Page 26 of How To Please A Princely Fae

Undeterred by the angry Unseelie behind me, the younger minotaur, Donovan, continues, "I wouldn't mind guarding Willow."

"Willow's mine," Kieran snarls.

My eyebrows rocket up in surprise. It's one thing to surmise someone's grown possessive of you and it's quite another to hear it enunciated loud enough for the entire town, the words of warning warm against your skin. I swallow hard trying to think my way through my current predicament. On the one hand, it's as though my wishes have been heard, and on the other, I’m afraid to learn at what cost. This isn't the Kieran I know. The Kieran I know wouldn't care if I offered myself up to dear Donovan and Darius, brothers of the bovine persuasion. I cough delicately, which Kieran seems to take as consent to being called his because the next thing I know, we’re airborne.

Kieran's beautiful green wings graze the top of the tent, one of the multicolored lamps teetering dangerously as he flies by. He clutches me tight against him, his wings buzzing furiously.

Words fail me.

I force my gaze back down. My coven stares up at me with expressions ranging from aghast to amused.

The ground is really, really far away, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Looking down was a mistake.

“Make sure to protect her,” Nerissa calls merrily.

I can hear laughing, and another stupid look down shows Caelan doubled over in laughter.

If they hadn’t all been so sure that the magic smelled like mine, I would bet money that the trickster was behind this change in Kieran's heart… well, his entire lack of memory, that is.

If the circumstances were different, there's no doubt in my mind that I would be thrilled with my current situation.

It's just my luck that he doesn't have a clue who I am, nor does he remember whatever grudge he held against me.

Terrible luck, that is.

Chapter 6

KIERAN

Ihate that I can feel the terror traveling through Willow’s perfectly plump curves as I fly with her in my arms. It’s a short trip back to her quaint stone cottage and lovely glass greenhouse, but feels all too long to get away from the prying eyes of the villagers and the magic of her sister witches.

"You're safe," I tell her, brushing my lips against her ear.

She trembles again, and I wonder how she’s so afraid of what I love most in the world: flying. At least, I think it is.

I purse my lips, trying to conjure a memory of it before now.

Nothing’s there.

Self-doubt tickles the back of my mind, but it melts away when I realize that Willow is not trembling in fear at all—no, she's trembling with barely-contained laughter.

"What's so funny?" I demand, wanting to be in on the joke.

I need to know what it is that's made her create the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.

She doesn't answer the question, though, instead responding with even more laughter, leaving me to guess at the source of her merriment.

The weathered wood shingles of Willow’s roof quickly draw into view. An icy breeze whips from the edges of the thick forest, the boundary of the Wild Oak Woods visible here where she lives at the very perimeter of town

I set down gently, my wings strangely tired from the effort of flying. Is flying, despite the pure joy of it, something I typically don’t do? I frown, struggling to remember why I wouldn't fly when it seems as natural as breathing.

And then Willow turns to face me fully, the pure joy on her lovely face banishing all thoughts other than her.

I want to wrap my arms around her, soak in the heat of her deliciously curved and soft body.

"That was unexpected,” she says, her lips twisted into a smirk, an expression I’d very much like to freeze on her face forever.

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