The Heartbreak Show (Bound By Ravens #3)

2. CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Glenna Lonan

Dusky afternoon light spilled into the wagon I shared with the eejit sprawled out in bed next to me. I gritted my teeth just thinking about his and Owen’s idiocy. We could barely afford food let alone bail one of them from jail.

Last night, Cian had stumbled into camp, hollering my name like he was painfully dying and seeing my face was the only way he’d draw another breath. So loud, so very embarrassingly loud, people began gathering. His hips were swaying just as ridiculously as the rest of him. The pale blue dress he wore had slipped down his shoulders; the tattered hem of the skirt dragged in the mud. The dark red rouge on his lips had smeared onto his chin.

I had stayed beside Filena and Braelin, refusing to indulge the drunken gobshite and his dramatics. He found me though—he always found me. Grinning that rascally smile I could never resist, he pulled me into an embrace and I melted into a heart-sighing puddle, not that I’d let him know and feed his cocky ego.

Before I could ask why he was invoking my name to wake the dead, Cian laughed into my neck while mumbling nonsense about not marrying Owen.

Marry . . . Owen?

Then he passed out.

He was trying to kiss me one second and, the next, his body went boneless. The lad dragged me down with him as he fell, too.

Rhylen had to carry Cian inside.

The arse had been sleeping ever since and I . . . I was melting into a puddle once more at the sight of him undressed, at peace, tangled in our blankets. Well, melting since his mam, who slept on the pullout bench, left to keep Gran company.

My fingers trailed through Cian’s wavy locks. The constant disheveled, just bedded look of those silky strands blushed hot in my veins, even when I was pissed at him. Stars, I craved preening his hair every second of every day. And when those rich, sunny strands fell over his gray eyes? When he peered at me through those very same fallen, mussed locks?

I became moonstruck.

He was a kind of beautiful that defied convention. With a masculine beauty in form and a feminine beauty of face, his soul possessing the aspects of both. Now that I knew he was part fae—not just any fae either, but a demi-god descended from a powerful triple goddess line—his strange, indescribable Otherworldliness made sense.

His insatiable carnality too.

And oh how he openly indulged in his sexuality.

For as long as I had known Cian Merrick, people of all races and genders had eagerly hung off his arms, kissed him behind the tents. When older, they took him to their rooms in the villages we rolled through or visited his and Rhylen’s wagon instead.

Not that I was any better. I had a trail of dalliances too. My appetite for casual seductions couldn’t rival his, though. Not in this lifetime. Not in two lifetimes. The lad was as sensually charged as he was chaotically restless.

The pad of my finger brushed over the soft curve of his full lips, ones no longer stained with rouge. It made my pulse race when they were, though. When they left their marks on my skin too.

For seven years, since I was thirteen and he sixteen, I had dreamed of those lips tasting mine.

Yet, despite my growing fledgling feelings clear through maturity, despite Cian always noticing every little thing around him, he acted unaware and would tease me, like he did Filena. Include me in his escapades, also like Filena. I was nothing more than the pesky, bossy little sister of his best friend and the granddaughter of the faerie who owned him.

Until, that is, our tribe’s Winter Solstice celebration four years ago.

While hiding behind another’s wagon, drinking wine a village boy had bought me, Cian found me. Just walked up as if he knew exactly where I was. Like usual, he didn’t peer directly my way. Instead, he fell against the wagon beside me, staring up into the night sky as we passed the bottle back and forth.

We were sixteen and nineteen and he was just so beautiful, I couldn’t help stealing moonlit glances at him. The night had dusted his lashes in silver and painted the sweep of his cheekbones in pale light. And his lips, full, lush, often tipped in mischief, were flushed with desire. Confused, my gaze had drifted upward and . . . he was looking at me—truly looking at me. Not as a sister or friend, but as something other . As something that could be more .

And what we wanted was forbidden.

But I didn’t care.

Right before Cian’s lips met mine, my brother had called his name. Panic had flashed across Cian’s eyes for the faintest heartbeat. Panic followed by an emotion I couldn’t decipher. He hollered “here” and walked backward, tossing me one of his trademark boyish, up-to-no-good grins . . . and left.

After that night, he avoided looking my way again.

And my pining soul began withering to dust.

I slowly blinked and dragged my fingers from his lips to caress the delicious lines of his abdomen.

We had co-existed in a strange, shapeless place the four years since. But a month before the tent fire, the one that destroyed part of West Tribe, our relationship had materialized into something breathless and intentional. And it was us, only us. Our siblings were not involved, like in the past. I had been drowning in loneliness. I missed Filena. I missed my brother too. Our work and social schedules constantly conflicted. And when we weren’t working, we took turns caring for Gran.

Cian began dropping by the confectionary wagon to check in on me before meeting up with the lads. He made a point to also sit beside me around the cook pot as well as riddle me while doing chores. Well, more like sparking my competitive ire. He had this knack for winding me up.

But suns above, I had needed him. I had needed a fight too, to give my grief fists.

