Page 27 of Bride of the Fae Prince

His gaze falls to my hands in my lap, clenching the fabric of my dress. He reaches out and gently pries one of my hands free. My heart picks up its erratic rhythm. What is he . . .?

He takes my hand, turns it palm up, and traces the pad of his thumb across the glistening sweat. I flinch, mortified, and try to pull my hand back. He tightens his grip. I stop fighting. He pulls something from the inside of his vest—a kerchief.

I watch dumbfounded as he wipes my hand dry, then takes the other and dries it as well.

“You’re afraid of me.”

I look up at him, find those intense blue eyes fixed on me. “F-forgive me.”

“Have I done something to scare you? Are you afraid of what I am? Has someone terrified you with tales of what I will do to you?” His face comes closer as he speaks, as if that will help him read whatever I’m trying to hide on mine.

I keep my back straight as Vivienne’s, forcing myself not to pull away from him. I speak the words slowly, hoping it will help them come out smoother. “I d-don’t . . . mean . . . to offend you, my l-lord.”

A line creases his forehead. When he speaks again, his voice is soft and gentle. “Call me Ash.”

Ash? Not Trenian? Is this some kind of nickname? I manage a nod.

He takes my hand in his, heedless of its clamminess, and holds my gaze so intently I can barely keep from looking away. “Isabelle. I will not hurt you. Not tonight, and not ever.”

My lips part. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly.

His mouth hardens, and though the words are quiet, there’s an underlying fierceness to them that leaves me breathless. And a little terrified. “Hurting you would be like ripping the wings off a beautiful butterfly—it would be monstrous. And though I may seem a monster to your mortal sensibilities, I can assure you that you will not find an enemy in me, little wife.”

I lower my gaze, but this time it’s because I don’t want him to see the sudden welling of my tears.

Heiskind. It wouldn’t make sense for it to be a front now—now that I am his wife and at his mercy. If he was truly a licentious brute, he’d have taken me already. Yet he hasn’t. He is instead sitting before me, assuaging my fears.

I have the sudden impulse to lean forward and rest my head against his chest. I quickly rein it in. Does this mean he won’t . . .? That he doesn’t want . . .?

“Look at me,” he says gently.

I obey and blink rapidly to hide the evidence of my emotion.

A muscle moves in his jaw. “It has been a long day for you. But I must marry you my people’s way before we leave tomorrow.”

“Your people’s way?”

He looks at me in surprise, as though shocked I would volunteer to say anything that wasn’t an answer to a question. Then a quirked brow quickly replaces the surprise. “Would you like me to show you?”

Perhaps I should keep to my restraint. But Iamcurious, and I think my interest delights him. Or perhaps he’s just glad I’m not almost in tears anymore. Either way, I nod.

His countenance brightens, and he gets to his feet, tightening his grip on my hand. “Then come with me, darling. I will show you how to marry a fae.”

Darling?My face goes hot as he draws me to my feet. He doesn’t let go of me as he guides me to the other side of the bed,where there is a stretch of floor. He kneels on the rug, then gives my hand a tug.

“Kneel across from me, facing me. Yes, like that. Now, hold out your left hand to me.”

I do as he says, and he takes it, turns it palm up, and presses a kiss to the sensitive skin. A pleasant tingle shoots up my arm, but I don’t flinch, despite how a gasp almost escapes my lips. His eyes flash to meet mine right before he pulls his lips away from my hand, and there’s something about that golden flecked twinkle that is almost a question.

The kiss isn’t part of the ritual, is it?

I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to draw a full breath again.

He places his left palm flat against mine between us, and the size difference is almost comical. My pale skin against his dark, my extended fingers barely passing his knuckles. We sit there, kneeling with our hands between us, and I wait with bated breath as his head bows and he mutters words in an unfamiliar language.

My eyes widen. Our hands start glowing, as though a bright candle is hiding between our palms and casting light through the gaps between our fingers. A breeze catches the strands of my hair, teasing them from my braid and whipping them around my face. The prince—no,Ash—keeps muttering, and as he speaks, a shining dot appears on his chest, right over his heart. It grows, becoming a gleaming golden thread that winds around his left arm, coming straight for our joined hands. Part of me wants to jerk away, to let out a short squeak and scramble to safety.

But he promised he won’t hurt me . . . and I believe him.

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