Page 56 of How To Tame A Trickster Fae

“How do you know you won’t get tired of me? You barely know me.”

“My species has been around since the world was learning to crawl, and yet the things your kind and others above ground dream up are both baffling and beautiful all at once. I know I won’t get bored of you because you’re the only one that matters to me now.”

It’s an odd speech, both comforting and strange. He says he knows what he wants, and that I believe, because a fae of his age must know himself better than anyone.

But I also know myself, and I’m hardly a prize.

“I get cranky when it’s too hot out. I hate sweating.”

“Go on,” he says, a mildly amused expression on his face as he sits back and studies me.

“I don’t like to clean. Or cook. I’m not a good cook, either. I like to knit in my spare time, of which there is none, and read, and snuggle with Fenn by the fire. I like my socializing in small doses and get overwhelmed easily in large crowds. I’ve been kicked out of a coven and the jeweler’s guild refuses to acknowledge the caliber of my work, so I might also be destitute soon without a steady flow of business from them.”

He nods, spearing a potato and hefting it into his mouth.

“I get so involved with my work that sometimes I forget to eat or brush my hair, and I like to be right.” I peer at him, waiting for him to turn tail and go running. “I let Fenn sleep on the bed with me.”

“That’s a deal breaker,” he says smoothly.

I bristle.

“I’m not shooing Fenn out of my?—”

“I’ll have to make sure you’re fed and your hair is brushed then. Come on, no time like the present to get started.”

“But, but?—”

“Wren, I’m out of patience for this laundry list of your so-called failings. You smell right to me, you are the most beautiful thing the sun has ever kissed with its morning light, and I want you.” He arches an eyebrow, taking our empty plates and washing them in the sink, then disposing of all the trash from our meal while I look on in utter shock.

No one’s ever said anything like that to me before.

Sure, I’ve had guys tell me I’m pretty, and from a scientific perspective I can agree that my face is pleasingly symmetrical and my skin, while prone to breakouts near the full moon, is still smooth and clear at thirty-two.

But to be spoken of like that?

That’s new.

Well, a woman could get used to that kind of thing.

I stand up, coming up behind where he’s rinsing his hands with the pitcher of cold water, and wrap my arms around his back.

He stiffens at the sudden touch, then slowly turns, looking down at where I’ve plastered myself to him.

“Thank you,” I mumble, the words somewhat lost in the fabric of his shirt.

“It’s what you deserve,” he says, looking surprised.

“Take me to bed,” I tell him.

I don’t have to say it twice.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CAELAN

Her bedroom smells even more like her, the mouth-watering scent of it driving me wild as I lay her down on her yellow bed.

Yellow bed, blonde hair, my little golden witch.

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