Page 14 of How To Please A Princely Fae

The thought makes my heart hurt, and the pain surprises me.

When did the magic of doing magic disappear?

“Do you usually work before eating?” he asks, frowning.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, genuinely curious. “There are some edible plants in the greenhouse if you can’t wait.”

“Can’t wait for what?” he asks. “Do you want me to make you a feast, my sweet green witch?”

My palms fly to my cheeks and, sure enough, they are hot to the touch. I wish that I could tell my body to stop reacting to his out-of-character comments. He doesn’t mean them, how could he? He doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t even know who he is.

So why is my body acting like this means something?

I don’t think I’ve been this flustered in the better part of a decade, not since I was a young witch.

“There are some berries,” I tell him, my voice slightly strangled. “The raspberries are in the final fall flush in the greenhouse. Help yourself.”

“You don’t want me to make us a feast, green witch?” he asks. Kieran quickly closes the distance between us, a predatory light in his eyes that leaves me near quaking. My boots aren’t even laced up. At this rate I’m going to fall out of them before I have a chance to tie them into little bows. He tilts his head, his eyes raking across my body with obvious pleasure.

Everything tightens inside of me and I stare up at him, confused and at a total loss for how to react.

His smile widens, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grins down at me. “Or, if you prefer,” he purrs, “we could make a feast of you, little green witch.”

I sputter. I am unequipped to deal with him right now. “Go eat some raspberries,” I blurt.

“Hm. I don’t think that will have quite the same effect as what I am craving,” he says.

My eyes are open so wide in pure shock that it’s a wonder they aren’t drying out immediately from the effort.

Kieran laughs, a musical, deep sound that resonates within my very bones.

“Are you calling me green witch because you don’t remember my name?” I finally ask, leaning on the counter.

“Oh no,” he answers, smirking. “I looked through your diary on your nightstand before I joined you out here, I’m well aware that your name is Willow. And I’m well aware that you’ve been harboring certain thoughts about me for a long time now.”

My jaw drops open. “You, you—you didn’t.”

Amusement dances across the Unseelie prince’s face. “No,” he drawls. “I didn’t read it. All I did was look at the cover for your name. But the fact that you haven’t argued with my outlandish comment means I’m not far from the mark, am I?”

I make a noise somewhere between a shrill owl screech and a fox scream. Kieran just laughs some more and swaggers through the greenhouse door, leaving me staring after him in confusion.

Chapter 4

KIERAN

Iwould say that I’ve never been as attracted to anyone as I am to the luscious, plump-bodied, redhaired which. However, I don’t remember being attracted to anyone.

No matter. I know how I feel about her now, and based on the way she blushes every time I look at her, she’s lying if she says she doesn’t feel the same about me. I grin to myself, completely smug at the newfound knowledge. Knowledge I didn’t even have to work hard for, considering the little white lie about reading her journal made it clear exactly what she feels about me.

I frown. But if she feels that way about me, why is she so embarrassed by it? Sweet little Willow, embarrassed by how she feels?

Frustrated at my lack of understanding of the situation, as well as the fact that I am incapable of remembering how I came to be in the situation, I stalk over to the wrought-iron cart labeled “edible plants” and begin to peruse the selection. It turns out losing one’s memory does, in fact, make one quite hungry.

I truly am quite impressed with the witch’s abilities. The little wheeled cart is chock full of all sorts of plants that, based on the orange and red leaves hanging just outside the greenhouse, aren’t even close to in season. In a large pot in the corner a glossy-leaved tree hangs heavy with orange globes. Another small tree boasts a vibrant array of cherries. A small tree next to it has at least 10 different varieties of apples all clinging to the various branches and at different stages of ripening.

The cart itself is full of berries, just as Willow said. I take a few, not wanting to disturb whatever plan she has for them, and slowly savor the first of them against my teeth as I take stock of the wonders of her greenhouse. The middle boasts the largest plant of all—a tree with a thick trunk, scarred from some effort to harvest the bark, I presume. My nostrils flare as I sniff at it, scent familiar and spicy, and lingering with the delicate flavor of the berries on my tongue.

There is a strange flower that seems to pulse with magic. Creamy petals fade into deep purple at the center, and the bloom itself is twice the size of my head. There’s no real scent to it save for the scent of pure magic—an unfettered, powerful one at that.

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