Mists of Velvet

the wall to the floor, she clutched the white sheet to her body.
    He must never discover the truth about the prophecy. He had been close to the truth but had not quite uncovered it.
    Resting her head against the wall, she closed her eyes and thought of Covetina. She had been her handmaiden, her confidante, her best friend. And in a fit of jealousy, she had ruined both their lives, and the lives of two innocent children. Her envy had set the prophecy into motion. Her betrayal of her one true friend had cast a darkness in her heart that Cailleach had never been able to shed.
    No one knew of her part in setting about the prophecy—except Suriel. What would he ask for in return for his silence? She shivered. There had been a promise in those dark, obsidian eyes of his. He would be back for her, and she, the Supreme Goddess of Annwyn, dared not refuse whatever it was he wanted—not if she wanted her secret safe.

    Rowan rapped quietly against the door for the third time. Obviously Keir was sound asleep; either that, or he wasn’t in the room. She was about to leave when the door opened a crack and Keir peered out. Seeing her, he opened the door a bit more, revealing his gorgeous half-naked body.
    Rowan felt her eyes go wide at the sight. She would never, ever get used to seeing him shirtless—all those tattoos and the big, bulging muscles. Her mouth went dry as she looked her fill. Then she reminded herself that Keir was a friend. And that was all he was.
    She looked away from the six-pack abs and up to his face, and her heart started racing. The five o’clock shadow he was sporting made him look different, lent him an added air of danger and virility. This was a side of Keir she was certain no one ever saw. He always kept himself calm and in control, but now he looked a bit wild, and oh so gorgeous.
    “Are you okay?”
    She appreciated the worry she saw in his eyes, but at the same time it irritated her. She was dying, but she wasn’t dead.
    “I, ah . . .” she said, wetting her lips, trying not to make it appear that she was checking him out when she obviously was.
    “Rowan?”
    Even his voice was deeper, more enticing, alluring. Oh, how she wanted him. Despite her past; despite never having been able to enjoy the touch of a man, she wanted him. She wanted so badly for him to be the one to push past her fear and break down the barriers.
    “Can I come in?” she asked at last.
    His beautiful violet-rimmed eyes flickered with emotion. “I—I don’t think so. Let me get my shirt, and I’ll come out.”
    “No, wait”—her hand shot out to hold open the door—“I’d really rather do this in private.”
    With obvious reluctance, Keir opened the door and stood back, allowing her into his room—or perhaps “tomb” would have been a more fitting description.
    The door closed behind her, clicking into place, thrusting the room into a darker shade of black. The candle flames flickered with the movement of air, and Rowan blinked several times, trying to accustom herself to the darkness.
    “Have a seat.”
    Keir tossed a stack of books onto the floor, freeing up a chair beside the bed. She cast a glance at the bed and saw that it was a huge antique four-poster. The coverings were black, as were the curtains. The walls were painted black, and even the dozens of burning candles were black.
    As she sank down onto the chair, she watched Keir shrug into a white shirt, which he didn’t bother to button.
    “You’re nervous.”
    “No, I’m just—”
    “Nervous,” he said again.
    She laughed uneasily. “Just a little. I don’t know why.”
    “It’s the black. It affects you.”
    “I suppose,” she muttered, looking around the room. “There certainly is a lot of it.” Jeez, it was like something out of a gothic novel, with all the candles and the silk and the black.
    “It helps me think,” he said, passing her a glass of water he had just poured from a carafe on a table beside the bed. “There is no distraction, nothing to intrude on my thoughts.”
    “What were you doing?”
    He waved to a circle on the floor. Tarot cards were spread out in the shape of a Celtic cross. He bent down and picked up a card, passing it to her. “The Empress.”
    “And that means?”
    “You. She is a powerful psychic; yet she keeps a part of herself hidden—like you.” He glanced at her, then back at the tarot spread. “All the cards are there. Everything about the prophecy; it is there, just waiting to be