He had a point there. News media speculation had her as psychic artist or bait, but so far they didn’t have her face or know she’d nearly been a victim.
“We’ll follow you,” she told the captain.
“Soon or there won’t be any point in coming to the hospital.”
“I’ve made you a promise,” Eamon said. “I’ll see that it’s kept.”
Both the captain and Parker stiffened, as if hearing more in Eamon’s words than she did. And then she stiffened too, wondering what he’d said to them before returning to the bedroom to tell her they were waiting.
The moment they left the room Eamon said, “I mean to keep you safe, from yourself if necessary and by whatever means are required. Ignorance is deadly, Etain. You cannot remain so any longer.”
More words followed, spoken in what must be the language of magic, what water and fire would sound like if they had a voice. She felt as if some barrier was being brought down, saw it in a sudden luminescence, not surrounding Eamon but emanating from him, making him otherworldly, breathtaking in a way that was more than heart-stopping gorgeous or beautifully handsome, in a way that was beyond compelling, reminding her of tales of the shining folk, the stories her mother used to whisper to her at bedtime, or sometimes as they traveled by bus, leaving old names behind and taking up new ones.
What the fuck,” Cathal murmured, but there was reluctant awe there, unwilling appreciation.
Eamon took her unresisting hand and carried it to his face, using the back of her knuckles to push the golden waves of hair aside to reveal a pointed ear tip. Her heart skipped a beat then raced wildly, denial swelling in anticipation of what came next, though it didn’t prevent him from saying, “You’re on the cusp of change, Etain. This is what you’ll be, if you survive.”
Somehow she spoke through the throbbing pulse at the base of her throat, the words miraculously not sticking to a suddenly dry tongue in an equally dry mouth. “Guess I’d better learn the Vulcan salute then.”
“Elf, Etain.” Said with just enough edge to dare her to face and accept the truth, to warn against denial or deflection.
And oh yeah, the temptation was there to do both of those. But she was no fool to think she could either run or escape from herself, not with all that had happened to her since meeting Eamon.
“Lord,” she said, as if tentatively picking up a pebble in a streambed lined with them.
The gesture relaxed Eamon. His expression softened. “Yes, this is my territory. Among supernaturals, you hold what you claim, or you lose it.”
“And I’m one of those things you claim? I think I already warned you I wouldn’t become one of your possessions.”
“Not a possession, Etain. You’ll be my wife-consort.”
“Will I?”
“Don’t pick a fight you can’t win. And ultimately won’t want to.”
“And Cathal?”
Eamon shrugged. “A complication, in many, many ways. But if you mean, what about your human lover’s bold declaration he intends to marry you? I have no objection to it.”
“Big of you,” Cathal said, the distinct growl in his voice warning things were about to escalate.
She squeezed Cathal’s hand in a request to remain calm though her own vanished when Eamon said, “Everything changes as of now, Etain.”
The edict scraped over nerve-endings made raw at having just experienced her father and brother’s disapproval. “We’ll see.”
“The outcome is a foregone conclusion.”
“Says
“Yes.”
“We don’t have time for this. We need to get to the hospital.”
Liam stepped into the room as if her comment had summoned him. Seeing Eamon, his appearance changed too in a shimmer of magic. Sheer human beauty slipped away to leave him radiant and shining, breathtaking even without the pointed ear tips visible through the long braids of hair.
Eye candy. That’s what she’d thought each time she’d stepped into Aesirs and seen the men working there. Now she knew differently.
Demonstration apparently completed, Eamon reworked whatever spell he’d brought down. In a blink he looked human again. An instant later, so did Liam.
She could feel Cathal’s fierce need to escape, to step back into some semblance of normalcy. Fear trickled in, her own worry he’d change his mind and take back the
“Let’s go,” she said.
Eamon’s grip prevented her from standing. “Liam, my third, will accompany you without making his presence known unless it’s necessary. He’s capable of keeping you safe from threats you wouldn’t recognize.”
“From other…?” She couldn’t quite bring herself to say Elves.
“Elves are not the only supernatural beings in existence.”
It gave her pause, but she forced herself to focus on the most urgent. “What makes you think I’m in danger? I’ve lived in San Francisco since I was eight and as far as I can tell, you’re the only…person…who’s noticed me.”
Eamon’s smile made her think of the thin blade of a knife. “Because of your ill-advised promise, those answers will have to wait. Liam will accompany you to the hospital. When you have finished there, he will bring you back to the estate, where you will remain, for your own safety, until you have transitioned from changeling to full Elf and have learned what you need to know of our culture.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Refusal is not an option.”
“Fuck that, Lord Asshole,” Cathal said. “We’re out of here.”
Cathal’s fury burned hot while she wrestled with what to make of a lover turned icy dictator, though she was equally resistant to Eamon’s casual assumption of total control. She stood, Cathal rising at the same time, her eyes meeting Eamon’s, heated with an unspoken promise of absolute resistance to taking orders. “We’re leaving now.”
“Have you considered what might happen to him if you die? Or worse, and let me assure you, there are far worse things than being killed outright.”
No other emotion could be sustained in the icy encasement of fear. “Why should anything happen to him if I die?” But she had only to glance down at the arms now encircling her waist, to see the tattoos she’d placed on Cathal and feel the ever-present hum of connection to know how Eamon would answer the question.
He moved in, expression tender rather than arrogant, and because of it she didn’t try to evade his touch, or resent the possessive, assured way he once again cupped her cheek, his thumb feathering across her lips.
“I am not accustomed to explaining myself,” he said in the same soft tone he’d used earlier, in explaining his use of a spell against her.
“Get used to it, Eamon.” Rough against his soft.
“Perhaps it will be necessary to some extent.”
Not exactly a whole-hearted embracement, but then she probably couldn’t expect one from
“His fate is linked to yours, Etain. With enough study, I could
