Once Upon a Time

by LA Knight

Wolves in human skin. A Beast and a lost maiden. A sanctuary in a storm. A prince of Elven blood. Sacrifices, debts, honor, & oaths. Ten long, beautiful years, and all the stories that fall within. A collected fic series; currently on book 13. Updates when I can because hey it's a pandemic. Early access available on Patreon.

72. Frayed at the Ends, They Break

Author's Note: So guess what, everybody? So first my power went out yesterday for six hours. Luckily, we had bottled water that wasn't in the fridge, and our cats had water, or we'd have been in trouble. As it was, no AC, and it was over a hundred degrees. Then my apartment complex tried to jerk us around when we tried to pay our rent. And I found out this book that SUCKS now has a sequel. Grrrrr…. So LA is having a baaaad week.

To make up for this, here's chapter 72! Hope you all enjoy.

Concerning the Chapter Title: the title is paraphrased from "Beautiful Disaster" by Kelly Clarkson.

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Chapter Seventy-Two

Frayed at the Ends, They Break

that is

A Short Tale of Realization, Tenderness, Forgiveness, More Memories, Regaining Calm, Understanding, Confessions, and the King's Words

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"Someone…Dylan, someone put a spell on us."

Dylan fought the shivers of cold and fading fear that ripped through her, fought the strange blurriness still fuzzing her thoughts, and tried to focus on Nuada. That xanthous gray of despair and grief in his eyes morphed into molten copper fury washed with scarlet hatred. He fairly vibrated with rage.

"A…a spell?" She echoed. She couldn't process what Nuada was telling her. His eyes settled reluctantly on her face. Infuriated, crimson-stained bronze faded back to graying gold again.

"I make no excuses, my lady," Nuada whispered. He was careful not to touch her. Careful not to shift even a centimeter closer. "Spell or not, it doesn't matter. I have broken my word and my honor. I…" The confession rasped out of him. "I am ashamed."

"Nuada…" She reached for him. He jerked back from the touch. "It…it's not your fault."

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Fixed his gaze on the dewy grass. "My lady, if you would allow me…if you could find it in yourself to permit me to…to see to your injuries? I know you're hurt. I can feel your pain, and the sting of blood is on the air. The thorns…I…or would you rather I send for a healer?"

A thousand thoughts flashed through her mind. If he fetched a healer, the king would find out what had happened. The same if she left the garden looking this way: hair mussed, clothes disheveled, tears and smudged makeup staining her face. Green stained her gown from the grass, no doubt. Thorns had ripped the silk and velvet. What would her guards do if she walked out looking like this? What would they think? What would they tell the king?

The king would hurt Nuada and maybe do something to her. Send her back to the human world, separate her from Nuada, leave her vulnerable to her enemies, leave him vulnerable to the king. People would think terrible things, they would see her and they would condemn her...

Whore...whore...

She shivered again. Hugged herself against the aching cold. Wasn't it supposed to always be summer in this garden? Why was she so cold?

"My lady?" Such uncertainty in that voice. Nuada looked at her now. Looked at her, and she saw the fear behind his eyes. Fear that she would turn against him for this. Fear she would recoil from him again. "Dylan?"

It was up to her now. An odd clarity stole over her as she realized that. Nuada had called her out of the swirling abyss of her memories yet again, calling her with love and despair and the terror that he'd done something to her that could never be undone. He'd given her his strength to return to the real world. Even knowing that once she came back, she might turn on him for what he'd done, he'd pulled her from the maelstrom of fear and slashing echoes of the past. Now he offered himself, certain that despite all he'd done—and all he hadn't—she would tear away from him, never to return.

She didn't want to. She just wanted him to comfort her. Hold her. She just wanted a few moments of peace. The need for it settled in the pit of her stomach like an ache. But there was no time just yet.

"I think," Dylan whispered, "I'm stuck." She tilted her head forward a little. Thorns caught and pulled her hair, her gown. The exposed portion of her back and shoulders. Pain sang through her body. Fresh blood ran. "Can you help me?"

He moved as slowly as time often crawled. His hands shook, but his touch was gentle as he unhooked the vicious thorns from her braids, from velvet and silk. From the still-bleeding cuts in her skin. The golden chain woven into her braids and the one about her throat were carefully extricated from both mortal and thorn. She nearly choked on salt and gratitude that he was so very gentle when she trembled so close to breaking.

When she was finally free, crimson blood smeared his fingers.

Moving as if afraid of bleeding to death, Dylan stood on shaky legs and sat at the small garden fountain. The laces at the back of her gown remained undone. Nuada glimpsed pale flesh marred by tiny ribbons of scarlet so dark it was nearly black in the moonlight. Loathed himself for the spike of hot lust that speared him.

"I…I don't think…" Dylan bit her lip. "Um. I think I should try to…to calm down a little before we leave. Uaithne and the others…they…they won't understand. And people…if people saw, they might talk. You'd get in trouble. They might..." Might do something to her. Words carried power in Faerie. Any vicious bit of gossip could hurt her, maybe even kill her. And him. The wrong words in the wrong ears, the wrong ideas in the wrong heads...It could be the end of them both.

Nuada came toward her. Stopped a few paces away. "If…if that is so," he said, choosing his words with care, "then would I be permitted the privilege of tending your hurts, Lady Dylan?" His voice was empty and formal. Only a slight tremor beneath the words gave anything away. "You needn't fear my control. Now I know of the spell, I can resist it. But your wounds need to be cleaned. May I?"

She nodded without speaking. She'd run out of words for now. She had to brace herself for what was to come now.

Nuada sat on the wide rim of the fountain behind Dylan. Pulled a cambric handkerchief from his pocket. A touch of magic cleansed the fountain's water so it was safe to touch open wounds. Nuada wet the handkerchief.

"I need to move the material aside a little," the prince murmured. "If I may." Dylan nodded again. When callused fingers pulled velvet aside, revealing a bleeding shoulder blade, Dylan couldn't bite back a whimper. Nuada's hand stilled. "It's all right," he said, voice strained. "Don't be afraid. Please don't be afraid." He touched wet cambric to one of several deep, bloody scratches. Cleaned away a little blood.

Dylan folded her arms tight against her stomach and chest to keep the gown from slipping down her shoulders. As Nuada wiped away the crimson smearing her scratched skin, she pressed her arms harder and harder against her body. Nuada kept speaking soft words of reassurance. It was the only thing that kept her from bolting as sick shame, simmering fury, and the dull thud of panic pulsed under her skin.

The Elven warrior ground his teeth. Shoved down the lust razoring through him at the sight of Dylan's bare back. Even the sight of blood and scratches and old scars did nothing to cool the smoldering need. It was the spell, he knew. The one aspect of it that didn't quail beneath the power of an Elven royal. The compulsion-aspect of the spell wasn't gone, either, but his power kept it subdued enough that he could ignore it. Not so with the part of the spell fueling his desire. Sheer strength of will kept him from giving into that. Thank the gods he knew what it was.

Branwen's Tears. Someone, somehow, had touched him with gancanaugh poison. Had laid spells on him then, as well. Spells, plural.

One had hidden the physical hunger from him, suppressed it for a time, giving the venom enough time to seep into his skin so that it couldn't be washed away. Suppressing it to allow it to intensify until the sexual yearning was almost painful. That aspect could've been worse, he knew. There was no pain for him, as there had been for Dylan. Just that almost-pain, which centuries of iron self-control enabled him to ignore.

The second spell had been a compulsion spell. Enchantment to seduce him into ignoring his instincts, his better judgment. An ensorcelled net drawing him deeper into the miasma of poisonous lust. Turning his thoughts away from promises made. Making him forget the honor that bound him, shielded him.

Whoever had dared lay such enchantment on him would die. Slowly. As Westenra had died, drowning in blood and screams. Whoever had tricked him into doing this…into desecrating this sacred place, into terrorizing and hurting Dylan…He would rip them apart with his bare hands if that was what it took. He would shatter them and grind their bones to dust. He would. As soon as he took care of his lady, and as soon as he figured out who had laid those spells on him in the first place.

Only a king could lay a spell on a prince or princess without being detected. Only a few kings had been present at the banquet earlier tonight: the lesser pharaoh of Ubasti, whose power was somewhere between a monarch's and an heir's; Roiben, who was Nuada's friend as well as Dylan's' King Anterion of Mytikas, who'd been Nuada's friend but despised humans as Nuada did, and who no doubt felt betrayed by the fact that the Elven prince loved a mortal; Emperor Huizong, possibly still nursing a disdain for the mortal chosen in place of his daughter; Arawn, also Nuada's friend; Mashkaupeu, who liked humans; the Keeper of the Samhain Tree, who clearly loved Dylan.

And one other. One it hurt to think of, to even consider. Yet consider it Nuada must, because it was a viable concern. What if Balor had done this? What if Balor had arranged this? Everything in Nuada rebelled at the idea, but there was one reason for such an action by his father.

King Balor would feel justified in disowning him, in stripping him of title and rank and power, if the crown prince was found guilty of a crime like rape after everything else that had happened. And Nuada knew his father had lost patience with Dylan refusing—both in subtle ways and openly—to turn against the king's heir. Would the king consider Dylan nothing but a casualty?

"Who do you think did it?"

The words shattered his thoughts like glass. It was the first thing Dylan had said since he'd begun tending her. She still held utterly still. Still breathed in short, shallow breaths. Her voice came brittle, strained.

But she had spoken.

"I don't know, milady. I have theories, but more than one choice stands before me."

"Us," she whispered.

He stopped wiping at the blood. It hurt to breathe. "What did you say?"

"More than one choice stands before us." She drew a deep breath. Blew it out. "We're a team, aren't we?"

The air was icy in his chest, but a tiny ember of warmth kindled in his heart. He swallowed. Squeezed his eyes shut. His hands shook. He ached to hold her to him, but he didn't dare. Not yet.

"Yes," he whispered. He licked his lips and tasted the sweetness of fey tears. "Yes, we're a team."

Dylan finally relaxed a little, the tension draining from her muscles. He wouldn't leave her. He wouldn't drive her away. No one would drag them apart. He would help her stay in Faerie, stay with him. They were a team. She nodded. "Good."

.

Nuada kept his movements slow and gentle as he finished with Dylan's wounds and retied the laces of her gown. Neither of them moved after that. She still hugged herself as if trying to hold herself together. He kept still. Waited. He didn't know what he waited for, but he dared not break the silence that had descended. He couldn't bear to do anything that would break the tenuous truce between them.

Finally, Dylan spoke. "Can you…help me with my hair?" She touched one of her untidy braids. "I might as well just let my hair down. Then people won't notice as much if it's messy."