Cian acted the fool— was a fool—but he had this uncanny ability to show up when one needed him most. He knew exactly what was needed too.

Cian just always . . . knew .

The pad of my finger began tracing the curves of Cian’s chest and I bit back a dreamy sigh.

“Glenna . . .”

My fingers stilled.

His sleep-roughed voice shivered down my body.

Gray eyes slowly squinted open. “Keep worshiping me, darlin’, and—”

I flicked his forehead.

“Ow!” He pushed up on his elbows, every muscle taut. “What the feck was that for?”

I shoved open the curtains and his face twisted into a grimace. “Need another hint?”

Groaning, Cian shut the curtain as he fell back onto the pillows, then draped an arm over his eyes. “Sadistic witch.”

“Preening harlot.”

He snorted.

I waited a second, then gritted out, “You could have been arrested!” Public drunkenness was legal at licensed markets, fairs, and pubs. Not train stations. He knew this too. I could throttle him, I was so upset.

“You know why drunkards never stop drinking?”

“You’re a reveler, eejit. Not your da.”

Cian rolled over onto his side to face me. “Pain,” he answered quietly—seriously. “We’re not cut out to handle pain.” He glared at me. “Including hangovers.”

“Next time, darlin’ , drink the bottle at camp.” I rested a hand on his bicep and softly added, “Lean on me, Cian. Whatever pain you face, I’m always here.” Then squeezed. “At. Camp.”

A rascally corner of his mouth lifted for half a heartbeat before his features tightened. His eyes were suddenly sharp and studied my face with an intensity that pebbled my skin. “What happened?” He brushed the tip of his finger in the barest caress over a small scrape on my upper cheek.

“An accident.” My eyes darted to the window above our heads. “Nothing to fuss about.” If he knew it was from hitting the ground last night . . .

Cian gently pinched my chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced me to look at him. “What happened, Glenna?” The wildness building in his eyes combined with the lower, deadlier tone of his voice pooled liquid heat low in my belly—and dread. When I didn’t answer right away, the protectiveness in his gaze shattered. “Oh gods, I did . . . I did this . . .”

“No,” I quickly reassured him. Falling stars, my heart. “You would never intentionally hurt me, Cian Merrick, drunk or sober.”

“Intentionally?” He laughed bitterly. “Does it matter?”

I blew out a slow breath. “You passed out and I wasn’t strong enough to hold you up.” To lighten the moment, I smirked. “You were trying to kiss me, eejit, and while telling me you ended your fake wedding with Owen.”

The paleness of his face grew more bloodless. “I was forcing myself on you.”

“Gods, no, Cian.” I rolled him to his back to straddle his hips, then cupped his face. “You are not him.”

“If I ever—”

“You’ll not finish that sentence, mate.”

His eyes widened, same as mine. We had never called each other mates. We hadn’t called ourselves . . . anything. But the word slipped out. I had loved him for years. Pined for him to the point of only taking blond-haired, blue-eyed mortal lads to my bed. Creepy, probably, a Raven collecting trait absolutely, but my stricken heart didn’t know how else to indulge in what was forbidden.

Now my fantasy was reality and I would not let him fear a real relationship—fear me.

I pressed my mouth to his in a soft kiss.

His chest rose and fell with a deep, trembling sigh. I could feel his panic rising. This was a man who didn’t settle easily, with a body that was always on the move, a mind that spun faster than a spinning wheel. A man who had drifted from lover to lover, not caring if he knew their name or if they knew his.

I scraped my small canine along his bottom lip, gently bit down, and ground my hips against his.

“Glenna, darlin’ . . .” His voice cracked.

With a wicked little grin, I tugged on his lip, satisfied when he released a breathy moan.

“Be a good boy, promise to never get drunk at the train station again,” I teased, though I was quite serious, “and I’ll give you another treat.”

Cian’s smile was slow. “Know where else you can bite me?”

“You’d enjoy that too much, darlin’ .” I yanked the curtain open again.

“Fecking hell,” he hissed, scrunching up his face. “Cake hag.”

“Gaudy tart.”

He grabbed the curtain, snorting back a laugh, and I smacked his hand. “Promise me.” I opened the curtain more.

“Aye,” he groaned, covering his eyes. “I won’t get drunk at the train station while we don’t have bail money.”

“ Be drunk,” I corrected. “You won’t get or be drunk at the docks, period.”

“Gent of Fem,” he drolled, voice flat, “we’ll live hundreds of years. Don’t be a dryshite.” He peeked at me from beneath his arm just so I could see his eye roll.

I let out a loud sigh. “Fiiiine.” I pulled his hands from his eyes. “Swear in the blinding sunlight that you won’t get drunk in any unlicensed public place while we can’t bail your shiny, sparkly arse from jail.”

Squinting a glare, he drawled, “I promise that my sexy , sparkly arse you want to bite and kiss”—he suggestively bit down on his bottom lip and my traitorous thighs clenched—“won’t intentionally get drunk in any unlicensed public place while you can’t spring me from jail.”

