could get over the insanity of that if he hadn’t pretended to be my friend—and then almost had sex with me before the tiny bit of conscience he had left stopped him.”
Niamh blushed. “Well … you being his mate, I’d think it would be difficult for him to control his attraction to you.”
“Don’t make excuses for him.”
“I’m so sorry, mo chroí.”
Hearing his voice from her dreams, she glowered at the ceiling. “What … what does ‘muh kree’ mean?”
“Mo chroí? It means ‘my heart,’” Ronan answered.
Jesus. A horrible ached flared inside her. “And ‘muh graw’?”
Niamh and Ronan shared a look and then Niamh replied, “Mo grá means ‘my love.’”
He’d called Aoibhinn his love and Rose his heart. “Is there a difference? He called me the first and his wife the second.”
Niamh shrugged. “It’s the one answer I don’t have.”
“I’m sure it’s interchangeable for a lot of people,” Ronan said, strolling toward them. “But I’ve never been in love and I’ve called plenty of women the latter.” He sat down on the coffee table in front of Rose. “I’ve never called a woman mo chroí.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “You’re just saying what you think I need to hear so I’ll go back to Fionn and convince him to give up his revenge plans.”
“You’re not wrong,” he admitted. “But I’m also not lying.”
Exhaling heavily, Rose thrust her hands into her hair and bowed her head, staring at the silver box that contained An Breitheamh. “Even if I found the strength to go back to the bastard, I’ll never convince him. He told me before I left that he couldn’t kill me. I didn’t believe him at the time, but now I do. Problem is, I know in my gut that he hasn’t given up. He’ll come for you again, Niamh. Or the other fae-borne. Have you had a vision of your own future?”
“Magic is a strange thing … I’ve never had a vision about myself. It’s like magic has a sense of morality or rules or something. Knowing my own future would be cheating, I guess.”
“Then how do you know your fate is to be immortal?”
“That I feel in my gut.” Grief pinched her expression as she looked at Ronan. “I’m destined to outlive those I love.”
Ronan’s expression hardened and he looked away, staring out the window, apparently unwilling to discuss a life where they were no longer together. There was a tension between the siblings Rose didn’t quite understand. It was clear Ronan was protective of Niamh, but something like resentment bubbled between them.
Getting back to the point, Rose said, “It’s hopeless.”
“You underestimate the mating bond.” Niamh leaned toward her. “I know it’s much to ask, but you need to put your current feelings aside and do what’s right.”
“And what about—” Rose cut off, her whole body electrified with warning signals as Niamh froze, eyes wide, her mouth open as if in a silent scream. Her head shook from side to side in small, frantic increments, just like it had done that night at the club. “Ronan!”
He hurried to his sister’s side, grabbing on to her flailing hands, struggling to keep hold against her fae strength. “Nee, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured.
Then just as abruptly, she stopped.
And a wail burst out of her, a deep, agonizing, mourning cry that sent a shiver down Rose’s spine. Tears filled Niamh’s eyes as she clasped her brother’s face in her hands. “No,” she sobbed.
Ronan’s face paled. “Nee?”
Before another word could be spoken, the world turned to chaos. The apartment windows blew open, screaming shards of glass flying everywhere. Pieces sliced at Rose’s skin before she had time to register what was happening.
“Ronan, run!” Niamh yelled, her grief-stricken expression morphing into fierce determination as she threw herself to her feet.
Rose was on hers too as the front door blasted open and people poured into the room, over the balconies, and through the broken windows.
Encircling them.
Witches and warlocks.
There were many of them. Too many.
Twelve. Blocking every way out of the loft apartment.
Under normal circumstances, Rose would’ve traveled out of there, but she couldn’t leave Niamh, and Niamh wouldn’t leave Ronan behind. There was nowhere for Ronan to run.
That’s when she caught sight of the weapon in each of their hands.
Silvery-gray daggers.
Pure iron.
“The O’Connors,” Rose said for Niamh and Ronan’s benefit.
A short, wiry witch wearing skinny jeans and a short leather jacket like the one Rose left in Zagreb stepped forward from her spot near the doorway. She twirled the dagger in her hand, her dark eyes