From years of dealing with his twin's hair, light and fine as spidersilk, he knew how to be careful as he loosed the three braids and trailed his fingers through the dark curls. After several minutes, Dylan's hair hung in a thick midnight cascade down her back. He wanted to touch it, twine his fingers in the softness of it. Didn't dare.

He didn't realize how much she wanted him to. Didn't realize that if he did, if he slid his fingers into her hair the way she ached to feel him do, they would be lost again, the spell and the poison dragging them down together and even the fear and nausea and pain in her couldn't have quashed it all.

But he didn't touch her.

"Do you have another handkerchief?" Dylan whispered. "If I wash my face, it won't be as obvious that I've…"

"That you've been crying," the prince replied hoarsely. He didn't see the fresh shame twisting her face and shadowing her eyes. "Yes. Here." He handed her another. She wet it and with deliberate movements washed the tear-stains and smudged makeup from her face. She drew a breath that shuddered out of her and forced back all the emotions twisting and churning in her stomach. She had to be calm. Monsters preyed on those who couldn't put up a believable mask of well being.

"I think I'm okay now," she said. Remembered belatedly to ask, "Are you okay?"

He said nothing. She twisted to look over her shoulder. Lost her balance. Slipped from her perch on the rim of the fountain. Her back smacked hard against the stone, pain flashing hot and vicious along her spine and across her lower back. She would've hit the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of her, and her head would've smacked against the fountain, but Nuada's swift lunge caught her. His fingers clamped around her wrists. They locked eyes. With exquisite care, he pulled her back up to sit beside him.

"Ow," Dylan mumbled, flexing her wrists. New tears stung her eyes, but she forced them back. It was just a stupid fall. She was fine. There was nothing to cry about. So she forced some lightness into her trembling voice. "My gracelessness knows no bounds; I fell off a fountain. Thanks."

"Are you all right?"

Dylan nodded. Flicked him one wild-shy glance through her hair. "Are you?"

He hesitated. Fought with himself. "I am well enough."

A brush of fingertips against the back of his hand. He sucked in a sharp breath, as if he'd been pierced. "No," she whispered. "No, you're not. What's the matter? Inis dom—tell me." Nuada looked away. A flutter of fresh panic sent nausea rolling through her stomach. What was he hiding from her? What was he thinking? "Please? Tell me what you're thinking so I know what to do."

"You need do nothing, my lady," the prince said flatly. "I deserve no mercy from you."

Calm. She had to be calm. If he sent her away, either to protect her or to punish himself...she couldn't bear that.

What was he thinking about?

Gentle fingers touched his jaw. A soft, inexorable pressure turned his face toward her so that he had no choice but to look into her eyes. The depths of the compassion and love in those eyes nearly undid him. She couldn't look at him that way. Not after what he'd done. She couldn't possibly…

"I've had flashbacks before," Dylan said cautiously. "Why does this one upset you so much? Help me understand."

Why did it upset him? Because he'd betrayed her trust. Desecrated this place, his mother's garden, with his carnal selfishness. Because he'd frightened Dylan so badly that his touch, his voice, had done nothing to pull her from the nightmare of her past. He'd had to call her with his mind in order to bring her out of it. Because her fear had been so great that she hadn't realized the wicked rose thorns were gouging into the vulnerable flesh at her back, drawing tiny trickles of blood. Because he'd told her she was safe, and for the first time, she hadn't believed him. Hadn't been able to believe him.

And most importantly, because when she'd told him no, when she'd pulled away, for just a moment he'd been tempted to ignore her protests. Tempted to kiss her quiet. Tempted to seduce her to the point where she wouldn't have wanted to protest anymore. How much further might he have gone under the influence of that spell? Would he have broken down all resistance with gentle ruthlessness until she was helpless in his arms? Or, if she'd kept struggling, would he have forced her to the ground, clamped a hand over her mouth to silence her screams, shoved her skirts out of his way, and simply taken her like some mindless, rutting animal?

The Tears in his blood stirred the embers of smoldering lust at the thought. Nausea threatened. He shuddered—with disgust or desire, he didn't know, and that sickened him further.

Her hand against his cheek burned through the toxic, molten ice in his blood. "Tell me. Help me understand."

So in a choked whisper, nausea churning like viscous poison in his belly, the Elven warrior confessed everything. And when it was done, he waited for Dylan's condemnation. She had to condemn him. Repudiate him. He wondered if he would shatter when she did, or if it would take time for the full import of that severance to come crashing down on him.

"I love you, Nuada," Dylan whispered, only truth in her voice, and with those four simple words she broke the legendary Silverlance completely. He turned to her fully, almost blindly, and pressed his face against her neck, his arms sliding around her to hold her tight against him. Dylan stroked his hair. Whispered, "Shhh. It's all right. We'll be all right. Together. Shhh. You would never do anything bad to me, Nuada. Spell or no spell. You stopped. Even with that spell riding you, you stopped when I said to stop. You would never hurt me. Shhh. We'll be all right."

"I frightened you," the prince whispered against her shoulder. "You were so frightened. I've never seen you like that. You didn't know me. Your fear…You weren't even that afraid of Eamonn. I've never felt such fear in you, and it was my actions that caused it. You were afraid of me."

"No," she contradicted, desperate for him to understand. "Not of you. It was a flashback. I was reacting to that. Not to you. I'm not afraid of you."

"I betrayed your trust," he insisted. "I tried to…I wasn't thinking of you. Of what I claimed to want for you. Of what you wanted for yourself. I only thought of what I wanted. To touch you. To take. I had no thought for your pleasure; only my own." He lifted his head to meet her eyes. "You deserve better than that from me, my lady. For so much of your life, you 've been used by men who cared only for their own twisted desires. I profess to be better than them, but then I—"

"Don't you dare." She framed his face between her hands. "Don't you dare compare yourself to them. You are nothing like them. This wasn't you. It was an accident. Okay? Granted, we should've been paying more attention. The Spirit warned me and I ignored Him and…and He left me. That's my fault. But the spell was mostly responsible.

"Listen to me," Dylan said when he tried to look away. "Look at me. I love you. I don't blame you for this. You didn't mean to scare me. You didn't know that would happen. And we're both at fault for how far things went. I asked you not to stop, so you didn't. When I did ask you to stop, you did. That's what matters."

He shook his head. "You are too forgiving of my sins. You always have been. You don't understand the depths of my transgression, my lady."

"Nuada—"

The Elven warrior was on his feet, pacing across the dew-laden grass, then back again. His breath rasped in his throat. "Don't you see? You asked me, begged me to stop. And so I did. But I didn't want to."

"That doesn't matter. You did stop."

"It does matter! Shades, Dylan. Don't you understand? For just a moment, I considered not stopping. I thought, 'I can seduce her. I can kiss her, touch her, until she loses the will to say no. I can make her crave my touch so that she never refuses me again, and then she'll be mine.'

"What sort of beast looks at the woman he loves and thinks that if he moves carefully, he can tumble her into bed, willing or no? What kind of monster sees the woman he loves shaking with fear, the scent of her blood on the air, and feels desire so vicious it's nearly despair?" He closed his eyes. Clenched his fists. "All I wanted in that moment was to feel you under me. I didn't care how I got you there. What say you to that?"

"But you didn't, Nuada." He would never put himself first. He would always protect her. Sometimes that truth made her want to scream, sometimes it sent fear cramming down her throat, but now it sent warmth and reassurance through her chest, easing some of the cold fear still hooking its talons in her heart. He was her protector. He couldn't forget that. Couldn't forget how safe he made her feel.

"I wanted to." The despair in his eyes, in his words, left her bleeding afresh from the newly-opened scars on her heart. "I wanted to take you here, now, in this garden. My father was right." He leaned against the trunk of the Fomorian rose tree and let his eyes slide closed. "My father was right."

She was on her feet, jabbing a finger into his chest before he'd registered she'd moved at all.

"No. No! He was so wrong about you. He's wrong about you. You're a good man. Forget your father. Forget everyone else. What about me? Don't you care what I think? Someone basically mind-raped us. Both of us. You're not the monster here. You're the victim, just like me. If you condemn yourself, you condemn me. And I won't let you do that. Even your father can't condemn us for this." He opened his mouth, and she snapped, "If you feel that bad, pray for forgiveness. Always makes me feel better."

The anger cooled a little, leaving smoldering embers behind. Dylan thunked her head against his chest. "You don't get to say that. How dare you say that? After everything you've done for the people around you, after everything you've done for me, how dare you call yourself a monster? How dare you believe that?" She thumped him on the chest with a fist.

"You jerk. You're amazing and incredible and wonderful and I'm so lucky to know you, I love you and you're a good man, d'you hear me? You're one of the best men I know. I am so sick of everyone saying you're not. I'm sick of it. I hate this place! I hate these people! I hate all of this political…stuff. I just want to go home with you so we can be safe. So everyone will leave you alone. Leave us alone! I want to go home." She swallowed a sob. "I hate it here. I just want to go home." Where it was safe. Where she could have her life back. Where she could have him, have her life, and not spend every moment in fear of the Golden Court or the king or their enemies.

Nuada enfolded her in his arms. Felt her melt against him and didn't bother suppressing the utter relief that she would still do that, that she would trust him that way.

"As do I, mo duinne," he confessed. "I long to go home." Back to her cottage. Back to warm memories and the comfort of her just down the hall while he slept. He swallowed hard. Forced himself to say words that twisted inside him like snakes. "I actually think it best if you went home, and I remained here. It would be safer if—"

She wrenched back from him. "What?"

"It would be safer for you, Dylan. Safer to send you away from here. You'll have guards, and I'll rework the wards around the cottage, just in case Eamonn—"

"You want to send me away?" There was no understanding, no gentle compassion in her eyes now. There was only incredulous hurt and a betrayal so deep and fathomless it was like peering into a deep chasm. And fear. Silently screaming fear burning through her. "But…but I didn't…no!" She stepped back. Her hands slid up to her face, and Nuada tensed, waiting for her to cover her eyes in that familiar defensive gesture again. Instead, her fingers tangled in her hair. She whispered, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to panic, it won't happen ag—"

"Dylan—" Shades of Annwn, he didn't want her to apologize! Not for this, of all things.

"Don't go away, you promised. You promised you would…that I could…you want me to leave? I'm sorry, Nuada, please. I won't freak out again, I swear, no matter what you do. I won't flashback, I promise. Just don't send me away." She was trembling again. When he gently grasped her shoulders, she flinched. "Please don't send me away. I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything this time!"

"It would be better for you, Dylan. Safer."

