Prince of Deception (Myths of Airren, #2.5)

by Jenny Hickman

Human men at that age were such eejits.

“That heart of yers may be gone, but ye’ve felt it beat. It’s beatin’ fer her.”

You didn’t hear me moaning every time I got my throat slit for breaking a law, did you? No. Because I was a feckin’ man, not a whingey child.

“Ye could be a thousand years old and ye’d still be my little blue-eyed boy.” “I hate hugs.” Her hold on me tightened. “No ye don’t.” She drew back after a moment, keeping a hold on my arms.

“Can’t lose if I forfeit.” “Quitting is losing.” Everyone knew that.

She spoke with such passion . . . about dirt. Fascinating.

Tadhg had greatness in him as well, but he drowned it more often than not.

A gift from fate that I didn’t deserve but sure as hell wouldn’t be turning away.

My words were a warning to run away, to save herself. A plea to accept me as I was. Even the darkest parts.

She needed to relax, but telling a woman to relax usually had the opposite effect.

But darkness colliding with light could never hope to win.

As far as I was concerned, it had been the best night of my feckin’ life until I went and mucked it up.

“It’ll all work out the way it’s supposed to,”

He was as useful as a sieve in a rainstorm.

Something akin to hope swelled within me. A dangerous, addictive thing.

And then—and then—Tadhg had the gall to tell her that I didn’t deserve her. Of course I didn’t feckin’ deserve her! No one did!

Hope was like love, for fools and simpletons.

I liked to know that she had a touch of darkness in her as well.

The problem was that this stubborn woman had no sense of self-preservation.

But that was a conversation for never.

But just because it made sense didn’t mean it was true.