Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(7)

She peered over her shoulder at the body. “If they would just listen, for once in their stubborn lives, I might be able to teach them something!”

“Not today, lovely. Not today.”

He propelled her from the room with such ease Sorcha wondered if he had cursed her. More likely he was overpowering her. Geralt stood a head taller and didn’t mind using his greater weight to his advantage.

There was little else she could do. Sorcha wanted to stay, but would only make a larger scene if she did. Perhaps someday they would let her linger, even in the corner or in the shadows.

But she was just a midwife, and therefore, a lesser being.

Geralt leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. “Now, what is wrong with your father?”

“You know what’s wrong with him. He’s infected.”

“I know he's infected, but you’ve never used him as an excuse before. What has changed?”

“It’s progressed.”

Geralt nodded at another nobleman. The other did not return the gesture. Old blood rarely acknowledged new riches. “How far?”

She stopped in her tracks. “Why are you even asking? You don’t care how he fares!”

“Of course I care.” He pressed a hand against his chest. “I have always cared, Sorcha.”

Everything was spiraling out of control. Her gut clenched and her fingers curled into fists. “This is not why I am here, Geralt. I’m not having this conversation with you in the middle of the Guild.”

“Then let us walk outside.”

“We’ve talked this through so many times! Enough!” Her exasperated shout echoed. Men stopped in their work and glanced towards them.

Her face turned bright red, freckles standing out in stark relief against her pale skin. The last thing she needed was for these men to think she was hysterical. She already shouted enough.

Sorcha ducked her head and headed towards freedom, reminding herself to stay calm and composed.

“Sorcha!” Geralt called after her.

She rushed forward, bursting through the front door, and jogging down the steps. He caught up with her. The harsh tug of his hand on her arm would leave bruises.

“Would you at least listen to me?”

“I think I’ve heard it enough times.” She shook herself out of his grip and rubbed at her bicep.

“You would have everything you desire,” he said as she walked away. “You’d have a home, a husband, children.”

“Is that what I’m supposed to want?”

“A man who adores you. Who whispers poetry in your ear every night and devotes himself to your happiness.”

It sounded so good that she paused. He spoke of a life every woman desired. A loving relationship with a man who supported her every whim and passion. But she knew Geralt well. He wanted to believe he was that man, yet his eyes lingered upon the curves of other women. He drank more than he admitted and, above all else, he wasn’t as good as he thought.

“I desire a useful man. One who can help us in our hour of need.” She glanced over her shoulder. A curling red lock brushed across her face in the stiff breeze. “Words are of no use if no one is left to hear them.”

“You want me to be the hero? I can’t save everyone!”

“No, you cannot. You’re not a healer. You pay to be in that room among the brightest minds to satisfy your morbid curiosity,” she lashed out. “Why won’t you believe me when I say I can help?”

“You are a woman! What help could you provide?”

There it was. There was the anger, the red rage she saw so rarely. He buried his temper deep inside until it boiled over his edges.

“My sex doesn’t change how much I know.”

“You’re naturally weak. You cannot help that, and we all understand. Why can’t you?”

She drew herself up, squared her shoulders and gripped her plaid. “I am not weak because of my femininity. I do not look down upon you for not knowing how to birth a child or the right way to guide a woman through her first menses. Perhaps you should ask yourself why you feel the need to look down upon me.”

A crowd gathered around the edges of her vision. This wasn’t the first time she had screamed at a man in the street, or a woman for that matter. She gritted her teeth.

“You can’t change the world, Sorcha.”

“I would if I could.” She turned away from the town, from the villagers hiding smirks, from confused, handsome Geralt.



A crash shook the entire kitchen. Clay plates rattled, and a mug fell to the floor, shattering with an echoing clatter. The shutters slammed against the stained-glass windows with thunderous bangs.

The brownies flinched. They lifted their pointed, furred faces towards the ceiling. Nervous chuckles floated in the air with the bubbles from their dishes.

Oona, the only pixie in the kitchen, lifted her violet gaze and sighed. “The master’s angry tonight.”

“He was angry last night and the night before that!” The gnome walking into the room could look a sheep in the eye. His face was eerily similar to a bowl of mashed potatoes, with winged eyebrows always drawn down in an angry frown. He waddled to Oona and dumped a basket of flowers on the table. “For dinner.”

“Thank you, Cian. Are you bringing the master his supper tonight?”