It would be better for you. Her parents' voices in her head. Trying to reassure. Trying to explain why it was all right for her to be sent far away where she would never see them again. Where she would never see her sisters or her friends from school or John. John, her twin. John, her other half. Never see John, not ever again because it was better.

And now Nuada trying to send her away, too. Never see Nuada again. Never see John or Nuada or the children because she was being sent away, far away, where the monsters were, because she'd upset them, upset everyone, and it was better this way, better to send her far, far away…

Dylan's fingers bit into her upper arms until she felt the joints creaking from the strain.

"Don't send me away," she pleaded. Her voice held just a touch of child's terror. Fresh guilt churned in Nuada's stomach. "I'll be better, I promise. I'm sorry, I won't flashback anymore. I won't do anything. Nuada, please don't send me away, I can't, I'll do what you want, I promise."

"Shhh," he soothed, gently tugging her into his arms again. Memory screamed from her eyes. He couldn't bear to see it there. Not again. Despair and fear saturated the very air, leaving it heavy and dark, almost choking. "All right, sweetheart. All right. It's all right. I'll not send you away."

Safer if he did, stars curse it. Safer if he sent her back to the mortal realm with guards instead of allowing her to remain here with him, where he could protect her but also be the greatest danger to her safety. Yet if he sent her away…what would it do to her? How much strain would one more rejection, one more abandonment, put on her? Especially following on the heels of such a brutal flashback?

"Shhh. It's all right. Hush, now. Hush."

"Don't send me away." A quiet, desperate whisper. Her entire body shook with minute tremors. "I'll be good, I promise. I won't do anything bad. Just don't make me leave." She couldn't be alone. The monsters would find her. "Just don't send me away."

He laid his cheek against her hair. "You're not bad." Nuada wished her parents were still alive, so he could kill them himself for these emotional wounds. Filthy human monsters. He yearned to hear their blood singing over Elven silver. "You're one of the best women I know. I would never abandon you, Dylan. You are my lady. My place is at your side. Don't be afraid anymore. Don't be afraid. Hush, now, beloved. It's all right."

"Don't let go. Don't send me away."

"Never," he whispered, stroking her hair. "Never."

.

After a long while, she stopped shaking. Once she was calm enough, once the past no longer held her prisoner, he stepped back to finger-comb the tangled hair from her face. Brushed a caress against her cheek. The gentleness of the gesture belied the turmoil within him. What he'd done to her…what he'd wanted to do to her…gods, it did not bear thinking about. Yet he would have to tell the king. Honor demanded at least that much. But for now, he owed Dylan more. She needed him. Until she no longer did, he would remain at her side.

So with great care he settled her cloak around her shoulders. Donned his own. Offered his arm and held his breath.

Instead of taking his arm in the formal escort's pose, she wrapped both her arms around his. Cuddled close. Her hands were icy through his shirt. He felt her heartbeat thudding so hard it pulsed through her entire body. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder.

"I won't let anything happen to you," Dylan whispered. "I won't let them hurt you for this."

The Elven prince didn't tell her that he, himself, would go before King Balor at first light and make his report before offering himself up to the king's justice. In Faerie, intent was nine-tenths of the law. He'd wanted to hurt her—or rather, hadn't cared if he did. That he hadn't was thanks only to some miracle. He had harmed her in other ways.

Even now, the memory of her terror thickening the night air into noxious poison clogged his throat. For breaking his oath—the oath of the crown prince of Bethmoora—and for all the vicious things he'd wanted to do, had almost done, he would give himself over to his father's mercy.

And if Balor had been the one to cast the spell…Nuada didn't know how that could be, but he could certainly think of reasons why the king would do it. If he went to his father, and his father was the one who'd done this, how much mercy would the king show him? How much of the prince's sentence would be justice and how much would be vindictive cruelty?

Nuada shoved these thoughts aside and prepared himself to step out of the sanctuary of his mother's garden. Once beyond these walls, he would face no-doubt infuriated Butcher Guards. The king. Nuala. How many others?

The door swung open. He stepped out with Dylan.

As he'd expected, the Butchers waited beyond the garden walls, swords drawn. Nuada tensed, but though it spoke against every warrior's instinct, he didn't move to draw his own weapon. Instead, he met Uaithne's glittering eyes.

"Crown Prince Nuada Silverlance," Uaithne said. His voice frosted the bitter winter air. "What—"

"Uaithne," Dylan said softly. Her grip tightened on Nuada's arm. The guard fell silent. "Please. Don't. I can't…just please don't. Okay?"

There was a Moment of Silence. Then the guardsman asked, "Are you all right, milady?"

Dylan shook her head. "Please don't make it worse, okay?"

"Milady…" Uaithne hesitated. "Did the prince—"

Nuada bit back a snarl. It was a valid question, stars curse it. But Dylan shook her head. "Nuada didn't do anything. Please, can we just…can we just go back now?"

The six guards assigned to the mortal offered her the fist-to-chest salute of the Butcher Guards. They stepped aside. After a moment, Nuada's guards stepped aside as well, giving the prince and his lady room to proceed.

Even as Nuada escorted Dylan past the guards and down the path through the royal gardens, he noticed that where once his retinue had included eight guards, now there were only seven. So. One had already been sent to the king, it seemed. Well, enough.

.

Outside the door to Dylan's suite, Nuada caught a page and whispered instructions in his ear while the guards entered the suite to ensure it was safe. The page scuttled off down the hall.

At Uaithne's nod, Nuada and Dylan entered the suite. Found the children sprawled across the furniture in the sitting room, sound asleep. The hounds snored where they stretched out on the floor. The sight of them eased some of the tension in both Elf and mortal.

With softly murmured words, they parted—Nuada to shower, Dylan to take a bath.

She moved almost mechanically. Her thoughts tumbled around in her head, so she ignored them and focused on what she was doing.

Lavender oil. Chamomile bath salts that made the water foam palest violet. Vanilla-scented soap. Shampoo and conditioner with the fragrance of lilacs. She even found fat pillar-candles scented with a combination of aloe, almonds, and lotus, which she lit and placed at different intervals around the tub. All of them soothing scents that would, hopefully, help her relax.

The moment she slid into the bath, the last knots of panic dissolved. She sucked in a breath. Ducked beneath the water. The heat seeped into her body, chasing away the chill. Every muscle loosened. The tension faded.

Beneath the water, tears mingling with the scented bath, only surfacing every now and then to breathe, she opened her heart to the Star Kindler and begged for forgiveness for everything she could've prevented, and asked for His help in healing the wounds caused by everything that had happened that night.

.

In Nuada's suite, the nearly-scalding shower pounded down on his body. He braced both hands against the marble wall and bowed his head beneath the heavy spray, letting his wet hair fall around him in a curtain to hide the rest of the world. He imagined the blood no longer on his hands staining the water with pink swirls. Dylan's blood. He'd washed it off in the fountain, but he could still feel the salt and iron stinging his fingertips.

Nuada closed his eyes.

Perhaps Dylan simply didn't understand how sickened he was by the thoughts running through his mind. Didn't understand how repulsive he found himself, that he could see her in such pain and it did nothing to quiet his lust.

Even now, a part of him still hungered. He couldn't keep his mind away from the silkiness of her skin. If he'd let his hands wander, he might have been able to revel in the softness of her body under his hands. The way her lips had parted for him and he'd finally drunk deeply of-

Enough! His fist slammed into the marble hard enough to send sparks of pain sizzling up his arm. Need burned in his belly.

Snarling under his breath, Nuada made the water ice-cold. Gods, what was wrong with him? Even now, even now, knowing she was so shaken, knowing one wrong move would send her spiraling back into dark memories, he couldn't stop thinking about her. Wanting her. Why wouldn't it stop?

He let his forehead touch the cool marble. Didn't flinch as water stabbed down on him like icy needles, cooling his ardor a little. He closed his eyes. Drew a shuddering breath. Help me to do what it is right, he prayed, though he was unsure if anyone heard him. Help me do what I must, for my honor and for her. Help me be the man she sees when she looks at me. How can I protect her if I am the greatest danger? How can I be the one she turns to if I am most likely to do her harm? Please…please. Help me. Help me to be worthy of her forgiveness. Help me protect her. Help me to be as I must for her and for my people. Help me regain my honor. Please.

An odd sense of peace settled over him. The guilt remained, gnawing viciously as a starving wolf, but a soft peace soothed it a little and helped dim his ardor. Nuada kept his eyes closed and allowed the water to warm again as the carnal desire slowly, slowly faded.

Once out of the shower, dried and half-dressed, he combed his hair in front of the fireplace. It didn't take long, so once the knots had been combed out, he kept going to give his hands something to do. Finally finished, he donned a soft wool-silk shirt. Straightened the collar. Swallowed. Acknowledged he was being a coward and stalling. What would he find when he walked into Dylan's room? Would she have come to her senses and repudiated him by then?

Nuada drew a breath. Knocked on the door joining his bedroom to Dylan's. Heard his lady's voice, muffled by the carved rowan wood, saying, "Enter."

Fionnlagh opened the door. Nuada was surprised when the guardswoman didn't challenge him as Uaithne had, but merely bowed and gestured to where Dylan lay curled up on her massive bed, staring at nothing. The prince said not a word as the guards shuffled out of the room. Only when they were gone, the door shut firmly behind them, did Nuada stride to Dylan's bedside and kneel before her.

She wore a black undertunic with capped sleeves—a common pajama top for her, since magic and the fire on the hearth warmed the room—as well as loose sleeping pants and no socks. One slender arm stretched across the blue velvet coverlet. The other curled tight to her chest.

Topaz eyes took in the sight of blue and purple bruises marring the pale skin of her upper arms and delicate wrists. A vicious bruise painted part of Dylan's throat in rust, dusty blue and violet. When she shifted, a couple inches of too-pale flesh showed above the waist of her pajama bottoms, and stark against that flesh were purple smudges. A cut graced her cheekbone.

Nuada felt sick. Had he done that to her?

He took Dylan's hand in his. Pressed it to his lips. "Forgive me," he whispered against her fingers. "I know I don't deserve it, but please, Dylan, forgive me." He closed his eyes against the sight of those dark smudges marring her skin. "Do they pain you? Do you wish me to fetch a healer?"

"No," she said. Her voice was a mere whisper. "They don't hurt. And you didn't cause all of these. In fact, only the one on my neck is from you. And the ones on my wrists, from when you caught me when I fell off the fountain. Don't be upset." The gentleness in her voice caressed him. "Are you okay?"

"I am…I…why are you being so gentle with me? Why do you not despise me for this?"

