Page 38 of Keeping a Nymph’s Heart

“We don’t use her for now.” He couldn’t say he had no intention of using her or that he would defend her life as if it were his own if it came to it.

“And why not?” This time it was Lord Calix’s turn to speak. The older male had copper-colored skin, and his hair had grayed with age. “You had the perfect opportunity to let the changeling impersonate her while she was indisposed, and yet you didn’t take it.”

He had prepared for this line of questioning. He knew they would be looking for weakness or any signs of the way Owain felt about her. “Saving her in that garden will curry favor with King Mikki. She’s his most decorated hero, and we are meant to be his allies. If I left her to die in that garden, the king would have seen through our plans and may have even blamed us for the attack. Now we can continue on as planned but with increased goodwill from King Mikki and his people.”

Hells, he felt sick even thinking about using Orla in their schemes, but he had to play this part. If he played it correctly, he could still achieve all he had worked for. He would be legitimized as his father’s heir, and he would keep Orla safe. He refused for this to fail.

“It’s one thing to save her, it’s another to fuck her. Or is that also somehow to our advantage.” Rage roiled through him at Lord Allium’s words. He knew the older male was trying to bait him. To catch him off guard so that he made a misstep.

“Our lord is playing the long game,” Chrys piped up. “By bedding the chit, Owain secures her trust, making it easier to use her when the time comes. She won’t be suspecting it, and neither will anyone else after the little play he put on in the gardens.”

He really was going to be sick. Even though he knew Chrys was helping him out of a tight corner, he hated them talking about Orla like she was some piece of meat. Like she was nothing to him.

“Is that true?” asked Lord Patrin, his eyes narrowing in on Owain. “You’re simply bedding the female to gain her trust?” Owain clenched his fists under the table, nails biting into the skin of his palms.

“Yes.” It was all he could say. Anymore and his voice might crack, revealing the lie. The other lords nodded as if convinced by his performance.

The meeting continued on with Lord Patrin and Allium outlining strategic allies that would not challenge Owain’s father’s claim to the throne, while Calix informed them of Edamish troop movements. They were stationed right at the border between Edam and Emmental so that surprise would be on their side if it came to a battle between Edam and King Mikki’s army. Owain sat, stone faced and jaw tight throughout the meeting. It was nearly evening by the time they were done hatching their plans.

As the lord’s left the room, a missive was delivered by the court messenger. It was from Orla saying that she would be staying the night in the city but that she would be back in the morning and not to worry about her. His heart ached at the letter. He wondered if he had misread things between them. Chrys’s earlier words worming their way back into his mind. Maybe she wasn’t as interested in him as he was in her. They spend a night together, their first real night together, and she spends the next night in the city. He was putting so much on the line to be with her. He hoped it wasn’t all for nothing.

Owain knew better than to expect a nymph to feel as strongly as Elves did in romantic relationships. It wasn’t in their nature to fall as fast or for life, but Orla wasn’t just a nymph. He hoped to Amara that in that way, she was more Elven and that she was falling for him as deeply as he was falling for her.

Sensing his dismay, Chrys crossed the room, taking the message from Owain’s hand and reading it over. “Come on,” he said, gripping Owain by the shoulder and leading him out of the room. “Let’s go hit something.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The forest green door loomed large before her, expectantly. She had been standing outside of this stoop for nearly a quarter of an hour, debating on if she should be brave and actually knock.

After Owain had left that morning, Orla made her way down to the stables so that she could ready her horse for the journey from the palace to the heart of Imsil. She hoped to return before supper. On her breakfast tray, Owain had left her a drawing of a hellebore in full bloom. She gently folded the illustration and tucked it into the pocket of her cloak as she left. Winter was fully upon Emmental, though she hadn’t realized it in Owain’s rooms. Despite him rarely lighting the hearth, his rooms were always pleasantly warm. But as Orla entered the palace halls, she noted a significant chill.

The ride into the city was quick, but Orla had felt on edge the whole way. As expected, curious onlookers gawked and whispers of her identity dogged her as her horse trotted down the familiar cobblestone path.

Hero… Fontina…

There she is… Hero.

The words still set her on edge, but this time, she didn’t feel as gripped with panic as she had before. She knew they were wrong, that she was not a hero. But she had also felt lighter in the past few days.

Talking to Owain about her past had something to do with it. Never before had she told anyone the whole story of what happened in Fontina. She had told Cessly bits and pieces, but she avoided talking about what happened, and she had never told her that she had gotten distracted. That Orla let Rhyan die due to her negligence. Only Owain knew the full truth of what happened.

It’s funny, the kinds of things that force us to change. Orla had been stabbed, hit, and punched more times than she could count during her ten years in the king’s army. But it took nearly dying on the grounds of a palace she had grown to hate to make her realize that avoiding the things she was ashamed of didn’t make them go away.

Maybe Owain helped too. When she had told him about her failings, he hadn’t judged her or made her feel like the monster she so often thought she was. If anything, he showered her in kindness and worship. If that was his response, maybe Cessly could forgive her too.

Maybe she could even learn to forgive herself.

Leaving her horse tied up outside, Orla made her way up the familiar stone steps towards the forest green door of the townhouse. Finally, she knocked twice using the brass knocker and held her breath. She waited for a minute that seemed to stretch into an hour, picking at her cuticles as she waited. She was just about to turn and leave when the door creaked open, and on the other side, was Cessly. She wore a long purple tunic and gray trousers. She was barefoot and Orla could see the metal of her prosthetic under her pants.

Orla felt nervous, remembering how she ran from the sweet witch when she saw her at the palace. She suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands and fidgeted from one foot to the other.

“I hoped I’d see you again. Come in.” Cessly smiled, shocking Orla. Orla had expected anger and scorn, not to be welcomed into Cessly’s home. Cessly moved away from the entrance and ushered Orla inside before closing the front door.

The townhome was exactly as Orla had remembered. There was a large plush gray leather couch in the middle of the living room, buttressed by two wooden end tables on each side of it. The golden hearth was lit with purple fire that Cessly was fond of, using her magic to change the fire’s hue. The cream walls of the room were covered in art and portraits. Orla was surprised to see the one of her, Cessly, and Rhyan, shortly after they had risen from the rank of cadet to warriors. The trio smiled down at her. Rhyan had his arm perched atop Orla’s head while Cessly hugged Orla’s waist tightly. The sight of the three of them, so happy and carefree, made tears well in her eyes.

Orla turned to find Cessly watching her, eyes filled with the same sadness that Orla felt. Slowly, Cessly walked over to her. She stiffened just as she had in the palace, only this time she didn’t run as Cessly enveloped her in a bone-crushing hug. Cessly laid her head on top of Orla’s as Orla broke down, sobbing into the taller woman’s chest. She heaved and cried for every time she had felt so alone, every time she had wanted to talk to Cessly but felt too ashamed, too broken, too monstrous. And Cessly cried too. She cried for the friend she lost, and the other who shut her out. She cried for the life she lost in those battles, and the isolation that came after.

They stood there, holding each other, making up for the years of lost time. Sniffing, Orla lifted her head to wipe her eyes, and Cessly stepped back.