THREE MONTHS LATER

The lake was tucked away in a quiet part of the álainndoran palace’s grounds.

Ivy hung down from the surrounding trees, providing a hidden escape.

Below the trees, the bushes were finally gaining back their green hues, and Ronan couldn’t wait for the weather to get warm enough for him to plant a garden there.

The water was as smooth as the evening sky above, reflecting soft pinks and faded oranges. Ronan sat on the shore, Clía’s head resting against his chest, until their view was suddenly blocked by a dobhar-chú.

“Murphy, you’re dripping all over me.” Clía sighed, sitting up to pet the beast’s head. “Go back in the water and play, little one.”

“‘Little one’?” Ronan arched a brow. “He’s bigger than a horse.”

“He’s still a baby.” She watched as Murphy trotted away, his claws leaving gashes in the grass.

Ronan smiled, shaking his head as he tightened his arm around Clía. In the dusk, her hair had an otherworldly glow. His other hand reached up to cup her chin, tilting it toward him.

There was a splash—Murphy diving back under the surface—and Clía pulled away.

“I almost forgot!” she gasped. “There’s something I wanted to give you, before your father arrives today.”

She jumped to her feet, and Ronan reluctantly watched her walk away, missing the feel of her body next to his.

She paused by a tree, raising her brows with an impatient look on her face. Well, close your eyes, he could almost hear her saying.

He bit back his curiosity and listened to her silent demand.

The moment they’d returned to álainndore, Clía had leaped into motion, preparing her kingdom for the threats that hung over them.

Ronan, in turn, had quickly adjusted to his new role as interim chief of war.

There had been meetings with the other chiefs, banquets to appease the nobility, and a very tense discussion with her parents.

Since the battle of Caisleán Cósta, Tinelann and Ionróir had been quiet, but Ronan knew better than to trust the sudden peace.

They were waiting, and they would strike again.

But until that moment, he would enjoy his new life. Throughout the chaos, he and Clía still trained every morning, and tried to steal whatever quiet moments they could. Which is why they were hiding out by the lake—they wanted to make the most of their time before Ronan’s father arrived.

“Hold out your hands.” Clía’s voice was suddenly closer. When he obliged, he felt the weight of something in his palms. “You once gave me a gift. I thought it was about time I returned the favor.”

He opened his eyes.

The cane was made from a sleek dark wood and had an elegant gold handle. It felt light but strong in his hands.

“I don’t know what to say,” he whispered, his voice nearly failing him.

He had spent so long trying to fight his pain, to keep it from defining him. But during his time at Caisleán, he realized doing that was only hurting him more. In the end, it was up to him to decide what defined him.

He had begun to listen to his body, to understand his limits and build a life within them. A life that was beautiful and messy and everything he could ever want.

Clía had seen that, and she had been there every step of the way to encourage him. He could have made this progress without her; it would have been challenging and painful and long, and he would have done it. But having her by his side made it so much easier—and so much sweeter.

Two weeks ago, he mentioned an interest in finding a way to ease his pain when he stood, so he wouldn’t have to be leaning on whatever was closest when his knees decided to give him trouble.

She had listened as he explained and was quick to reassure him about the idea. Had she started planning this then?

“Thank you.” He looked into her eyes, and he knew she understood everything he couldn’t find the words to say.

“You haven’t even seen the best part yet.” She took the cane from him, pressing down on a subtle catch in the goldwork. She pulled the handle away from the rest of the cane, revealing a beautiful sword.

He almost laughed. “I love you.”

He took the cane—sword and all—and placed it gently on the ground before sweeping her into his arms. The kiss was slow and gentle and loving, with a passion burning underneath.

His hand drifted to her neck while the other encircled her waist, holding her close.

In her embrace, everything else seemed to fall away, and he felt like he was finally home.

She pulled back first, her smile sheepish. “I love you too, but we should probably get back. I don’t want to keep your father waiting.”

He took a breath and stepped back. “Lead the way, Princess.”

As she walked past him, Clía suddenly looked up. “Did I tell you—we received an invitation. To Niamh and Domhnall’s wedding.”

“That will be quite the event.” Ronan laughed. “I wonder—who do you think will kill the other first?”

“Niamh. There’s no question.”

“Want to make a bet?”

They continued down the winding path back to the palace. As they neared the main entrance, Ronan noticed the carriage waiting by the steps. He paused.

Clía stopped beside him, her gaze moving between the carriage and Ronan before her hand reached for his. “He’ll be so excited to see you.”

Ronan nodded, despite the doubt clawing at him. For so long, when he thought of his father, he could feel only guilt for the worry Ronan knew he brought him. But he was family, and they had spent enough time apart.

Amid the blood and betrayal and battles they faced, Ronan had learned to cling tightly to the light in his life. It was a choice that must be made in small moments, to hold fast to the bright points and the people you loved.

His hand tightened around Clía’s, and he smiled. “Let’s say hello, then.”