Her palm against his face was just as gentle as her voice. "Haven't you suffered enough guilt, Nuada?" He stared at her, uncertain. Not daring to hope. "No amount of guilt or sorrow can erase sin. Only God's love and forgiveness can do that. And you have it. Just as you have mine. Do you think I can't see that you'd give almost anything to erase tonight? I see it in your eyes. It's okay." She squeezed his hands. "It's okay."

"The bruises—"

"Hush," she said firmly. "Hush."

They stayed that way for a time, Dylan stretched out on her bed and Nuada kneeling at her bedside. She could see the torrent of emotions in his eyes, shifting and twisting. For a long while, he merely clasped her hand in both of his and pressed his lips to slender mortal fingers. When he finally seemed calm enough, she squeezed his hand again. Sat up.

"Okay. I want to ask you something." Dylan waited for his nod before continuing. "The bruises. When you saw them, you looked like you were going to be sick. What were you thinking about?"

He swallowed. Fought for control. "I've never harmed a woman, save in execution of justice as ordained by law," the prince murmured. "I've never allowed my physical needs to control me that way. I've never physically hurt a woman I cared for. Not in the bedroom and not out of it. Yet you walk away from an encounter with me covered in cuts and bruises, shaking with fear. I have never…I never wanted to…what does that say about me, Dylan?"

"Elves are at least ten times stronger than humans?" She shrugged. "That I need to stop squeezing myself so hard? That I'm really heavy, and that's why you grabbed me so hard when I fell and almost gave myself cranial hemorrhaging?" She touched the dark love-bite at her throat. "Or that you are really good at neck-kissing, which is why I didn't notice you giving me a hickey. By the way," Dylan added, serious again. "This one? It doesn't hurt at all. I don't know if that matters to you."

"And the ones on your wrists?"

"They twinge a bit. No big deal. Honest," Dylan added when Nuada's eyes flashed. "I'm not lying to spare your feelings. If you'd really hurt me, Nuada, I would tell you, because we'd have to talk about it. Heal those particular wounds and move past them. I'm not lying."

"Move past them?" He echoed. "How can we? How do I shed this guilt for your broken heart and my broken honor? You tell me you're well, but the evidence to the contrary is written in violence all over your body. Who would forgive me such transgressions? My father would not. My sister would not. Spell or no spell, neither would show mercy."

Dylan took his hands in hers. "Who cares what they think? You didn't transgress against them. Forgiveness isn't in their hands. It's in mine, and in Heavenly Father's. I forgive you. I forgave you even before we left the garden. If you still feel that guilty, maybe you should ask the Star Kindler's forgiveness, too. I can see you're sorry for this, that you're grieving for it. He sees that, too. Let Him shoulder the weight of your guilt. He's all-powerful—He can handle it. You'll feel better," she added when he looked away. "You've done or are willing to do almost anything to get rid of this guilt you feel. I see it in your eyes. So why not try this?"

"It isn't that simple—"

"Yes, it is," she whispered. "It is. If you've tried everything else, why not try this, too?"

Nuada bit back a sigh. "I have not yet attempted all forms of atonement. There's one more thing I must do. I wished only to see you once more beforehand."

A chill slipped down Dylan's spine like noxious poison. "What are you going to do?"

"I must report this to my father."

"No!" She was off the bed and on the floor beside him, her hands fisted in his shirt, before he could blink. "Nuada, you can't tell your father, you can't!" She yanked on his shirt. "He'll hurt you. He'll torture you. He might even kill you. You can't tell him this! Please don't tell him! I forgive you, please don't tell him." Her head thunked against his shoulder. "Please, don't. Please, Nuada."

He held her against him. Ignored the hot tears soaking through his shirt. "I must, Dylan, if for no other reason than to alert him to a potential enemy. And he is my king. It's his right to punish my transgressions."

"No." Her protest was almost a moan, muffled by his shirt. "No. He's not fair. He won't be fair. He'll hurt you just because he can. You can't do this, Nuada. I'll do anything you want. Anything. Just don't do this."

"I'm sorry, mo duinne, but this is what it means to be honorable."

"No! He'll hurt you," she whispered. "You almost died last time. There was s-so much blood and you almost died. Please, Nuada, don't do it. He doesn't have to know."

"He already knows, sweetheart." Nuada felt her go still in his arms. Even the tears and sobbing breaths stopped. Her heart, thudding hard in her chest against his arm, seemed to cease beating. "One of my guards went to him already to report what they'd heard from outside the garden walls. And I sent a message to my father as well, that I would see him whenever he chose to summon me about what the guard reported."

Her eyes were almost accusing when she pulled back to look at him. "Why would you do that? He's going to torture you. How can you just let him…" Dylan pulled away. Got to her feet. She stormed to the window and stared out at the winter night spangled with stars. For a long time, there was only silence. Then, "If he hurts you…if he does anything to you…I'll never forgive you."

She must have seen him jolt from the corner of her eye, because she whirled on him and snapped, "If you get hurt because of this, I won't ever forgive you for just throwing yourself to him! You'll do the hard thing but not the easy thing? That doesn't make any sense! You'll just hand yourself over, knowing he's going to rip you to pieces, maybe even kill you? You promised we would stay together and he's going to kill you…how could you…why would you…"

Dylan made a sound halfway between a growl and a scream and turned back to the window. She thunked her fists against the glass. "That's so stupid! He's a monster, and you're just…you…" Her forehead touched the icy glass. Her shoulders slumped. "He'll kill you. He's been looking for an excuse and now he has one. He'll kill you. I'm never going to see you again."

Nuada went to her. Slid his arms around her from behind. "You don't know that for certain. Do not despair, mo cridh. It will be all right." Dylan simply shook her head. "I don't do this to hurt you, beloved. I do this because I must. My honor demands it. You cannot ask me to abandon my honor, not even for you."

The breath hitched in her chest. "Nuada…I'm scared." He tightened his hold. "I'm really scared. You'd think I'd be more worried about Eamonn possibly being alive and those Elves that tried to kill us and the shoggoth and whatever, but I'm not. I'm scared of your dad. I'm scared of what he'll do to you."

"I know," he murmured, cuddling her close. "I know." After a moment, the fae prince said, "I'll make you a bargain, my lady. Be brave for me, as I know you can be, and I will speak to your God about what has happened before I go before my father."

"You will?" She asked in a small voice. He nodded. She swallowed. "Okay. I…okay." She covered his hands, where they rested on her arms, with her own. His skin was cool beneath her touch. "Okay."

.

True to his word, Nuada found himself kneeling beside the bed in his own chamber, feeling incredibly foolish, but folding his arms and bowing his head nonetheless. He'd promised Dylan that if she put on a brave face, if she stopped trying to prevent him from seeing the king, he would do this. A crown prince of Bethmoora kept his word. So Nuada closed his eyes.

I do not profess to follow any God or gods, he prayed. I know of Thy existence, Star Kindler, and I know that she worships Thee with her whole heart. I don't claim such devotion, though I acknowledge Thy power. Yet I promised her I would come before Thee as one of Thine own to confess my sins and seek absolution for my transgressions against her. For what I have done, it's the least I can do. So here I am.

He hesitated, unsure what to say. After explaining the basic format of praying, which was a little different from what he knew, Dylan had merely told him to "say what felt right." The Elven warrior was a reticent man by nature, rarely confessing weakness, and doing so now seemed more than strange. It spoke against nearly every instinct. Nothing "felt right." He was only doing this because Dylan had asked him.

Not that he doubted the High King could hear his prayer. He merely doubted that Dylan's divine Master cared about Nuada's repentant confession. But she'd asked it of him, and he had promised her. So what to say now?

I hurt her. The words sprang into his mind without warning. He forced himself to allow them to keep coming. I broke my word to her. I frightened her. I resurrected the ghosts of her darkest memories. I sought to use her with no care for her well-being or her mental state, with no care for what it would do to her spirit. I promised her that I would never force her to do anything she was uncomfortable with, and then I sought to seduce her in a place sacred for its memories, uncaring of what it would do to her. She walked away from that encounter with cuts and bruises. With shadows on her heart and in her eyes. Even now, she struggles to hide from me just how fragile I left her. My lust, fueled and twisted by enemy spells, did this to her.

Even now, I cannot seem to escape that lust for long. It's not so bad as it was, but that I should yearn for her, ache for her, when I've hurt her so badly…what does that say of me? What kind of man does that make me? Dylan says because of the spells I'm not responsible, that no sins lie on my conscience. If that is so, why do I feel this way? This guilt burns as cold as salted iron. She says to surrender it to Thee. To beg Thy forgiveness. My own father will never forgive this; why should Dylan's Heavenly Father do so?

She says that divine forgiveness is a gift from God to those who repent. I repent, High King of the World, though I doubt Thou would forgive one such as I, one who does not even follow Thy ways. Still, I would give anything to erase this night. Anything, to erase the fresh wounds I've put on Dylan's heart. I am sorrier than words could ever express, that such evil was done by my hands, spell or not.

Dylan says Thou wilt take my guilt from me. If that is true, and if it is just, I would beg Thee to do so, though I know I don't deserve such mercy from her or from Thee. But this guilt and this grief…I cannot bear the weight of it. If she is right—if Thou art listening to my words now—then do as she has promised, and take this guilt from one who sorrows beneath the weight of his transgressions.

And if Thou art listening, please…heal the hurts I have done her. Help her in whatever ways she requires. Give her peace from her past. Please.

.

The night was quiet and still as it dragged on toward a wintry dawn. Just as the gray unlight of False Dawn began to soften the night sky, a knock sounded at the door leading from his bedroom to the front room of his suite. Nuada forced the tension from his shoulders and answered the door.

As expected, Guardsman Siothrún stood on the other side of the entryway. He saluted the prince and said, "His Majesty King Balor demands His Highness's presence in his receiving room immediately. He also demands the presence of Lady Dylan of Central Park."

So. Siothrún had been the one sent to inform the king of what had transpired. Well enough.

"Lady Dylan is in her room," the prince replied. "She may be asleep. Tell Guardsman Uaithne what you have told me so her guards may awaken her if necessary."

Dylan was, in fact, asleep. While Uaithne relayed information between Siothrún, who wasn't allowed in Dylan's sleeping chamber, and Guardswoman Fionnlagh, Nuada dressed quickly in his customary sable and scarlet. He met Dylan in the corridor. All fourteen Butcher Guards accompanied them. Siothrún had been kind enough to allow the children to remain asleep, guarded by the hounds.

