Page 1 of How to Keep a Fae

Chapter One

Adaline

Feeder. That is my designation. That is what I am. You’ll find me at the bottom of the hierarchy, barely above the breeders.

Not that I consider myself superior to anyone and might even envy the breeders in the still of the night.

Here in Sanctum, status among fae is all about the power of your blood and what it offers to the alpha warriors who take it. The blood of breeders has no benefit, save it acts as an aphrodisiac for the alphas given leave to rut them through their heat.

To breed them.

I have never felt an alpha’s touch during my heats. Feeders are isolated—alone, untended.

Sometimes, I wish I were a breeder, to have a child to nurture, to feel them grow within my body, to love him or her until the time comes when we must part, even though that is a pain of a differentkind.

Alpha children are initiated, changed so they can consume blood, indoctrinated, and trained as warriors and in war. At least a female child gets the stay with her mother.

I sigh. That is a sore point, too.

Breeders, feeders, and alphas are all lowly in the eyes of the imperials—the fae with the potent blood that heals and enhances the recipient and can even offer longevity of life.

I dream of such a life. To be imperial is to hold a position of command and power and to love someone of your choosing, maybe even to take a mate.

Feeders do not mate, breeders neither, at least not often. And we definitely do not get any choice in the warriors allocated to us.

Blood.

Power.

We have a culture that is all about surviving amid the endless war.

Dreams are not for me. I am a feeder. That is my purpose. To give myself and my blood freely to any warrior in need.

To any warrior, whether he is in need or not.

Connection.

I crave a connection. Something that lasts beyond the intimacy of the moment. The younger me was content to enjoy the pleasures of many, but now I find I want something more. Maybe there comes a time when all feeders harbor these feelings. Certainly they are whispered often enough during quiet times when the alphas have no need of us.

It is not all bad. There is humor and laughter amid the sorrow; joy, and passion, too. I am not the only omega who has snuck into the warrior hall during celebrations to seek the attention of an alpha for no reason other than pleasure. I am a fae, a wingless fairy, and an omega. We areknown for our gregarious, giving nature. We love pretty things and comfort. We love to dance and sing. As for mischief, it is part of our soul.

But we are also sensitive.

We feel everything, both good and bad, so very deeply.

My faraway look redirects to my chamber, the small, intimate space with stone walls hung with thick tapestries and the aged wooden floor covered in an equally vibrant rug. My nest—the essential part of every omega’s room—and whatever her rank or breed, and on which I lounge, is thickly layered with brightly woven blankets and decorated cushions. They do not skimp on our comfort, at least. House Silva, my house, one of many within the undercroft of Sanctum, is but a small cog in a giant system of wheels, playing a part. In the cruel world we live there is no place for compassion beyond how it might be used to facilitate our survival.

Our harsh, precarious existence juxtaposes the closeted nature of our lives and the luxury of our rooms. On one side, feeders and breeders do not experience war, nor do we ever leave Sanctum. On the other, the impacts are thrust upon us, breaking us as surely as any blade or blow when the warriors return littered with wounds.

My gaze lowers to the book I was reading, its pages worn from use. It is one of many secretly passed among feeders and breeders, the low fae and humans of the undercroft. Every page is filled with all we long for: love, companionship, a family unit… a happily ever after.

This one is about a young fae claimed, scandalously, by not one but four mates. Such books are forbidden, and should it be discovered in my possession, punishment would be swift and sure. That Denna, the mistress of House Silva, would also remove the cherished book from circulation is by far the worst punishment of all.

I feel like I am still new to this, yet at other times, I feelinexplicably old. I am still young in fae years, although if I were human, I would be considered mature.

I think that makes it worse. Holds me in reserve from allowing my heart to attach and seek favorites. Knowing the mainly human alphas who pass through our lives will age faster than us. Even a lowly feeder like myself would live longer than a warrior, for a while a few of them carry fae blood from their birth mothers, should they have been born to a breeder, more often, they are alphas conscripted from human lands.

Attachments.

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