Saoirse's blood dances with iron and trickery, a secret that is no longer sheathed, nor hers to keep.
When Saoirse's cunning and charade is torn asunder by her very own hands, she finds herself in a precarious peril, fighting to salvage her life an...
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CHAPTER THREE
THE AIR HUMG SOLEMN, settling heavily on Saoirse's shoulders—like a blanket crocheted of wrath. The darkness beyond her pewter eyes had never been so grasping or vicious. Unlike the indigo that painted the night sky, the darkness that permeated her vision was not ripe with brilliance. Even the silence didn't kindle any fleeting shimmers of color, and the longer she stood under the scrutiny of The Alder King, the more disquieting it grew.
She refused to fidget under his scrutiny. Her fingers remained unknitted at her sides, nails curling against the fabric of her gown. A slight wind scuttled through the air, lifting a strand of hair that whipped across her cheek.
"Daughter of Spring," The Alder King's voice arose like a curl of smoke, lush as velvet. There wasn't an ounce of emotion—of any sort—hidden in its falsely-tranquil depths. It smoothed across her porcelain skin like the most intimate of caresses. She drank it deeply, as if imbibing in a draught of violet wine.
"Bastard daughter of Spring," Saoirse amended languidly. "If you wish to address me by my formal title, you might do so appropriately."
Nails clicked sharply against a surface, a hiss rattling from the shadows. The Alder King's ever-loyal companion; a faery of queer proportions. Though she could not see the creature, a smile curved the crimson softness of her mouth, lips peeling back in something akin to a smile. Her Ironsong throbbed heavily in her veins, dragging achingly with a melody only beautiful to her ears.
"How is it you have freed yourself?" The Alder King's voice didn't alter.
"Coyness does not suit you, my King." Saoirse nearly laughed, shoulders lifting on a shrug. "That is not your true question. You wish to know what I will do now that I am free, do you not?"
"You fail to realize your insolence does not redeem yourself in my eyes," The Alder King's drawl was silky and so frightfully icy, it stole Saoirse's breath from her lungs.
Saoirse canted her head, hair rustling across her shoulders and spilling like a satin cloak across her shoulder. "I was not aware I was seeking redemption."
Something stirred on the wind--a dark ripple of laughter. It wisped along Saoirse's skin. "Then what is it you come here for, Saoirse, Bastard daughter of Spring?" The Alder King spat her name as if it was vile, and atrocious in taste.
Saoirse.
He had uttered her name. Even in such a reviled tone, it had sounded melodious and dulcet--if only because it was she he referred to. Further, Saoirse realized dazedly, she had felt no sense of compellment on his tongue. Saoirse's mouth parted slightly, but she fought to keep her thoughts from being written on the soft curves, sharp arches, and gentle slopes of her face.