Nuada studied Dylan as she stepped into the cold stone corridor. Siothrún had given word that Lady Dylan was to come as she was, in her short-sleeved undertunic and sleeping trews. The guardsman's only concession had been to allow her socks. Dylan had chosen the penguin socks Nuada had bought for her almost a month ago. She'd also exhibited a stubborn streak and donned a black flannel overshirt that only emphasized her wan pallor. The sleeves fell well past her fingertips. The overshirt hid the bruises on her arms and wrists.

"The king commands that the Lady Dylan appear as she was when summoned," Siothrún said in an empty voice. Dylan glared at him and folded her arms across her chest. It would've been comical, with six inches of excess sleeve dangling at the ends of her fingers, making her look like a child playing dress-up, if not for Siothrún's next words. "Any disobedience will be punished."

The mortal paled even further. She shrugged out of the overshirt without a word and stared at the bundle of black flannel in her hands, as if she didn't know what to do with it. Uaithne, after drawing a single shocked breath at the myriad of savage bruises so dark against Dylan's arms and wrists, offered to take the shirt. She thanked him quietly and handed it over.

At the guardsman's gesture, they started for the king's receiving room.

Dylan felt eyes on her as they traversed the various hallways—passing pages and maids, guards on duty, message-runners and the like. They could see in the torchlight that dark finger-marks bruised her arms. That sickly-looking smudges shackled her thin wrists. Some of them might've even been able to see the rather…enthusiastic hickey on her neck. Was that why Balor had insisted she come in the clothes she wore? So that her injuries would be on display? Only her hair hanging down her back hid the shoulder-bruises and cuts from the thorns. Only Nuada knew about those. Would he tell the king? Why was he willing to tell Balor anything? Why did he feel so guilty?

Once they reached the door to the king's receiving room, Dylan received a surprise that left her half-sick with confusion and fear.

Balor wanted to see her first.

She shot Nuada a stricken look as the chamberlain grasped her wrist in a gentle but unbreakable grip and tugged her toward the door. Her prince gave nodded encouragingly. He believed she would be safe. Believed she could handle this. Whatever this was. He wasn't worried, at least not for her. It would be all right.

Barely a quarter of the way convinced when the door closed behind her, Dylan caught her tongue between her teeth and fought against the dizzying hammer of her heart as she met Balor's shadowed, unfathomable topaz gaze.

"Have a seat, Lady Dylan."

The king himself presided over the room from a large, high-backed armchair of crimson-dyed leather situated near the crackling fireplace. A long sofa, done in antique-gold velvet and covered in a smattering of crimson, bronze, and pale gold pillows, had been set so the full light of the fire fell upon whoever sat there. The king remained partially in shadow.

She didn't want to sit, but after the conversation where Balor had informed her that disrespect would result in Nuada being badly hurt, she didn't dare refuse. Shaking legs brought her to the gold couch. Her feet sank into the rich burgundy and pale copper rug on the floor. She perched on the edge of the sofa. Clasped her hands in her lap. Kept her eyes on the intricate pattern of the Persian-looking carpet beneath her feet.

For several minutes, neither Elven king nor mortal commoner said anything. Dylan felt Balor's eyes on her. Felt his gaze raking her from crown to toes and back again. Even though she knew he could see all of her "tells," the things she did that made it obvious she was nervous (if not absolutely terrified), she couldn't seem to stop herself from doing them.

Her toes scrunched and relaxed, scrunched and relaxed, a clear sign of agitation. It was plain as a campfire in the dark that her knees shook. Despite keeping her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white, her hands trembled as well. Her breath came in short, shallow almost-gasps. She couldn't stop her eyes from darting to and fro, despite her resolve to keep them focused on the rug. Every so often she flicked her gaze to the king, then look away again.

"How badly are you hurt?" The king asked finally. To her surprise, his voice was astonishingly gentle. Even compassionate.

Her eyes darted to him. Was this a trap? She was so tired, and fear skittered up and down her spine like insects, mingled in her blood like black sludge. She couldn't think. Didn't dare answer him. Would he just misinterpret whatever she said, twisting it to suit his own purposes?

"Do you need a healer?" He added. She shook her head. Bit her lip until she tasted blood. "You're certain? Those bruises do not pain you?"

"No, Your Majesty," she whispered. "Thank you."

Fear mimicked the coppery Taste of Blood on her tongue as Balor shifted in his chair. Something like electricity crackled in the air. The hair at the nape of Dylan's neck prickled. She wrapped her arms around herself and hunched down instinctively.

"Lady Dylan…Dylan. You needn't be afraid. I will protect you from him. My son has a great deal of power, but I am a match for him. He'll not be allowed to harm you for revealing his crimes."

Her heart rate spiked. She shook her head. "No, Your Majesty. Nuada didn't do any—"

A fist seemed to close around her throat. She choked on the words. Her mouth moved soundlessly as her hand flew to her throat. What was going on? Why couldn't she talk? Panicked eyes flew to the king, who watched with a mixture of compassion and pity in his ancient gaze.

"I've ensorcelled this room so that you cannot speak falsehoods within these walls, my dear. You'll not be compelled to speak, as that would be a gross misuse of my power, but you will be prevented from lying, prevaricating, or dissembling. Now tell me what happened in the Queen's Garden tonight. I promise you, I will protect you from the prince's wrath."

Dylan shook her head. "No! He didn't—" The words dried up in her mouth. She clenched her fists. Tried again. "He's not ang—" The spell cut her off without mercy. "Stop That!" She snapped. "You don't understand!"

"I understand that my son attempted to force himself on you tonight, and yet you defend him still. Which makes me wonder," the king added, an odd look in his eyes, "how often he's attempted to hurt you or succeeded in hurting you, only to be defended by you to me afterward."

"Nuada has never tr—" Magic prevented her from saying Nuada has never tried to hurt me.

Balor raised one eyebrow. "I suppose that answers that question. How many times has my son forced you to accommodate him?" He asked in a voice that was terrible for all its gentleness. "Or has it not yet escalated that far? Has he not managed to force you to his bed yet? All you must do is tell the truth. No one will hurt you."

Yes they would, they would hurt her, hurt Nuada because Balor wasn't listening, no one ever listened. They hadn't listened about the garbage in the creek, hadn't listened about the demi-merrow, or the sick leshii living in the tree by her window. They hadn't listened about any of the fae. No one listened when she tried to tell them about Patrick and Xander pushing and hitting and touching the girls and saying scary things and no one would listen about what they'd done in that basement or afterwards, or about their father, or how some of the grownups knew and would look the other way, or worse…

No one listened. They only hurt. Only hurt for telling the truth, only pain because the ones in power never believed. Balor wouldn't listen, she didn't know what to say and every time the spell stopped her from speaking it just made things worse. She tried to get some semblance of sound past numb lips and couldn't. She could only stare at the king of Bethmoora with desperation in her eyes.

"What does he make you do, Dylan?"

Dylan shook her head. "N-noth—" She struggled to force nothing out of her mouth, and failed. All she managed was, "Please don't hurt him."

"My dear, he must be punished for his crimes."

"No! No, he didn't do anyth—" Her fists smacked against her legs hard enough that she knew she'd have bruises in the morning. "Stop it," she said. "Stop asking me these questions. Leave us alone."

"If he's done you no harm, if he hasn't forced you into anything, then there is nothing for the prince to fear. Yet you and I know that isn't the case. Did he promise you something in exchange for letting him hurt you? Has he threatened you? Your family? Has he hurt your family?"

"N-!" Horrified, she covered her mouth with a trembling hand. Was Balor lying? Why wasn't the spell letting her talk? Nuada had never threatened her or her family.

Except, she realized, he had. He'd threatened John before. Hurt him. And he had threatened her, and hurt her, during the first few tenuous days in the sanctuary over a year ago. Was that why the king's enchantment kept preventing her from speaking? Not that it prevented her from lying, but that it prevented her from speaking anything other than the absolute literal truth?

"I understand, my dear." Balor's expression was grave, his eyes empty. Dylan began to shake. "I see the whole of it now. You needn't fear harm coming to you or your family by Nuada's hand. I will make sure he never hurts you again. You have my word."

A sob strangled out of her. "No, you don't understand!"

"Then explain it to me."

"He didn't do any- he didn't try any…he's not ang- I mean, we were just kis—" Another attempt at speaking was thwarted by the king's spell. Dylan gritted her teeth. Closed her eyes. Drew a deep breath. After letting it out slowly, she looked at the king. "Nuada is angry, but his anger isn't directed at me. He's angry with himself and whoever put the spell on us."

Balor straightened in his seat. "Spell?"

"That's what he said, that someone put a spell on us. And it made sense because everything felt…strange. My head felt fuzzy and I couldn't think. Everything was…" Heat flooded her face. "It was like being touched with just a tiny bit of Branwen's Tears, on top of not being able to think straight. I felt disconnected from my body. Like being drugged."

Oh, she knew about being drugged. Knew about poison in the vein, opium-whispers seducing in sedated sleep so that monsters could come in the night while the venom kept you quiet, kept you helpless while they gave you more pain, used your body and muffled your screams…

Dylan made a small sound and hugged herself, ignoring the way the bruises protested her uncompromising grip. No, she wasn't going to think about that. Wasn't going to go down that path for a fourth time tonight. She wasn't. No.

The king sat back and studied the mortal who fought tears. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. What the mortal had described sounded like a compulsion spell. No compulsion spell was strong enough to trap a crown prince without being detected, unless laid upon him by a fae monarch. And which such powerful faerie royal would have done so?

The Great Nanook, known for his compassionate nature and love of mortals? Moundshroud, clearly fond of the human girl? Roiben, a friend and ally to both Nuada and Dylan, and an honorable warrior and king besides? Anterion, who was Nuada's friend? Huizong, who had no grudge against the children of Adam and whose son and heir seemed to have struck up a friendship with Nuada's mortal lady? None of those options made sense.

Which left only one other, one that sickened Balor. One that threatened to shatter his heart into jagged pieces. Had his son cast the spell on Dylan himself?

Nuada was a prince—he wasn't bound by the chains of other fae that prevented them from bearing false witness. He could lie to his heart's content. Only Nuala would know if her twin spoke truth or not, and only in shared dreams, or through their link, or if she bent all her will upon him. So Nuada could tell Dylan an enchantment had been laid on them both, when in fact he had been the one to bespell her.

But if he'd bespelled her to acquiesce to his demands, why hurt her? Why leave her with such vicious bruises? Had his lust simply been too much for the prince to keep leashed? Had his control finally snapped? Or had he developed a taste for bedroom cruelty during the other encounters with the mortal? The king even had to wonder if somehow the prince had managed to modify Dylan's memory in some way, so that on the night when the princess had walked through Dylan's mind to prove the truth of her testimony on Nuada's behalf, Nuala hadn't seen what her twin had been using the mortal for all this time.

