Page 104 of Onyx Cage: Volume II

She refused to look me in the eye. Her cheeks and neck were flushed. From sleep? From embarrassment? Something else?

I swallowed, remembering every detail from last night with stark clarity. Each kiss, each caress of her fingers against my skin. The small sounds of pleasure she made as I tasted her neck.

“Besides,” she said a moment later, “you have your stag hunt this morning, so my cousins are sure to come barreling in at any moment.”

I was sure she was right, though I wasn’t quite ready to let her go yet. But as I parted my lips to ask her—I wasn’t sure what—she sneaked through the passage door, closing it behind her with a gentle click.

My brow furrowed, but another knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts. Instead of the maid’s voice, though, this time it was the overly cheerful tones of Davin and Gallagher that sounded behind the frame.

“We’ll take that, thank you very much.” Davin sounded far too awake for the hour.

“Has he come back from sparring yet?” Gallagher asked in a more subdued tone, though neither waited for an answer before barging into my room.

Davin narrowed his eyes, glancing between the red imprint of Rowan’s face on my chest and the rumpled bed behind me.

Der’mo.

Before either of them could make a comment, I threw on my shirt and shifted the focus to Davin instead.

“You’re awfully chipper for someone who had to be carried home by Lady Gwyn last night.”

A shadow passed over his features, but it was Gallagher who answered.

“I brought him a tonic,” he said evenly. “After all, a day of bonding with your father-in-law is bound to be its own sort of fun. I didn’t think you’d want a whiny, hungover Dav to add to it.”

Davin stared at him, mouth half-full of the cinnamon bun he pilfered from my breakfast tray.

“I am a delight, I’ll have you know. Sober, hungover, or three sheets to the wind. Just ask my mother.”

I rolled my eyes as they continued their back and forth while I dressed for the hunt.

When I was finished, I added a bow and quiver of arrows to my back in lieu of my sabers. It felt wrong to leave them behind, but there wasn’t room for both. Instead, I sheathed my new dirk at my side. It would at least offer a modicum of protection, and a stag hunt would be a good way to practice using it before an actual battle. Gallagher seemed to agree with me.

He and Davin both claimed that it was a good weapon for hunting, and a prime way to ingratiate myself with the king—something I hadn’t been too preoccupied with until they mentioned it as a possibility.

As soon as they deemed me ready, we set out for the stables, meeting up with the rest of the family there. The horses were already saddled and ready and the king’s irritable expression had me wondering how long that had been the case.

“Look, Uncle,” Davin said jovially as he climbed atop his horse. “Evander could practically pass as Lochlannian now that he has a proper dirk.”

Despite himself, King Logan glanced at me curiously before looking away again. Oliver and Finn exchanged a look before the latter pointedly cleared his throat.

The king sighed, directing his attention toward me again.

“Aye? Is that so?” He seemed to be forcing the words out in a way that was almost amusing.

Once I was in the saddle, I unsheathed the weapon, silently handing it over. His eyes widened as he examined the black leather handle and the serrated edge. Even if he wanted to, I didn’t think he could have hidden his admiration for the dirk, and—to his never-ending disappointment—me, for owning it.

I debated mentioning that it was his daughter who had chosen it for me, but decided not to pour salt into the open wound that was our relationship.

“It’s a bonnie weapon, lad,” he said, reluctantly handing it back.

“That’s what we told him,” Davin said evenly.

“Just this very morning,” Gallagher chimed in.

I dipped my chin in thanks to the king, choosing to ignore the preening ridiculousness from the two more absurd members of my lemmikki’s family.

The king made a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, before steering his horse toward the road with a grumbling order for us to follow.