Sorcha blinked and looked into his eyes. He didn’t appear miffed with her at all. She had an awful habit of becoming sarcastic and snotty when she was in a foul mood. Still, that didn’t excuse her behavior. “It doesn’t explain my attitude. You didn’t deserve that. I have had a rough morning, and my ankle is killing me, but I know better than to take it out on others. You have, in fact, saved me twice. And I repaid you with attitude. I’m beyond remorseful.”
“How about you repay me with two things? Listen to what I have to say, and tell me your name.”
That was an easy request. She found her lips softening into a smile. So many times, she’d said that she hated the Irish accent, but there was something about Cathal’s that sounded nice to her ears. Whether it was the deep timbre or his smooth intonation, she found herself easing back in the chair. “Deal. My name is Sorcha.”
“Hello, Sorcha,” he said with a grin that made her heart skip a beat.
She’d always hated her name. Yet, the moment it rolled off his tongue, her blood heated, and she found it difficult to breathe. She blinked, unable to look away from his gorgeous face. It had been easier to attempt to ignore him when it had been raining, when she walked away from him, and when she’d been talking to him through a door. Now, face-to-face, with nothing but glass between them, she felt as if she were drowning in his crimson eyes.
“You can fix your ankle,” he said.
She licked her lips and shrugged. “I don’t do magic anymore.”
He frowned slightly, and his brows drew together. “I’m sorry to hear that. If you’d like, I can fix it. There’s no need for you to be in pain.”
“Why would you offer that to someone you barely know?”
“Because it was Fate that our paths crossed. It was Fate that brought me to this isle to find you. Whether our destinies go different ways after today or not, we were meant to meet. You have the ability to heal yourself, and for whatever reason, you choose not to. I respect that. Let me do it.”
Sorcha didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t look away from his gaze. She was trapped, ensnared. Caught. And she wasn’t too upset about any of it. Maybe she’d spent so much time alone that she had lost the ability to tell if someone was decent or not. Surely, having a conversation with a Dark Fae was the most outrageous, ludicrous thing she’d ever done. And now, he’d offered to heal her. A Dark.
She knew she should decline, and yet she found herself nodding. Cathal put the tips of his fingers under the edge of the open window and gave her a nod. Sorcha gingerly lifted her injured ankle to the windowsill until his fingers touched her skin. The moment they made contact, chills raced over her. Right on the heels of that, heat seared her veins. All the while, their gazes remained locked.
Cathal’s lips didn’t move. There was no vocal spell that came from him. Seconds turned to minutes. Finally, he pulled his hand away. “There you go.”
To say she was disappointed that he no longer touched her was an understatement. Obviously, she’d been on her own for too long if she were getting excited—and turned on—by the brush of a man’s hands on her skin.
He did more than brush your skin. He’s held you. Tightly. You know just how good that hard body feels against yours. How strong. How utterly f—
“Does it feel better?”
She startled at his voice. Then slowly moved her ankle. There was no pain. She set her foot on the floor and stood. Walked around. When she came back to the chair, she flashed him a wide smile. “Thank you. I feared I had done more damage to it this morning by going to the pools.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
“Forgive me, but I don’t think I’ve ever known a Dark to willingly help a mortal like this.”
He lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug. “I’m not like other Dark.”
She had already guessed that. “All right. You wanted to talk. I suppose you better get on with it.”
His red gaze slid away briefly. “What I have to say won’t be easy for you to hear.”
“That’s usually the case, isn’t it?” She sat back, the happiness she’d felt swiftly leaving. She liked him, and she knew that whatever he was about to tell her would likely make that change. He was the first person she’d spoken to in years that wasn’t family or someone on the isle. Even when she went to Ireland, she hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to the B&B owner. She didn’t consider that a conversation.
This, what she was doing with Cathal, was definitely a conversation. And it felt good. Not only was he drop-dead gorgeous, but he had also helped her—three times now. He appeared to be a decent fellow. If one could call a Dark Fae decent.
“You say you’re a Druid,” Cathal began.
Sorcha nodded. “Because I am.”
“Why do you say that?”
She laughed as she rolled her eyes. “Because my mother was. My sister was. And I have magic.”
“What of your father?”
Immediately, Sorcha was on guard. “What about him?”
“Was he a Druid?”
“No. He was just someone passing through town that got my mother pregnant. It was a one-night stand, if you must know.”
“What about your sister?”
Sorcha’s brows snapped together. “My sister was older. Her father, my mother’s husband, died.”
Cathal nodded as his gaze lowered to the ground. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Why does any of that matter?”
He drew in a deep breath and looked up at her. “Because you’re a Halfling. You have Fae blood running through your veins.”
Chapter Eight
The stillness that came over Sorcha was something even a blind man would notice. Cathal’s fingers still tingled from touching her ankle. He wanted nothing more than to reach through the few inches of the open window and touch her again. While they talked, she had relaxed.
Now, the wall that had been around her before had gone back up in record time—higher and thicker than ever before. Cathal regretted how he’d told her, but there hadn’t been another way. He’d thought it easier to just give it to her straight. Ripping off the Band-Aid, as he’d heard so many mortals say.
He licked his lips. “I’m sure this comes as a shock to you.”
“You’re lying,” she stated.
“I’m not. A Fae knows another Fae.”
Sorcha shook her head of auburn curls. “I’m a Druid.”
“Actually, you’re a Halfling, who happens to also be a Druid. The fact that you come from such powerful Druids is something that hasn’t happened before.”
“You think?” she retorted angrily. Then, with her face and voice full of sarcasm, she said, “And I wonder why that is?”
Cathal shifted uncomfortably. He really wished Aisling was with him. She’d know what to say right now. He wasn’t good at talking. He always messed it up by saying the wrong thing. “Is it so bad having Fae blood?”
“More than you could possibly imagine.”
Her words were laced with such hatred that it took him aback. If she felt that strongly, why had she allowed him to have a conversation?