Had Nuada been toying with the poor thing this entire time? Playing with her, using her, hurting her, to fulfill some sadistic need? What did tormenting and brutalizing this woman do for the prince? Clearly his son loved Dylan, at least as much as he was able to love anyone, so why use her like this? Unless that love was too weak to combat this lust for degradation and violence against the mortal.

Balor closed his eyes and fought to will away the horrifying images of his only son as ravisher, monster. If the old king was right, would it stop at rape? Or would the day come when Nuada's lust was only sated through more and more violence? How long would Dylan survive with him? The king knew he would have to wait for the healer he'd summoned to see to Dylan before he could pass judgment on his son. He would have to learn the full depth of her injuries. Just the thought made him ill. How bad were things, really? Was there any chance Balor was wrong?

A quiet knock at the door made Dylan jump. Wide eyes darted to the door as the king bade the knocker to enter.

Healer Táebfada stepped into the room, closed the door, and bowed to the king. Her smile was gentle and kind when she looked at Dylan. "His Majesty summoned me to examine you, Lady Dylan," the Elven healer murmured in her velvet-soft voice. "Please don't be afraid."

"I'm not—" Dylan found the words snatched from her mouth. She shot a look of sharp loathing at the king. Pulling her anger around her to smother the fear enough that she could think at least a little, Dylan tried again. "I don't wish to be examined by anyone, if it pleases you, Your Majesty."

"I don't recall giving you a choice," Balor replied, unruffled. "Remove your outer clothes."

"No!" The denial was out of her mouth before she could censor it. "I'm not undressing in front of you!"

Táebfada touched Dylan's forearm, on one of the rare pieces of unbruised flesh. "The king must know the extent of your injuries in order to properly pass judgment on the one who attacked you. Have you garments beneath these?"

Well, yes, she did—a thick black half-cami with a shelf-bra, since she'd known Nuada might come to see her and she hadn't wanted to fall asleep in her actual bra, and a pair of spandex shorts over her underwear for a little extra warmth—but that wasn't the point.

"I'm not going to—"

"Are your injuries so grievous, then? I can only imagine how brutal your attacker must have been." Balor's eyes bored holes in Dylan as she started to shake again. "Or are you attempting to hide older injuries? Are you protecting your attacker, Lady Dylan? A man who preys on defenseless women?"

So she got to her feet, turned her back on the king, and drew her pajama top over her head, tossing it onto the sofa. Gritting her teeth, she shimmied out of her pajama pants and tossed them on the sofa, as well. Forced herself to stand with her hands loose at her sides instead of tightly fisted while the king and healer examined her back. When Táebfada pulled Dylan's long hair over one shoulder to reveal her back and shoulders, the mortal didn't protest. Only when she had to turn around so Balor could examine her front did she cross her arms defensively in front of her breasts.

The short, black half-camisole bared several inches of Dylan's lower back, as well as most of her upper back, her shoulders, and in the front, her upper chest and her stomach. The shorts reached a bit lower than mid-thigh. Balor bit back a snarl as smoldering copper eyes took in all of the damage and all of the scars.

Purple bruises ran from Dylan's shoulders down her arms to her elbows. More bruises circled her wrists, as if someone had pinned her hands to stop her from fighting back. Deep cuts etched across the bruised flesh of her upper back. A nearly-black bruise darkened a wide stripe across the small of her back before fading into purple and disappearing beneath her shorts. Because of how Táebfada had set Dylan's hair, the brutal mark at the mortal's throat was plainly visible. Purple finger-marks marred the backs of Dylan's thighs before vanishing under the shorts.

And the scars…he'd never seen so many. Claw marks. Knife scars. Smudges from human bullets. Burns that left smooth, shiny skin behind and burns that left scars like melted wax. Jagged marks where broken bones had perforated fragile human flesh. Bite marks left by a very humanoid set of teeth—one at the base of her neck, another just above her hip, and a final mark on the back of her left calf.

And those were nothing compared to the sprawling mounds of ice-white scar tissue at the bends of her elbows and dripping down the insides of her thighs almost to her knees, and the one covering nearly half of her upper chest. What, in the name of all the gods, could have left those?

Balor could scarcely believe his son had inflicted even the bruises on anyone, much less the woman he claimed to love. How many of the scars were at his hands, as well? What other injuries might she have?

Dylan fought the urge to be sick. She tried to remind herself that she was twenty-nine years old, not twelve. Tried to remember that she was in Findias, not Saint Vincent's. That this was King Balor and not Westenra, or Ivan Blackwood. Ivan Blackwood, Patrick and Xander's father, who'd told her what a pretty girl she was, and wasn't it a shame that she was so badly behaved. Ivan Blackwood, who'd used the excuse of making sure she wasn't hurt by her "tussles" with his sons to force her into taking off her scrubs and-

No! She clenched her fists until her nails drew blood. No! She wouldn't think about that. She wouldn't! Not now! She wouldn't think about him, or Patrick or Xander, or Westenra. Westenra was dead. They couldn't hurt her anymore! Her teeth sank into her lip. Blood trickled down her chin. Dripped from her bleeding hands. No. She wouldn't think about this. She wouldn't. No.

"Is this everything, Lady Dylan?" Balor's voice was dangerously soft. He had to repeat the question three times before the mortal responded with a tersely muttered affirmative. The king settled back, eyeing the tiny drops of blood dripping onto his very expensive Shahbaz rug from the human woman's trembling, white-knuckled fists. "You may put on your clothes."

Once dressed and seated on the sofa again, with Táebfada having retreated from the room, Dylan pressed her stinging palms against her pants to soak up the blood. The material pressing into the cuts stung. Helped keep her grounded at least a little in the present. She sucked on her bottom lip to hide how deeply she'd bitten it.

"What are you thinking at this moment, Dylan?" Balor asked softly.

Couldn't think. Couldn't let herself think. Not about anything. She'd be forced to remember and Nuada wasn't here and she was so tired and Balor was here, the king was here, and if she let herself remember, if she panicked now, what would the king think? What would he do to her prince? So she only shook her head.

"Mortal child, daughter of Eve, of the race of Adam's flesh, I command you to look into my eyes."

Sheer terror spilled down her spine as she found her gaze forced upward, found herself pinned by a pair of ancient eyes the color of darkly glittering topaz. For an instant, she saw something in his eyes that reminded her of Nuada. Suppressed grief. Quiet torment. Despair. It was the only thing that kept her even partially anchored in the present, instead of spiraling back into the past.

"I will ask you this once and once only, and you will speak the truth. Did my son rape you tonight?"

"No!" Dylan cried. "No, he didn't do any—" Magic cut off her words. She found herself unable to look away from those eyes.

"Then what happened?"

"He didn't rape me. He didn't even try to," she said, struggling to choose her words carefully while fighting panic. "He didn't even do most of this! I did! When I get scared, sometimes I don't pay attention to what I'm doing. I've bruised myself lots of times. Okay? The only ones that are from him are on my wrists from when he caught me when I slipped and my neck. I swear."

A flicker of hope taunted the old king. "When you're frightened," he echoed, wanting to believe but not daring to trust. "Nuada frightened you?"

"N—" The spell snatched the protest right off the tip of her tongue. She flinched when the king's eyes flashed in chilling warning. Those eyes, so lethally cold, just like…"Yes, he did. He…things got a little…we went too far, but it was consensual. Sort of. I mean, I didn't protest, or tell him to stop until I had a flashback and then I panicked and he stopped. He did."

Disbelief. She could see it, feel it. No one believed her, no one would listen, and hands touching, pain, darkness all around her, the eyes always watching, always looking for just one moment of weakness, and she couldn't do this now, she couldn't! He would hurt Nuada, he would kill Nuada, she couldn't let him, but those eyes, icy topaz knives, and the monsters breathing in the dark and they were coming, they were coming for her, for them, she had to…had to…

Get a grip! Blood flooded her mouth as she bit down savagely on her tongue. You can't do this now! Stop it!

"He stopped when I asked him to," she whispered, struggling to keep the present in place around her. "He stopped. He feels so guilty, but he stopped, I swear. He never meant to scare me or hurt me, he didn't," the past slipping through, fingers of shadow wrapping around her wrists, teeth in her neck, suffocating on someone's tongue shoved into her mouth, but not Nuada, never Nuada, "it was an accident. Please don't hurt him. Don't punish him for this. I'll do anything, anything you want, just don't hurt him."

Balor watched in shock as her composure crumbled. Dylan dropped her face into her hands and wept.

"Please," she whispered through her tears. "Please, don't hurt him. Don't take him away," because they would, they took everyone, leaving her all alone in the dark, "I'll do anything you want, I swear, just don't hurt him again."

Startled, wondering just what she thought he would do to the prince, Balor said tonelessly, "My dear, he must be punished for whatever crimes—"

"No!" Dylan slid off the sofa and went to her knees before the king. "Please, no. Spare him, please! Don't hurt him! What can I do? I'll do anything you want, I swear, just please, have mercy. He's a victim, too. He didn't mean to hurt me. I'm begging you, don't hurt him. Don't kill him, please. I'll do anything. Anything. Please, just don't punish him. I'm sorry I was disrespectful before and I'm sorry about all the things I said and I swear, I'll do whatever you say, anything, I won't make trouble, I swear, but please don't hurt him. Don't kill him, please. Please!"

The king watched the hysterical mortal sobbing where she knelt upon the floor, hair hanging in her face and tears slipping down her cheeks to splash the burgundy and gold carpet. What sort of horror stories had Nuada been whispering in her ears, that her terror was so overwhelming? What atrocities did she believe Balor capable of?

The part of him that was just an old man wanted to ease her tears and offer her reassurance. Instead, he allowed the part of himself that was Bethmoora's king to use her promise to his advantage. She would do anything, would she? All he need do was show mercy to the prince. All he need do was not order Nuada to be executed. That promise, given to a king of Faerie on her knees, was as binding as a sworn oath. He would hold her to that…once things were resolved tonight. After all, he might have to execute Nuada. If the full weight of his suspicions proved correct, he would have to.

In the end, Táebfada was called back in to escort Dylan into the antechamber. The moment Nuada saw the misery and terror on his truelove's face, the crown prince was on his feet and striding across the small room to Dylan's side. He pulled her into his arms and simply allowed her to sob into his chest while he stroked her hair and whispered soothing nothings in soft Gaelic.

