Page 5 of How To Please A Princely Fae

The spicy scent of magic increases exponentially and I inhale, wanting to find her and failing at even that small task.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be anything but an unwanted spare, a prince that’s a problem to be solved, by violence or neglect.

I sink back onto my heels, cradling my head as my thoughts spin like weapons.

Eventually, all I feel is numb, tired, and all too aware of the transparent glass overhead. The stars configured in constellations I'd never seen before I left the Underhill twinkling overhead in the black night sky.

Even the plants seem greener here, which is no surprise considering all the care and attention Willow gives them. She's more of a mother to every living thing in this greenhouse than my own mother ever was to me.

I can practically hear Caelan’s laugh echoing in my ear.

"Poor little prince,"he would coo.

There would be no shortage of derision in his words, no matter the truth in mine.

"Sometimes I wish I could forget," I say out loud. "I wish I could start fresh." My fingers reach for the creamy bloom in front of me, and I luxuriate in the velvet feel of the petals. "Sometimes I wish I could be who I want to be instead of who I've been made to be."

A bolt of energy courses through my fingertips, I drop the petal as though it is at fault. It is ridiculous, of course, no flower is capable of that type of magical charge.

My lips curl in a half smile, and I force a reluctant laugh at my own wild imagination. Alas, it’s quickly cut off by the reminder that I need to find Willow and make sure she's not about to walk into the forest to do something we will both regret for the rest of our lives.

I clench my teeth. I know a thing or two about regret.

Exhaustion slips over me, replacing some of the chaotic worry that has had me in its grip since the beings first arrived at the autumn festival. Certainly, even the sometimes tempestuous Willow has not decided to do something so foolhardy as to take them up on their offer.

Sure, she loses her temper when her potions don't go the way she's planned, or when an experiment doesn't pan out the wayshe wishes, but I have never once seen her lose her patience with anything or anyone else in the store or in the entire town of Wild Oak Woods. It's more than I can say for myself, or Caelan, and probably even Ga’Rek.

She's a good woman. Powerful, beautiful, full-bodied. There's a simple shyness about her in spite of all of this, but it only adds to the air of mystery around her. I glide from the greenhouse, my footfalls now near silent on the flooring. Whatever's hung heavy in the air has at least done the job setting someone at ease. I pass by the large wooden desk were Willow's taught me to wrap up her potions and unguents, to inventory the plants and herbs and tools that she uses in her apothecary. I open the door hidden by a bookcase behind the desk and enter into Willow's private residence.

I pause, nearly overwhelmed with dizziness at the strength of her scent lingering in these halls. The halls, like the rest of her home and shop, are alive with color. Sweeping greens the likes of which I'd never seen in the Underhill threaten to overtake every other shade in the rainbow here. I follow the herbal scent I've grown so accustomed to associating with her I doubt I can ever smell it without envisioning her.

I find myself in front of a slightly ajar door I shouldn’t go through. She has sought privacy, I should be willing to give it to her. Then I remember the way the gods of the Elder Forest descended upon the quaint festival and laid claim to three witches from Wild Oak Woods. I decide that it's more important to respect her safety and ensure she's not giving herself up to them than it is to abide by a rule of privacy that wouldn’t even apply to a door already open.

Probably.

I step over the threshold, and there she is: her mouth slightly open. Lips full and slow, asleep, her eyes red-tinged as though she's been crying. Indeed, a shining rivulet winds from the thecorner of nose, one last drop quivering and falling to the ivory pillow.

It's an ivory that doesn't even begin to compare to the pale luster of her alabaster skin and the delicious autumnal red of her hair falling in curls over her cheek. They tumble over the smooth column of her neck and her lush round breasts, which have driven me to distraction over the past weeks.

I hardly know what I'm doing. My feet and body move of their own accord. All I know is that I need to be near her and that she has overpowered all of my good sense.

Chapter 3

WILLOW

My eyes squeeze shut, and I burrow deeper under my heavy blanket. Every cell in my body resists the fact that it’s morning.

My head still hurts from crying, and I know when I look in the mirror later, my eyes will be disgustingly swollen. I’ll have to slap some salve on them and hope that my skin underneath isn’t peeling.

Ah, the endless joys of sensitive skin. Fairest of them all? More like the fucking itchiest of them all.

I’m in a horrible mood.

I want to pretend daylight isn't streaming through the stained-glass window.

At least it’s pretty when it sends color all through my room. Still, I don’t open my eyes.

I installed it when I made this room my own seven years ago. It was quite an undertaking. The stained-glass window’s in the image of the summer rose in full bloom, one of my favoriteflowers and one of the hardest to grow, captured in a state of eternal perfection.

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