Page 22 of How to Keep a Fae

We’re too tired to kill one another. So there is that.

No one comes. We lay down on the rough cots, face down. Exhausted from the training and tormented by the whipping, we fall into fitful sleep.

Waking isn’t much better. Moving to sit up tears open the wounds on my back. I gulp down some water as August likewise rises, muttering curses under his breath.

I pass him the ladle. We share a look. He nods.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Shouldn’t have taunted you like that.”

“You shouldn’t,” he agrees. “But I shouldn’t have turned into a raging bull.”

I smirk. “Your face was a picture. The last time I saw you that angry was when I persuaded the serving lass to pretend the stores were out of beer.”

He rolls his eyes, then huffs out a chuckle, grimaces, and raises a hand. “Don’t make me laugh. It fucking hurts.”

“Sorry,” I say again, but I feel a little happy burst inside me. I’ve missed him and the banter between us. Things have changed, but I feel better about having everything out in the open.

I feel hopeful, too.

“How long do you think they’ll keep us locked up?” I ask.

He grunts.

But it’s more like a regular August grunt than something bitter and twisted.

The ring of approaching footsteps directs our eyes toward the door.

The iron door swings open, and Cecil enters, accompanied by two guards, who radiate menace with clubs at their hips.

We stand to attention, awaiting instructions. I feel fucking sheepish. What possessed me to taunt him like that?

Cecil looks us over. “Who?” he finally demands.

I cut a glance at August just as he glances at me.

“Eyes on me,” Cecil snaps. “You think you’re the first pair of whelps to fight over a feeder?”

“No sir,” we say in unison, although I definitely did.

He starts naming feeders.

Panic crawls up my spine.

He must have his suspicions because he doesn’t get far before he calls Adaline’s name… and stops.

Neither of us says a word, but both of us being saps for her, I suspect it’s written all over our faces.

He sighs heavily.

The panic is blooming again. Is he going to allocate us to another patrol? Exile us? My chest heaves, and even the small movement lances pain through my back. “It won’t?—”

“Silence, warrior!” Cecil roars.

Then he about turns and motions. “Come with me.”

We follow. The two guards follow to the rear, just in case we get ideas of insubordination. But I’m also on edge, my heart beating fast and my vision narrowing to a tunnel. I’m too wired to see where we’re going, so it comes as a surprise when I blink and find myself in the passage leading to House Silva.

“Don’t let the mistress of the house sense your weakness for the fae,” Cecil cautions, pinning us both with a look. “Denna’s views and ways are jaundiced by her past, and you’ll never bed the feeder again.” His face softens with something close to compassion. “But if you’re clever about it, and the fae is too, I’lldo whatever is in my power to ensure you more often get time with her.”

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