “I’ll have food sent up,” I tell her. I want to crawl beneath the covers and hold her again, as if she’s my talisman against the work that I do, the demons I wrestle. But I can’t lose my edge, my focus.
“Get up and ready. You can shower after me.”
I ignore the look of hurt on her face and get clean clothes from my dresser, when my phone rings.
“Yeah?”
“The body was disposed of, sir.”
Tully.
“Well done, Tully. Any blowback?” I need to know if the man we killed last night was missed by anyone. If we should brace for retribution.
“Nossir. Seems some were happy to be rid of him, truth be told.”
“Aye. Well done, you. We’ll call a meeting later today to discuss what happened, and my plans for the school this afternoon.”
“Yessir.”
We disconnect the call, and I head to the shower. I take a steaming hot one, but even the scalding water isn’t enough to cleanse me, to rid me of what haunts me. Angrily, I shut the water off and head back to the room. Caitlin’s sitting at the desk, a book in hand, dressed in a dainty pink dress. She doesn’t even look up when I enter the room.
I don’t speak to her when I dress. I answer the door when our food and my medicine arrive, and point to the tray I slide in front of her.
“Eat,” I order.
Without looking at me, she obeys. She butters her scone and eats it with her hot cup of tea, following it with a bowl of fruit, and eggs with sausage. Her eyes stay on her plate, as she effortlessly eats the entire meal, then pushes her tray to the side and picks up her book again.
“Caitlin.” My voice is stern and sharp, but she doesn’t flinch.
She looks back up to me. “What?”
My hands clench. “Is that the correct way to speak to me?”
Pursing her lips, she corrects herself. “No, sir. What is it, sir?”
“Why so narky, lass?”
“Narky, sir? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Cranky. Out of sorts.” I know why, but I want to hear her say it. Women don’t handle hot and cold well, and clearly, my little fae’s no exception.
She shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“The truth, please.”
She hasn’t learned the art of deception, or how to hide her feelings. She wears her heart on her shirtsleeve, her eyes mirrors to her soul as wide as the Irish Sea.
She takes in a deep breath, and to my horror, her lower lip trembles when she speaks. “Well…” she begins, exhaling on a sigh. “I don’t like feeling like I’m someone special one minute, then nothing at all special the next. It’s really as simple as that.”
I blink. Though I expected truth, this still takes me by surprise.
“I see. And when you—” but I’m cut short when a knock comes at the door. I hold a finger up for her to wait a minute. She shrugs. Where else is she going to go? She picks up her book.
I answer the door to my mother standing there holding a bottle of Nurofen, a bottle of a sports drink, and an expression of utter disdain.
“Caught Sebastian on the way up,” she says, her
lips pursed. “And don’t let yer father know you’ve been on the lash and got yourself hungover like a damn schoolboy.”
My mother rarely lectures, but she’s spot on this time. I grunt, take the meds down and swig the drink.
“Hello, Mrs. McCarthy,” Caitlin says pleasantly.
My mom’s eyes widen, and she smiles, walking into the room. “Hello, sweet Caitlin,” she greets. “What’s the story?”
Caitlin’s brow furrows. “The story?”
My mother laughs out loud. “Means how are ya, lass.”
“You Irish have many… peculiar expressions,” Caitlin says.
“She don’t know the half of it,” I mutter, and mam smacks my arm.
“Keenan, you said you wanted to talk.”
“In private,” I tell her, ignoring the look of hurt on Caitlin’s face. “Later this evening, aye?”
“Aye,” my mother says.
She takes her leave and I depart with reluctance, kissing Caitlin’s pretty cheek and giving her a few things to do in my absence. “Stay here until I return.” She remains aloof and reserved. She doesn’t look up from her book when I leave. It unsettles me.
The lass is innocent. But who is she? Why am I allowing this pure, unblemished woman, someone who could bring destruction to us all, to infiltrate my mind, and dare I say, my heart?
When I’m done with work, I see my mother by the garden, her favorite haunt. Perhaps we can talk earlier than this evening. But when I draw near, I hear a familiar laugh. I pause mid-step, the door to my car still open, when I hear it again.
Is that Caitlin? In the garden?
I slam the door to my car and march off to the garden. And there she is, picking flowers and gathering them to her breasts, her hair pinned back in plaits, adorned with flowers.
Christ.
For one brief moment I imagine her just like this, but she wears a dress of white, her pretty feet bedecked in delicate ballet slippers. She holds my arm as I march her down the aisle and take my vows before my brothers. Before everyone. I shake my head. I’m dreaming like a goddamn schoolboy.
“Keenan!” Mam greets as I draw near. “Fancy you coming home early.”
“Didn’t expect it then, did you?” I ask severely, my anger at having been disobeyed directed at both of them. The lass will be punished for this, and not the type of punishment that ends with her climaxing.
“Who gave you permission to set foot out of that room, Caitlin?”
“I did.” I turn in surprise to see my father coming up behind me, his stern, immovable expression giving me pause. What the hell is this? I look into the eyes that mirror my own, trying to seek understanding.
“She had strict orders from me not to leave the room,” I begin. “She was not to—”
“Keenan, listen to me.” My father interrupts, his voice lowering as he approaches. He waves a hand at mam and Caitlin. “You girls carry on while I have a word with Keenan.”
Caitlin’s eyes briefly skirt to mine, then away again, as my mother gets her attention. She’s troubled about her disobedience and worried about my reaction. Good.
“I’ve good reason, son, and I’m sorry if it seems I undermined you in any way.”
Well, then. This is new. My father rarely apologizes, and certainly’s never had any concern about undermining me. The time for me to take the throne is near. He’s abdicating authority to me already, even on the day he’s allowed her to defy me.
