If he was honest, what he really wanted was her soft and welcoming and groaning with pleasure as he came deep inside her.
But that was about as likely to happen as him sprouting wings and a halo. Which meant he would be stuck for days with a haughty, prudish female who was way too fond of treating him like he was some sort of lesser being who should be kneeling at her elegant feet.
Yeah. A big “No, thank you,” to that.
“Why not go to the fey?”
The dark gaze never wavered from his face. “I suspect the answer is in your library.”
Cyn narrowed his eyes. How the hell had she known about his library?
“Is there a reason for your suspicion?”
“Erinna came to me shortly before she and Mika left.”
Cyn stiffened. Erinna and Mika had been the two fairies who’d rescued him from these caves, taking him into their home even when he could so easily have destroyed them.
He’d never forgotten how they’d rescued him from the caves, and how they’d made him a member of their family. They’d been a part of his life for centuries, treating him as a true son. At least they had until they’d disappeared several days . . . No, wait. If it was January, then they’d left weeks ago, with only a short note to tell him not to search for them.
“What did she say?”
“She had a premonition after they took you into their home that you would be the savior of the fey.” Siljar watched the disbelief spread over Cyn’s face. “That’s why they insisted you learn as much of their history as possible.”
He adored his foster parents and he’d been happy to indulge their desire that he learn the language and writing of the fey. And even had listened to the endless stories that had been passed down by their ancestors.
But they tended to be highly dramatic, and it wouldn’t take more than a stray dream, or the shape of a leaf, to convince them that he was supposed to be some sort of fey messiah.
Cyn shook his head in denial.
Bloody hell.
It had to be a joke.
“If they thought I could be their savior then why did they leave?” he demanded.
Siljar shrugged. “They sent word to me that Erinna had a new vision and they were going to check it out. They refused to give me any more information.”
The growing fear that he was going to be forced to help the Oracle whether he wanted to or not was forgotten at Siljar’s words.
It was one thing to accept that Erinna and Mika had taken off for their own pleasure. And another to think they’d put themselves in deliberate danger.
“Damn them.” He shook his head, angry that he hadn’t suspected there was more to their abrupt departure. “Why didn’t they tell me?”
“Clearly they wanted to protect you.”
His fangs ached. “That’s not how it works. I keep them safe, not the other way around.”
Siljar blinked, as if confused by his burst of anger. “It was their choice.”
He wasn’t going to argue the point. At least not with the Oracle.
Now when he found Mika and Erinna . . .
“Did they tell you what direction they were going?” he instead asked.
“They only said that they wanted to investigate the vision.” The Oracle smoothed her hands down her satin robe, not appearing particularly concerned. “I don’t think they were entirely clear on what they expected to find. They were, however, quite convinced that you would soon be needed to play your part in fey history. They asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“Do I have a choice?” he muttered.
“No, your foster parents are depending on you.” Siljar reached to place a hand on his arm. “We all are.”
Cyn glanced down at the scroll in his hands. “Well, shit.”
The Haven Estate was a sprawling work of art just half an hour north of Dublin.
The three-story Palladian-style mansion was built of white stone with simple, symmetric lines and a large portico that added to the air of splendid dignity. It was framed by lavish gardens that were formally terraced to lead to the large lake with a fountain in the center.
It was precisely the type of home one would expect for an aristocratic member of the Irish Parliament. And Sir Anthony Benson was exactly the sort of man that one would expect to be the owner.
Seated in a wing chair in the Green Drawing Room, Anthony was dressed in an emerald smoking jacket the precise shade of the curtains and a formal cravat that had gone out of fashion a couple centuries ago. His face was rounded and his pale brown hair had thinned until it was little more than a fringe around the edges. At a glance he looked like a comfortable, middle-aged man with a kind smile.
It took a much closer look to see that the clear gray eyes were as flat and cold as a snake.
Sipping his aged whiskey, Anthony studied the fairy prince who stood in the center of the room.
Yiant tried to appear indifferent to Anthony’s basilisk stare, but his too-pretty face was damp with sweat and the slender hands that smoothed the silk robe covering his tall, reed-thin body weren’t quite steady.