Page 18 of How To Please A Princely Fae

Piper and I both glare balefully at Caelan, who simply grins and shrugs. “It does smell like your magic, Willow witch.”

“Don’t presume you have my leave to speak to her in that tone,” Kieran snarls, and I blink in shock.

“Your leave?” I repeat, unsure if I’m annoyed Kieran wants to give permission for someone to talk to me or gratified to be stuck up for.

Somewhere in between, probably. I rub my temple.

Caelan, for his part, simply looks smug. Smug, and all too invested in Kieran's newfound self-designated role as my protector.

"So, you're finally ready to admit it to us all how you feel about Willow," Caelan drawls, pressing his fingertips against the top of the long table. A large cake teeters precariously on the stand next to him.

He must be exerting quite a bit of pressure to make it do that. Which means he must not be as calm, cool, and collected as he prides himself on being.

"Kieran doesn't know what he feels about me," I say. "He can't even remember any of you, much less form an opinion about me."

"I'm standing right here," Kieran says, iciness creeping into his voice. "I will be the judge of how I feel about you, my little croissant."

Nerissa bites her lips as if to keep from laughing, and even Ears makes a loud whuffing noise as if in disbelief.

Heat shoots up from my chest to my throat to my face, and I know I've turned as red as my hair.

"I am not your croissant," I say. The effectiveness of the declaration is somewhat hampered by the fact that I sound pathetically wispy when uttering it.

I try again.

"I am not your croissant?"

Great, now it just sounds like I'm asking a question.

He stares down his nose at me, a muscle in his temple twitching. "If I want you to be my little croissant, you will be my little croissant."

The heat flooding my body has less to do now with embarrassment than it does with a heightened awareness of how close all of that muscled purple skin is to me.

I'm in danger.

I already had a massive… thing for Kieran.

I had no idea how dangerous it could be if he returned the feeling, even just a little bit.

“I’m not your croissant.” I repeat.

“Soft, delicious, and ready to be eaten or filled. Croissant fits you perfectly.”

I grind my molars, squeezing my eyes shut and counting backwards.

“There are definitely worse pastries to be called,” Caelan says, and Nerissa snorts.

Caelan claps his hands together in delight. “Can we call her your croissant, too?”

Without the pressure of his hands, the tall layer cake stops quivering. Piper breathes a sigh of relief.

For his part, Ga'Rek shoots Caelan a quelling look, which accomplishes absolutely nothing. Caelan, I assume, has never been one to be quelled.

Wren finally joins us, placing an arm on Caelan’s wrist, and he gives her a worshipful look that takes his focus off us.

"You're mated." Kieran’s words come out on a shocked exhalation.

I glance up at the prince, and his eyes are wide.

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