"I tried, I tried, he wouldn't listen, they never listen," she wept, trying to burrow closer, trying to thaw the brutal chill around her with the heat of Nuada's body. "He's going to kill you, he's going to take you away, don't go in, don't, please, he didn't listen, Nuada, don't leave me…"

"Shhh, shhh. Mo duinne, shhh. Mo mhuire, mo duinne. Amhain a chara, hush, now. Shhh. It will be all right. There, now. It's all right." Nuada nuzzled her temple as he rubbed soothing circles along her back. "It's all right now. Shhh. Easy, beloved. Be easy. It will be all right."

"Prince Nuada," Táebfada said softly. Nuada glanced up from Dylan to pin his gaze on the Elven healer. She gestured to the half-open doorway. "His Majesty will see you now, Your Highness."

Nuada dried Dylan's tears before gently setting her aside. She snagged his shirtsleeve when he tried to move past her.

"No," she whispered. "Don't, Nuada, don't, please."

"It will be all right, my love," he murmured, caressing her cheek. He wiped a fresh tear away with his thumb. "All will be well. Do not fear for me."

"Let me go back in with you—"

"No," the prince said, his voice gentle but firm as steel. "No, Dylan. This is what must be."

Stricken, she watched him walk through the entryway and shut the door behind him. She had just enough strength left to get to one of the cushioned benches lining the antechamber walls before she collapsed onto it.

"Uaithne," Dylan whispered brokenly, gazing beseechingly at the leader of her personal retinue of guards. "Uaithne, do something. Can't you do something?"

The Butcher shook his head. "Nay, milady. Not I. I am sworn first and foremost to the king, as are we all. Yet have no fear. King Balor is a wise and just ruler. You have vouched for His Highness. The king will show mercy and compassion to the prince. Do not be afraid for Prince Nuada."

Dylan could only drop her head into her hands. Ailís laid a comforting hand on the mortal's shoulder when she began to cry again.

Heavenly Father, she prayed, struggling to swallow her tears, struggling to keep her head above the memories, help him. Just please, help him. And though she didn't know why, something prompted her to add, Both of them.

.

The prince knelt before his father and king. Bowed his head.

"Whatever punishment you deem just, I will accept, Áthair," he whispered. "Yet I would beg you not to send Dylan from my side. It would break her heart and her spirit as nothing else would. Anything else, my king, I will accept without protest."

"Will you?" Balor's skepticism was obvious. "And why is that? You've never simply accepted my judgment in such matters before. Why do so now, Crown Prince?"

Nuada raised his head and met his father's cold gaze. What Balor saw in the depths of his son's eyes staggered him.

"Because you were right," the prince rasped. "Because I've at last earned the disgust and enmity you've heaped upon me all these years. I clung to my honor, thinking it would save me, and in the end…Father, whatever you think of me, you must know I never meant for this to happen. It happened, and I accept the consequences of this dishonor, but I never meant… I have dishonored myself. Our kingdom. You. Mother's memory. I've broken my vows. Shamed my bloodline. Dylan seeks to defend me but I would not have it so."

He bowed his head once more. Unsheathed the sword at his side and laid it upon the floor before Balor's feet. "I surrender my blade to you, Majesty. I surrender my life and my will. Do what you deem just with me—I deserve No Mercy from you, my father and my king. Punish me as you see fit."

For a long moment, Balor could only stare at him. Finally, he managed to ask, "Gods, Nuada…what happened?"

Nuada raised his head to meet his father's eyes. The concern in their depths robbed him of breath. There was no condemnation anymore. At least, not yet. Why? He could only stare at Balor for an interminable silence before the words tore out of the Elven warrior, leaving him raw with fresh guilt.

"I hurt her." It had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done, to confess that sin on his knees to the Star Kindler. It was just as painful now. The words were as ash in his mouth. "I frightened her. I swore I would never…I swore to her that she was safe with me. That I would never harm her, and I…gods, Father, I…"

"Tell me."

The words spilled out of him like blood from a wound. He told the king everything—how he and Dylan had danced in the garden, how simple kisses had turned into a greedy fire that consumed his mind and his body. How the need had festered within him like a cancer. How she had responded to him, wanting him in return, only to fall into a brutal flashback worse than any he had witnessed from her before.

He confessed how after all of that, after seeing her terrified and bleeding and nearly broken, the lust had refused to abate. How even though it had ebbed now, it had only ebbed, not faded. It smoldered within him still, an insidious whisper urging him to claim Dylan for his own, whether she wanted it or not; even speaking of it now heated his blood and made him want her all the more fiercely.

The prince told his father about recognizing the combination of spells that had been placed upon him, on them, and knowing that somewhere he had an unknown enemy. How even that knowledge hadn't stopped the need. Only sheer Force of Will and Dylan's terror had allowed him to keep the lust at bay enough to take care of at least some of her injuries and make sure she was at least emotionally stable enough to make it back to the palace.

Remorse was a hot weight in his belly as he laid his conscience bare for the third time that night and waited for his father's inevitable condemnation.

Balor gazed down at his son, his boy, and wondered how he had missed such pain in Nuada's eyes. Dylan had seen it. Dylan had been swift in her defense, nearly desperate. He understood why now. She had been right. Nuada was just as much a victim as the mortal herself. His son was closer to breaking than Balor had ever seen him since that day beneath the hawthorn tree mere weeks after Cethlenn's death.

Balor had not been able to look into his young son's eyes that day, knowing that he had failed Nuada and Nuala as their father. Knowing he had failed his wife. So the king had retreated—from his children, from his court, from his people, from his duties, unable to bear the constant reminders of that failure.

He would not retreat now. Not in the face of a mortal woman's pleas and his son's grief.

Balor reached out and laid a hand on his son's shoulder. A tremor went through Nuada at the contact. "My son." He gripped Nuada's shoulder. The king could feel at least four different spells twisting and twining around the prince like thorny brambles. "My poor boy. It is all right."

"Is it?"

"She does not hold you responsible, Nuada. Surely you know this."

The prince's soft laugh held a bitter edge. "Of course she does not. She never would. She would forgive me nearly any sin, so long as it was only against her and no other. She learned such forgiveness from her God, I think."

"Perhaps the rest of us could learn to forgive as your lady does."

Flexing his power, the king sent a hot pulse of magic along the tangled vines of the spells, burning them out. Ridding his son of their dark influence. As the magic moved through his body, Nuada's tension eased a little. One pale, shaking hand reached up to cover the king's hand of flesh where it rested on his shoulder.

"Thank you," Nuada whispered. "Thank you. I…I…thank you, Father."

"It is all right, my son. It will be all right."

"How do I fix this, Father?" He whispered. "How do I heal the damage I have done? She has forgiven me, but…you did not see her. She was so…she is so young. So fragile in some ways. I forget, because she is so strong in others, but I think…" The prince remembered Dylan's terror, the unseeing despair in her gaze as she'd pleaded with him not to hurt her. She'd returned to the present at last, but the fragility had not left her. It had only been worse when he'd held her just before entering the king's receiving room. "I fear I may have broken something within her—"

Balor's grip on Nuada's shoulder was a gentle, reassuring weight that cut off the words heavy with dread. "Bruised and battered your lady may be, my son, but broken? I doubt that very much. She is strong, as you say. Though troubles may lay her low for a time, always I find her on her feet again, ready to challenge the next threat to either of you. Do not borrow fears without cause, Nuada. She will recover. And her faith in and love for you has not waned. If anything, it has only been strengthened by the trials the two of you have faced.

"We will find these beasts that dare to move against my son and his lady," the king added in a voice thick with fury. Nuada met his father's gaze, surprise on his face. "I will find them, and I will break them like crystal beneath the blow of a dwarven hammer for what they have done. You are guilty of nothing, Nuada. Nothing. Neither is your lady. When we find those who are guilty, I will see them punished. They will rue the day they fixed their eye on my son for their twisted games."

Stunned by his father's vehemence, Nuada asked, "Then…then you do not blame me?"

You do not hate me for this? Words unspoken, yet felt nonetheless by a father who could feel his son's expectation of disgust and punishment.

The king closed his eyes. "No, my son. No, I do not blame you."

The relief that swept over Nuada at his father's words would have driven him to his knees if he'd been standing. Only once before, since the final war with the humans, had Nuada walked away from a conversation with Balor where anger and hurt and mislaid blame had not festered between them.

Balor continued, "You have done no wrong here. You have acted with honor by coming before me without hesitation, without guile. You have given me the truth and nothing but. Of course I do not blame you. And I…for the accusations I have made regarding your behavior toward your lady…I am sorry, Nuada. Perhaps I should have known better. I can only offer my apologies.

"Now come, sit," the old king added briskly. He felt his old eyes stinging, and blinked, for he would not shame himself before his son and heir by weeping. "I will have a page fetch your lady from the other room."

The moment Dylan came back into the room, she was at Nuada's side on the couch, her arms around him, her face pressed to his shoulder. "Are you okay? Are you okay?" She asked over and over again, her fingers twisting in his shirt. "Are you all right? It's okay. It will be okay, I promise. It's okay. It'll be okay. I won't let them hurt you. I won't. It'll be okay."

"Yes," Nuada whispered against her hair when he laid his cheek against the dark curls. "Yes, it will. I am all right, mo duinne. Do not fear. My father removed the spells from me. I am all right." He felt her shivering beside him and frowned. "You are cold."

"N—" The word cut off abruptly. She flicked a glance at the king, who inclined his head and made a sharp cutting gesture with one hand. Dylan sighed as the feeling of strangling on her denial faded away. "A bit," she admitted. "Snuggle me?"

Nuada pulled her tight against him. She laid her head on his shoulder.

Balor wondered if the mortal realized that the tension had drained out of her the moment she'd touched Nuada and realized he was not only unharmed, but for the most part emotionally and mentally unscathed as well. It was interesting, and a bit surprising, to watch the way the Elf prince and the mortal woman reacted to each other without realizing it. When Dylan's hand touched palm-up on Nuada's knee, the prince clasped her hand. When Nuada shifted his weight just a little, the human shifted hers, too, to fit her body more comfortably to his. Balor watched with some amusement as his son blew a wisp of Dylan's hair away from his mouth. The mortal actually managed a smile.

"So…Nuada's not in trouble? Your Majesty," Dylan added belatedly. "You're not going to punish him? You promise? And you fixed him? He's all right?"

He shook his head. "No, he is not to be punished. I think he has been punished enough, don't you?" She nodded. Swiped ineffectually at her eyes. "And yes, I 'fixed' him. The spells are gone from him." As they should be from the mortal, the king thought, as the spells had only brushed against her, and were not rooted within her as they had been with Nuada. Still, better to be certain. "Do you require such assistance?" Dylan shook her head. "Very well, then. We three must talk."

