Page 25 of How To Tame A Trickster Fae

Is this what I’ve become? From one of the highest courtiers of the Dark Queen to a dissolute elf topside, craving the taste of a mortal witch?

How the mighty have fallen.

I glance over at her, though, and there’s no denying my growing attraction to her. Her cheeks are bright pink, whether from my tasteless comment or the chill in the air, I’m not sure, but I want to run the pads of my fingers across her skin and test their warmth.

I want to lick at the chocolate crumb stuck to her lower lip, to see what the spiced cherry cider tastes like on her tongue, and the foolish, stupid piece of me that guesses what she could be would risk it all for that chance.

A witch. A fucking witch.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, patting at her snarled hair. Snarled, and in desperate need of a comb.

“Why are you sad?” I ask her, surprising us both with the question.

“Why are you sad?” she repeats, glaring at me.

I snort a laugh, and she half-smiles.

“You said you were an outcast too,” I press, looking for an advantage. It wouldn’t do to become entangled long-term with a witch, of course… but maybe I can whet my appetite for her in other ways.

I nearly nod to myself, but catch the movement at the last minute.

“Is that why you’re sad?” I ask.

“Do fae usually ask such blunt questions?”

“Do witches usually avoid them?” I counter.

She comes to a standstill in front of a strange little building. Deep blue plaster flakes in several places, and a small sign simply boasts an etching of stars.

I sniff in disdain.

“I was rejected from a business organization I would like to be a part of.”

My mouth drops open in surprise. “Your work is exquisite.”

It’s not a lie, either. The few moments I took this evening watching her work, studying the pieces on display in the window, proved her to be nothing short of a master of her craft, possessing both goldsmith and lapidary skills at a level I didn’t know mortals were even capable of.

“Oh,” she says, her eyes widening, a fresh wave of rosy pink washing across her cheeks. “You don’t have to say that.”

“It’s true,” I tell her. I need her to know that—it’s the least she deserves.

“This is Nerissa’s home,” she says, turning away, pleased and embarrassed at my praise.

I like the way she looks right now.

I'll have to lavish kind words upon her.

I wonder if she’s that susceptible to praise in bed, as well.

“Nerissa,” I repeat, my annoyance at the centaur dissolving at the idea of her coming around my cock while I tell her what a good job she’s doing.

“She is a spellsmith,” Wren tells me. “Best I’ve ever met, and in the city—” Her voice breaks, and she looks down at her shoes.

A bit threadbare for my tastes. I should find her something more suitable.

“In the city that cast you out?” I guess, mining for information the same way a dwarf would sniff out a vein of precious ore.

“Not the city, so much.” A lopsided grin curves up half her mouth. “The coven I was in, however, they did the casting out. And now the guild I need on my side to find clients, you know, their shining endorsement on my door so people don’t think their wrists and fingers are going to turn green or worse, that their dicks are going to shrivel and fall off.”

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