Page 41 of How To Please A Princely Fae

“I am yours, and you are mine. I would wait forever for you to acknowledge me, to taste you on my lips again, for you to claim me as your own. I would not rush you, but know that I will not give up my pursuit of you so easily. This mark,” he holds his arm up, thrusting the evidence directly into my line of sight, “this mark means that my mate has been found. And do you know when it appeared?”

I don’t know, and my mouth is full, so I simply shake my head and try to have one (1) coherent thought.

And fail miserably, all thoughts scattering at the light touch of his palm upon my cheek.

“It appeared the moment I scooped you up in my arms and brought you back here. You are my mate, the only one for me,my Willow, and I will not give you up for some Elder God. And I will not be leaving your side, even if it means I have to sleep on your floors to guard you for the rest of your days.” The words are fervent and powerful, and there’s no hint of humor on his face, just grim determination.

“I don’t understand,” I finally manage, though the words just come out garbled from scone.

He laughs, a gentle smile on his face, petting my hand before he stands and pours me a steaming cup of water, my favorite loose-leaf tea already in the strainer in the fine porcelain set.

“Ginger chamomile,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Your favorite.” He tilts his head, pleasure clear on his face. “It was easy to tell which you preferred.”

A minute ticks by, then another, the only sounds the thud of my heart in my chest and the howling of the wind outside. Even Chirp stays oddly quiet.

We gaze at each other until the silence between us is unbearable.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I am yours, and you are mine. Once you realize that, all will be well.”

“But the spell. Your memory?—”

He thrusts his arm down. “Memory has nothing on a mate bond, Willow. This is fate. My memory?—"

“Or lack thereof,” I mutter.

Kieran raises an eyebrow before continuing. “… has nothing to do with it. If I truly… if I was as awful as you say I was towards you, then all I can imagine is that I was trying to protect you.”

“Or yourself,” I say, my voice rising, surprising us both. “I’m hardly royal. I’m not even a fae.”

“Fate does not care. Neither do I.” The declaration comes out crisp and final, and I find myself blinking in surprise.

“You don’t care if I fit into your life?”

“My life before is gone. My memories of it too, apparently. I have no desire to return to the Underhill.”

“But you might,” I tell him.

“No,” he says, spreading his hands across the dining table, leaning heavily on it.

I follow his gaze to the dusty mauve flower-studded wallpaper that hangs on the upper half of the wall, the light wood board and batten, and the cupboards I’ve done my best to take care of, and frankly, all I see is home. Nothing magnificent or royal or fabulous or immortal, like what he must have been used to.

"You might," I mutter, feeling mutinous, trapped, and altogether unlike anything I've ever dealt with.

When he slams his hand onto the table I startle, and stare up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Just because I've lost my memory doesn't mean I lost my faculty to make decisions. And where you’re concerned, Willow of Wild Oak Woods, I am wholly ready to make any decision necessary to stay by your side."

I want to glare at him, to scowl and frown and continue to argue, to tell him that there's no good that can come from any attempt to pursue a relationship while he doesn't have his memories, but I find that I want to believe him. I want to believe him so much that it hurts. A physical ache deep in my bones, deep in my heart, accompanied by awareness that says I'm sure to get my heart broken. But maybe, just maybe, I want to live inside his fantasy while I can grab it—any chance of happiness—with both hands, to catch it and hold it close to my chest so that it doesn't stand a chance at getting away.

My gaze traces the path of the flowers printed on the wallpaper and I swallow, then take a careful sip of the still steaming tea before me.

Kieran is watching me with careful eyes, like he's waiting for me to argue some more, like he expects me to resist. I must be one of the most unpleasant people in the world because knowing that that's his expectation immediately makes me want to be more agreeable, simply to spite him.

"Fine."

His eyebrows rise, practically disappearing in the silver luster of his hair.

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