For the most part, it was Nuada and Balor who spoke, and Dylan listened, as they outlined the list of potential enemies who may or may not have set the spells on the crown prince and his lady. While they talked, a servant came in with a tray with three cups and two pitchers. In Nuada and Balor's cups were hot, mulled cider with spices. In her cup was simple apple cider with just a touch of cinnamon. The larger pitcher held more mulled cider for the men. The smaller pitcher was for her. She sipped slowly from the warm cup, allowing the heat of the cider to smooth away some of the chill while she set herself to a very difficult task.

It was all Dylan could do to slowly, over the next few hours, bring herself inch by inch back onto solid mental ground. Nuada's warmth against her helped. So did the fact that she now wore her black flannel overshirt. Being covered up helped immensely. So did Nuada's arm around her shoulders. The soothing timbre of his voice. The simple fact that she could hear how the weight of guilt had been removed from him at last.

So she let the king and her prince talk while she focused on coming back to the present.

Up until Nuada had walked through her mind the night of Westenra's cruel phone call, she'd accomplished this by shoving down everything she was feeling, good and bad—especially bad—until she felt nothing. Once she got her mental center back in the midst of this emotionless void, she allowed the good feelings to come back, piece by piece. She refused to allow the negative ones to slip through again. This wasn't healthy, but it had been the only way she'd known how to cope.

Now she had a better way. She didn't do it often, because it was extremely emotionally and mentally difficult, took at least an hour, and usually needed another person to accomplish. At least, the particular technique she'd put together needed someone with her. So normally she simply ignored the fear until it faded enough to deal with it. But she needed to be as in-control and emotionally stable as possible, especially now. She could feel herself teetering on the edge. If she broke now, she wouldn't be able to put the pieces back together for days, weeks. Nuada needed her to be strong right now. He couldn't keep worrying about her sanity. Her fragility. She had to get it together.

Letting her eyes unfocus a little, she allowed Nuada's voice to wash over her like a slow, warm ocean wave. She would focus, sense by sense, on something comforting. Something special and happy, something that meant safety. Sense by sense, she would allow that something to slowly dispel the fear and grief choking her. Dylan didn't force the dark emotions away. She simply forced herself to remember that she wasn't in the past anymore. She wasn't in danger. She wouldn't be hurt, wouldn't be punished, simply for being who she was.

It was Nuada she used as her center, Nuada whom she could latch onto and use to anchor herself, because only at the very beginning had he ever frightened her as himself. Sometimes he'd triggered, or exacerbated, her flashbacks, but nothing about him frightened her. Nuada was safe. Nuada was safety. He would never hurt her.

First, sound. Instead of taunting words dripping with dark malice, Dylan focused on the sound of Nuada's voice. It wasn't so much the words he spoke. Those didn't matter. It was the rumble of the words in his chest. The tired velvet-softness of his voice. The way his accent, nearly gone after two-thousand years in exile, still managed to sharpen certain sounds and soften others. He spoke with an Old World cadence that she loved, as well.

Second, scent. His wool-and-silk shirt smelled faintly of laundry soap and a bit more strongly of pine. Probably the maids kept pine sachets in the clothes-presses in his room, just as they put lavender sachets in hers. There was the spicy, wildwood scent of his soap. So different from the sting of blood and the thick stench of musk, the burn of antiseptic and the choking smell of latex that always came with severe flashbacks of her time in Saint Vincent's. Nuada smelled like forests. Not like nightmares or darkness or pain. And he smelled of feral maleness, but not in a frightening or dominating way. It was simply a part of him. Simple and easy. Fey-like.

Touch. The lambs' wool and silk shirt was soft as a cloud against her cheek. Beneath it, she felt the hard muscle of Nuada's shoulder and bicep. Strength there. Strength to fight. Strength, as she had seen, to kill. But strength to protect, as well. A warrior's strength. She could feel the warmth of him through the shirt. Feel how tired he was in the set of his shoulders, yet could tell he was paying strict attention by the way he held himself. He held her hand and his thumb stroked lightly over her knuckles. Instead of pinches, slaps, cruel blows, biting teeth and pain, there was only that gentle touch against her knuckles, that soft caress. The slow, cool breath of soothing magic spreading from where he touched her fingers and down along her hand into her wrist, to ease the faintest ache from the bruise.

Lastly for those senses that centered on Nuada came sight. She let her eyes refocus and studied him surreptitiously from beneath her lashes while she listened to what he and the king were saying. Firelight played hide-and-seek through the curtain of his star-blond hair. His features cast soft shadows across his moon-pale skin. His eyes, golden against the darkness that surrounded them, were soft amber. Her fingers yearned to trace the royal scar etched across his sharp, feral cheekbones and the whorl gracing his temple, partially hidden by his hair.

There were no monsters hiding in the darkness. No grasping hands reaching for her. Nothing but Nuada.

Feeling more firmly in the present than she had since that first moment of fear in the garden, Dylan took a sip of hot cider and allowed the taste of it to wash away the phantom Taste of Blood and other, fouler things. She closed her eyes. Sighed softly. Found herself relaxing, drifting.

Balor studied the human girl as surreptitiously as she had just finished studying his son. There had been nothing casual or flirtatious about her perusal. Nothing that spoke of a lover or sweetheart's affection. It was almost as if the mortal had been…cataloguing Nuada's features. Making certain they were where they were supposed to be. Making sure that he was all there. The king wondered what it meant, and why she'd done it. He would have to ask Nuada at some point. Would his son trust him with the information?

Nuada focused on the plans his father was making. The king would alert those who needed to know of this new enemy. All eyes would be on the lookout for whoever might have set such a trap for the prince. Defensive strategies were laid. Battle plans were forged. Possibilities were discussed and given merit or discarded.

In the end, they were no closer to determining the identities of the spell-casters, but it was good—better than Nuada would have ever imagined—to have his father on his side in this. All but the dregs of his guilt had faded under the balm of Dylan and the king's acceptance. And, he could admit, speaking to the Star Kindler had eased him, as well.

"There is one more thing we must speak of, Prince Nuada," the king said.

Nuada recognized the subtle transition from worried father to concerned king. He straightened. Gently shook Dylan awake. Sometime during the conversation, the exhausted mortal had drifted into a light doze against the sturdy warmth of Nuada's shoulder. She stirred. Blinked to bring the room back into focus. When the king repeated himself, she forced herself to pay attention despite how tired she was.

The crown prince canted his head toward Balor. "Majesty?"

The king sighed. "Word of this…incident has no doubt already circulated among the servants." Balor saw the human girl's gaze flick to Nuada's carefully blank face before returning to the king's. "Many will know that there is more to the story than what they have heard or been told. Others will spread gossip as the wind spreads the seeds from which poisonous weeds sprout. What do you intend to do to combat these rumors?"

"We shouldn't have to do anything," Dylan said sharply. "Nuada shouldn't have to do anything. Sire, you said it yourself—hasn't he been punished enough? I mean, obviously I wouldn't still be with him if he'd actually hurt me. Once the servants and whoever else sees I'm still here, they'll know he didn't do anything bad to me."

"It does not work that way, mo duinne," Nuada sighed. "If anything, the fact that you remain at my side will only drag your reputation through the mud again."

Dylan huffed. "Nuada, you know that I don't care if those stupid people call me your whore or not. You know I don't care. It doesn't matter. We know the truth. Who cares about my reputation? They all think we're at each other constantly anyway, so who cares?"

"Yet there are those who know that you and His Highness are not lovers, Lady Dylan, and so would wonder why you remain at his side after he has so clearly abused you. That is what they will think, at any rate—that he abuses you. Openly. Such musings could be dangerous to you and to the prince. The pro-human factions of the court may attempt to move against him in some way, either through subterfuge or openly, thinking he holds you bespelled to keep you as his paramour, with no thought to your wishes. The anti-human factions will believe you are attempting to seduce the prince and guilt him into giving you the throne through a marriage between the two of you. They may attempt to remove the perceived threat to the Crown."

She looked to her prince. "So we're basically going to have both factions mad at us?" She asked. Nuada inclined his head. "Great. I know you can't please everyone, but now we've ticked off everyone, and we've gotta fix it. Our only hope is to make one of them happy, right?" She asked. Both men nodded. "The question is, which one? What would satisfy each side?"

Balor leaned back and steepled his fingers. "It would very much gratify the anti-human nobles of the court if you left Findias, of course, and never saw the prince again. I could send you away. Or Nuada himself could send you from his side. What say you to that, milady?"

The king's brows shot upwards when Dylan turned suddenly panicked eyes on Nuada.

"You promised," she cried. She grabbed his shirt in trembling fists and tugged. "No, you promised you wouldn't—"

"And I will not," Nuada murmured soothingly, stroking her cheek. "You have my word. I swear to you that I will not send you away as your parents did. I promised we would be together as long as Fate allowed and I'll not go back on that promise for all the jewels of Atlantis, nor all the treasures of Faerie, nor even all the stars shining in the heavens. There, now. Shhh. Do not be afraid. There are other paths we might take. Do not despair."

The crown prince turned to face his king.

"There is another option. You have but to command it, and it will be done, but I will not be parted forever from my lady and my very heart until death or some other inescapable Fate demands such a sacrifice from me."

The king inclined his head. "There is one other option. To appease the human sympathizers of the court."

"Well, okay, then," Dylan said, brushing the hair from her face. "Let's hear it."

He forced any emotion from his face. "You have said that you will follow this other option without question if I command it, Crown Prince. And Lady Dylan has already sworn to forfeit whatever I demand of her if I showed you mercy this night. I believe that I have. Therefore, I will give this order, and it will be obeyed. Am I understood?"

Nuada inclined his head to the king. Dylan, frowning, nodded. What could Balor want them to do that would make him think he had to remind them of those promises? It sent a frisson of nerves tingling down the mortal's spine. She ignored it and focused on the king.

"Our command is but this: to mollify the pro-human faction of the Bethmooran nobles, the two of you will be married a year and a day from the winter solstice."

End of Book 8: The Moon over Bethmoora

Our story continues in Book 9: A Lady of the Faerie Court

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Author's Note: and cue everyone's outrage and joy! Lol. So, since I've rewarded everyone with that little tidbit at the end… review prompt! Gah, I have a headache. Anyway, prompt!

1) So, Nuada. Rape is (of course) his big taboo evil thing that he abhors. And of course, terrifying Dylan, not okay in his book. How did I do on his characterization?

2) Who expected Balor to be that nice about everything? Anyone?

3) Dylan's hysterics – thoughts? Questions? Comments? Smart remarks?

4) Oh, the end! Balor's command! What do you guys think will happen?

Aaaaaaaaaaaand…. I love you all. Ciao!

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References Made in This Chapter:

- laters