I shut the curtain and his body deflated in relief. With the motion, loose curls from my still-pinned up hair spilled around his face and he softly blinked. The appreciative daze didn’t linger long, though, and was quickly replaced with a devious slant to his lips.

“While worshiping me in my sleep, as you should,” Cian lilted, “the reverent motion of your fingers seemed insultingly distracted.” My brow arched in a silent scoff. The lad was so full of himself. “What was your pretty head thinking about?”

“Honestly?”

“Obviously.”

“Why did you ignore me for years?”

His eyes sharpened onto mine again. “You were thinking about the Winter Solstice revel?”

I nodded, not surprised that he knew what I asked without much information.

His hands slid up my thighs, tugging my cotton nightgown higher and higher with the possessive touch. “Because,” he whispered against my mouth, “I only know how to obsess and you would ruin me.”

“For others?”

“If I got too close . . .” His fingers curved around my bare arse and dragged me across his hardened length and gods, my eyes fluttered closed. “If I kissed you that night or any night, I would have died of a broken heart.”

My eyes opened and found his. Our breaths heavy. Our bodies moving in a lazy, teasing rhythm.

“I would have pined for you until I wasted away to nothing.”

The fingers gripping my arse dug into my soft flesh, a bite of pain that was all pleasure, and I gasped.

“You are my gean cánach , Glenna Lonan. My Love-Talker.”

His mouth crushed mine in a bruising kiss right as he spun me to my back. And Holy Mother of Stars did this man kiss with his whole body. I had promised him another treat for agreeing to behave, but now he was worshiping me. Fire raced just beneath my burning skin. The muscles of his arms and chest danced as he hovered above me. I sank my fingers into his bed-mussed locks. The searing heat of his hands pushed up my nightgown—

And stilled.

His entire body froze.

“That wee bastard.”

I angled on the pillow to track his gaze and wrinkled my nose when spotting the hideous red boot. Aye, it was a horrible crime against fashion and . . . everything .

An instant mood killer.

“George left that abomination here last night, then ran off with Barry.”

Cian groaned a few choice words and slipped from the blankets. He groaned again while straightening, this time from the throb in his hungover head. Not that it stopped him when seducing me. But that arsehole would attempt seductions while rattling his final, dying breaths.

No, he was the legendary gean cánach, a Love-Talker . . . what the eastern city mainlanders called a gancanagh, a male faerie who seduced mortals and fed off their lust and pining. Just one touch of his skin and she would grow instantly addicted to him, never to recover, the poor lass fated to die of a broken heart in a lovesick frenzy or by refusing to eat when, after taking his fill of her, he left.

Such a creature didn’t exist. At least, not anymore. It was a tale to warn about the dangers of becoming elf struck by male faeries with honeyed tongues who abused their predatory beauty and coercion magic to the social shame of mortal girls.

Beware of faerie boy smiles . . . as the saying went.

No warning mortal lads about faerie girls, though, thank the wishless falling stars. Half my wardrobe came from elf struck village boys. My favorite feathered hat too.

Oh fine, maybe I was a gancanagh too.

We both were.

“Glennie Lo,” Cian murmured while pulling on a pair of pants. “I need you to break my heart in a coin—”

I didn’t hesitate. “Pink-toned rouge is entirely the wrong color for your complexion.”

Cian’s mouth fell open. “That was unnecessarily cruel.”

“Cry on Owen’s shoulder.” I leaned back on my elbows, shaking the loose curls from my shoulders for extra dramatic effect.

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, darlin’.”

Cian pulled a shirt over his head and I could weep. Those muscles, that body that almost owned mine until a single, ghastly red boot ruined everything. Why? Who really knew with Cian Merrick.

Cocking his head, he grabbed said romance-ending ugly boot and pointed it at me, a trickster’s gleam in his eye as he did so.

“Owen’s heartbreak over being my fake ex-mate-to-be still counts.”

Now I did scoff. “ Darlin’ ,” I tossed back, “fake breaking Owen’s drunk heart does not count.”

“He was sick with anguish.”

“Villagers, Cian, not a Traveler lad.”

“What about a mainlander traveling lad? Or lass?” He flashed me that up-to-no-good grin of his and I hesitated.

Was he suggesting we seduce strangers like before we—well, before whatever we were? I wanted to wipe that smug grin off his irritating, way-too-pretty face. But I wanted to crow in victory over his defeat even more.

Rolling my eyes, I slid to my feet and fisted my hands on my hips. “I’d still fake break more of their hearts than you, darlin’ .”

“My feisty Love-Talker . . .” he caged me against the bed, the revolting red boot pressing into my hip. “My gorgeous Gent of Fem.”

Cian swooped in and kissed me, a hungry, demanding kiss I felt clear down to my curling toes. I could eternally die to the feel of his lips on mine every single time. A thousand suns were setting in my tightening skin. My entire body was floating in his arms when the arse backed away, grinning the smile of a boy who knew he was magic. Then he left me pressed to our bed, in a rucked-up nightgown and panting for him.

As if he had already won our bet.

But I would destroy him at his own game.