“I cared.”
“Then why?” All the old resentment rose up inside her and the words came out almost as a scream. She pulled free of Piers’ hold and squared up on the fae, hands on her hips. “Why did you leave us? Why didn’t you come back?” She’d always tried not to think of her father, tried not to remember him, as his betrayal carried too much pain. Now the suppressed rage of all those years came spilling out. “She died screaming your name.”
His face blanched of the little color it held. “I’m sorry.”
She could see from his expression that he was, but it wasn’t enough. “Then tell me why.”
“I left because there was a war on and I had no choice but to answer the call of my king.” His gaze flickered to his brother. “But I gave your mother a ring—a talisman—that she could use to call me, told her that if she needed me, I would come.”
“Fat lot of good that did. She called to you over and over but you never came.”
He swallowed. “I was a prisoner. There was a great battle, and I was captured and awaiting ransom when I got the call. I begged them to let me go, promised on my honor to return, and they refused. In the end, I killed the guards and broke free, but it was too late. I got there to find the village destroyed and two stakes all that remained. I found her ring among the ashes and presumed you had both died.”
His voice was filled with remembered horror, and some of the tension inside her loosened. He hadn’t abandoned them through choice. He had cared. Still, she couldn’t find it in herself to forgive him completely. He should never have left them so vulnerable. He should have taken them somewhere safe. No doubt, he’d been too ashamed of their mixed blood to take her to his people.
“You survived,” he said. “How?”
“After my mother was dead, they were coming for me. I called for help and someone answered.”
“Someone?”
“I saved her,” Asmodai said, his tone smug.
The fae’s eyes narrowed on the demon. “At what price?”
“Nothing I wasn’t willing to pay.” That wasn’t quite true, but there would be time to go into details later.
“You lay with a demon?” His tone held barely suppressed horror.
“Yeah, get over it. I’m five hundred years old—you expect me to still be a virgin?”
“But a demon.” He glanced at Piers, who stood at her back. “Still, things could have been worse.”
Why did she think things were going to get a whole lot worse, very quickly? She bit back a grin at the idea, as Piers came up behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her back against the length of his body. She stiffened for a moment, before relaxing against him. There was no point in putting this off, and her “father” had better get used to the idea. From the horrified expression on his face, it looked like that was going to take some doing.
“Let go of her,” he snarled. “Do you mean to use her as a hostage for my good behavior? Even you wouldn’t stoop so low.”
“I might, if I had to, but in this case I don’t.” He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, nuzzling the side of her neck. Okay, so her father needed to know, and she wasn’t ashamed of Piers, but she had an inkling he was being an asshole.
“But don’t think I’m any happier about this development than you are,” Piers said. “I’d have run a mile if I’d realized who she really was.”
Roz elbowed him in the gut.
“Hey, I might have run, but I would have let you catch me…eventually.”
She pulled free. “Lay off winding him up. I thought you wanted his help.”
Piers sighed. “We do. But come on, Walker, tell me one thing. I get you had to leave them, but why not take them somewhere safe? Why not take them to the Faelands where they could be watched?”
“There were reasons.”
“Which were?”
“Nothing I wish to go into right now. But Rosamund, believe me, I was never ashamed of you or your mother. I loved you both. Give me the chance, and I’ll prove that to you.”
“The chance?”
“Come back with me now. Let me show you my world, my people.”
Roz searched his face. He appeared to be genuine. Maybe what Piers had hinted at was right. He should have tried harder. He should have kept them safe. She suspected he carried around a great weight of guilt for not doing that.
But she also knew that her memories of his love had not been lies. That he had cared for her back then. Could that emotion have survived over the intervening years? This was the man who would have slit his own niece’s throat just for some purity-of-the-blood shit ideals. The man who had just claimed he would stand by and watch humanity die with a smile on his face. It came to her then why he felt that way. “That’s why you hate them, isn’t it—because they killed my mother?”