Counterfactual

21 | wild hunt

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WILD HUNT

( — european folk myth involving a ghostly or supernatural group of huntsmen passing in wild pursuit. )

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          FOR SOMEONE SO TINY, ISLA IS SURPRISINGLY DETERMINED.

          Perhaps it's the way her fingers slide into his hair. Perhaps it's how she easily knocks him off balance, even though she has to stand on her toes to do it. Perhaps it's how everything she is and everything she does simply knocks him out and how he has no desire to fight against it.

          It just goes to show she's not the only one of them willing to let go. Rowan carries his emotional baggage with him everywhere he goes and it's not something he can easily conceal or shove to the back of a closet when things get serious. When things get difficult, he retreats into the shadows, having gotten used to problems never actually getting solved. After all, it's a lot easier to simply sweep them under the rug.

          Isla, Isla, Isla.

          She kisses him like she cares, like she wants to stay, and Rowan can't say that's something he's used to. He feels so awfully needy, not wanting her to feel like she's doing this because she should, instead of doing it because it's what she wants. He certainly doesn't want her to think he's so desperate for affection he's willing to lie and manipulate, even if the need for affection is real.

          He wouldn't lie. Not like that.

          "Please," she whispers, stepping back after what felt like an eternity, "stop thinking."

          "That's sort of impossible," Rowan whispers back, when she drops her hands, and she throws him a skeptical look.

          "You'd be the type of person to still have something snarky to say even after this." Rowan reaches out a hand towards her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and she softens almost imperceptibly with his touch. He doesn't dare to move an inch or to step closer to her, not wanting to test her boundaries, even if he can still feel the ghostly presence of her lips against his. "You know what I meant."

          "And you know what's going on." Rowan finally walks away, picking up his empty mug of coffee and dousing it with water before letting it rest inside the sink. Isla stays right where she is. "You know why I'm here. You know what will happen once I'm done."

          "Trust me, I know. Papa keeps reminding me of that." Rowan turns to face her, leaning the small of his back against the sink, and she firmly crosses her arms, returning to her defensive position. A sharp pang of guilt slices him through the chest as she speaks, and he really, really wishes he had simply stayed quiet, as it would have made things a lot easier for both of them. "I know the book is the only reason why you're here, and I know I can't make you stay, not when you've been counting down the days to leave this place. He told me to stay away"—she deeply inhales—"because I'd get hurt."

          With a tiny sigh, Rowan stares down at his feet, knowing he can't argue with Isla's father, who just so happens to be his employer . . . and the person she and Rhiannon say is covering for two professors, who are covering for whoever killed Taylor. Though he respects the man, he has to know if that's actually true, seriously doubting Gabriel Guerreiro has a single mean bone in his body.

          If it's true, he's not doing it for all the wrong reasons. At least, that's what Rowan has been trying to convince himself of, seeing as there's no concrete evidence other than Rhiannon's word, and it's not like he knows her. All he knows about her is what she wants him to know, and it seems like a recurrent theme in all her relationships, even the most superficial ones.