I stand and cross my arms, casting a glance from him back to Caitlin and mam.
“Alright,” I tell him. “Let’s hear it.” My tone is brisk, but he looks at me almost placatingly, as if begging my forgiveness. Something in me softens toward him, at this hardened man who’s taught me right from wrong. He’s aging, and it shows.
“I questioned your mother today about what she knew,” he begins, his voice low so only I can hear. “Came clear as day she knew Caitlin’s mother. Finn’s admitted he knew of the pregnancy and condoned the birth, aye?”
“Aye.”
“And said that Caitlin’s mother was thought to have killed herself.”
I nod, agreeing again.
“I’ve asked your mother for more information, and Father Finn as well. I’ve spent the afternoon looking through records, piecing things together.”
“What’d you find?”
“Caitlin Martin was betrothed to Ouen O’Gregor, in the north. Their marriage was to bring an alliance to two rival clans, but she went to Boston on college break, and lost contact with your mam. Word was that she’d killed herself, but we know now that wasn’t the truth. She was pregnant, and Father Finn avoided war between The Clans by hiding the child.”
If The Clans knew she’d been knocked up by another man other than her betrothed, there would’ve been hell to pay, no question.
“Caitlin. And why did Anderson spy on us, then?”
“My theory’s that he did it to keep an alliance with the Martins. If they knew he had a girl that belonged to them by birth, related by blood, they’d kill her. Martin’s another daughter of his own, now, and Caitlin’s birth would complicate things.”
I nod slowly. Christ, but it makes sense.
“So Anderson spied on us as a way to form a truce with the Martins. If he was their informant, he’d have some sway.”
“Looks like.”
I look at the girl, twirling violets in her hair with the innocence of a child.
“What the fuck am I to do with the girl, then?”
My father doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Well isn’t it obvious, son?” He shakes his head, as if he’s given me a mathematical equation with an obvious answer. Two plus two is four.
“Níl leigheas ar an ngrá ach pósadh,” he says in guttural Gaelic. I frown at him. I know the expression well.
There is no cure for love other than marriage. The only way to solve the troubles of being in love is to marry someone.
In love? I’m not in love with the girl. I barely know her.
I look at him curiously.
He shakes his head. “Christ, Keenan. Marry the lass. If you’re married, Martin can’t touch her, even if he does find out who she is and how she got here.”
He says it almost casually, as if he didn’t just suggest changing the entire course of my life.
He scrubs a hand through his short gray hair, looking older than I’ve ever noticed before. “Keenan, you’ve taken her into our custody. If Martin catches wind, he’ll consider this in act of war.”
“Bloody hell.” I shake my head. He’s right. I can’t believe I haven’t thought of that myself. She’s his blood relative, for Christ’s sake, and my taking her here against her will would be an act of war, firing the first shot as it were.
But marry her?
“The girl isn’t going to want any part of marrying me. For Christ’s sake, she’s an innocent.”
“Son, in order for you to assume the throne as chief, you know you need to marry. Of that there’s no question.”
“Aye.”
“Rules state she’s to be of Irish descent, and that’s also clear now. Her mother was Irish, she’s of Irish descent.”
We’ve detailed history of relations of mine as well, so I know there isn’t a chance her mother hooked up with any of my own relatives either, thank Christ.
“Mother of God,” I mutter. If I marry her, I’ll be able to assume the throne as Clan leader. I’ll protect her against any retaliation with the Martins. “If done right, we can actually form an alliance with the Martins over this.”
“Aye.”
I watch her walk in the garden, holding out a cluster of violets to my mother.
“Don’t think too deeply on this, son. In our family and line of work, marriage for the sake of convenience is the norm.”
“I know it.” Christ, don’t I. But how can I tell him what I fear? That touching a woman like her with my blood-stained hands, that defiling her, will be the very thing that damns my soul to hell? She’s too good for the
likes of me. Too fucking good.
“Think on it. Ask counsel of those you trust. Then do what you must.”
Again, deferment to my authority where none existed before. A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow both pride and emotions when I nod.
“Aye.”
“Go,” my father says. “Make an honest woman out of her. And tell me what you need.”
His phone rings, and he goes to answer it. I stand in the garden, looking at Caitlin and my mother, and for the first time in a long time, the first time in years, the first time in, God, ever? Hope rises in me.
Marry her.
My mother comes to me, but Caitlin holds back. She pretends to stoop to pick something up, but I know she’s fearful of coming to me. She knows she disobeyed.
“Caitlin,” I say sternly, crooking my finger at her. Now that I know she’s to be mine, I feel the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. The obligation to ensure she obeys me, that she learns her rules of The Clan for her own safety. That she knows she’s my very special girl, and that I’ll not let a hair on her head be harmed. Her wide eyes look up at me with apprehension.
“Yes?” she asks, her gaze quickly flitting to my mother’s, as if wondering if my mother can shield her from me. I feel a corner of my lips quirk up. How adorable. She absolutely cannot.
“Come here.” My mother looks from Caitlin to me, then back again.
“Now, Keenan,” she begins. “Your father and I—”
I hold up my hand for her to stop. “I know it,” I say to her. “That doesn’t change the fact that I gave her an instruction, and she’s to obey me.”
“It does, though, son,” my mother begins. “Just listen to reason—”
“She’s my charge,” I say to my mother. “And as such, she’ll do as I say.”
It’s essential I draw the boundaries where necessary and show myself to be a trustworthy, respectable, and honorable leader. “Now come here, lass.”
Her eyes unwavering, she walks to me, her steps as light as feathers. When she reaches me, I slide my hand to the back of her neck and give her a gentle squeeze. I watch as her eyes flutter closed, she breathes in, then she lets her breath out again.
