Page 2 of How to Keep a Fae

“We cannot form attachments.”How often does our house mistress, Denna, drill that into us?

Frequently.

“There is only pain in that pathway,”she said.

Denna is cold and hard, but underlying it is pain that she chooses not to share with me or any of the feeders in her house.Her story is her own,I decide bitterly. We each have one. We each have hopes, fears, and aspirations.

We each lose sight of them.

“Adaline!” Denna’s stern hail rouses me from my musings.

I quickly snap my book shut and thrust it deep under the cushions of my nest. My house mistress is not one for wiles or fancies. She deals harshly with any signs of emotion in us, and worse, should any of us dare show favor to one male over another. Many have favorites, although they do not speak of them beyond whispers and shared empathy under the sensitive gaze of sister feeders and breeders.

I rush to my doorway and push the thick woven covering aside. Doors are not permitted here, but the covering provides some semblance of privacy, hiding us from view even if it does little to mute sounds.

My heart rate quickens as I peer out into the corridor. I amnot the only omega at her doorway, for Denna is calling many names.

Behind her come the warriors, alphas, bloody and wounded from battle, returned home to us through the portal. My stomach turns over with pity and rage. That I lie upon a fancy nest while they fight to keep us safe breaks me down and wounds my heart.

Chapter Two

Adaline

The mistress of House Silva continues onward. Under her direction, warriors peel off to the left and right, entering the chambers of the feeders, where they seek healing and comfort for their bodies and minds. My eyes widen, locked upon the powerful male standing before me. I take a hasty step back, dropping the door covering with a squeak before he can enter. I quickly snatch it aside, and he ducks to step in.

Goodness, he fills a small space.

I let the covering fall back into place—this time with him on the inside, and find avid interest in his serviceable boots.

A familiar rushing sensation courses through my body in readiness for him.

The human alpha before me is injured, but not badly. Wounds are not a necessity for a warrior being assigned to us. Often, it is more of a reward for whatever they have done or been through. Their body might be whole, but they have seenor done things that leave a different kind of wound upon the mind. Some fae, like me, can soothe that, too.

I swallow nervously. He has neither moved nor spoken, almost like he is waiting for me to find the courage to meet his eyes. I inhale slowly. My gaze rises over his muscular thighs encased in leather pants, the thick belt at his waist, and leather armor encasing a broad chest all the way to his strong throat. His face is a picture of rugged masculinity: a short beard, dark curly hair, mahogany eyes, and a golden complexion.

Goodness, he is a strapping male, if a little rough around the edges.

I bob a little curtsy. “Adaline.”

“Aye.” He smiles, transforming his face from rugged to breathtaking and revealing the sharp points of his fangs. “I heard the witchy house mistress say as much.”

I bit my lower lip, only half hiding my smile. Witchy is one of the less cruel terms I’ve heard applied to our indomitable house mistress.

He blows out a breath. “Fuck, you’re a pretty one.” His eyes meander a loving trail over me before returning to my face. “Where have they been hiding you away?”

My cheeks heat. I have met many males since I became a feeder, which feels like a long time ago now. When was the last time I blushed?

“You are hurt,” I say. “Please.”

My blood is already rising, although his injuries are minor. Feeding is instinctual, as is the desire to tend an alpha in whatever way they might need.

“Aye, nothing bad,” he says. He begins shucking out of his armor, the clips releasing one at a time.

We do not take our eyes off one another, both of us remaining rooted to the spot.

I wring my hands. My breasts begin to ache, and the tell-tale dampness gathers between my thighs. A feeder will always respond, yet my heightened reaction seems more extreme.

I swallow nervously as his body armor hits the floor with a clank, revealing acres of thick muscle that is more a living work of art than mere flesh. He kicks off his boots. His eyes lower as he unbuckles his belt, giving me leave to drink in his impossibly broad shoulders and bunched abs.