Page 31 of Bride of the Fae Prince

Her eyes dart to the bed, then back to me, not quite meeting my gaze. Her lips part, but she quickly clamps them shut and nods. She’s nervous again. I’m not sure how to fix it.

Then I look down. I’m still fully clothed. The last thing I want to do is start stripping for sleep and terrify the wits out of my wife. I guess I’ll be sleeping in my clothes.

I shoot a quick glance at her. Will she panic if I take off my overcoat? How can I do this without giving her a heart attack? Everything I think of saying seems like the sort of thing that would just terrify her more, or at the least, embarrass her. Neither do I want to say anything that might hurt her, or imply that I find her undesirable.

I wind up saying nothing as I sit on the side of the bed closest to the door, my back to her. Should any foul play be afoot, anyone who enters this room will encounter me before Stella.

I take off my boots one at a time. Next is my belt of knives. I take my time unbuttoning my overcoat, then my formal tunic, and slowly shrug them off. Then, still without glancing at her, I pull back the sheets and quilt and slip my legs beneath them.

Only then do I look.

She hasn’t moved, standing rigid, one hand gripping the collar of her dress. She’s gone a little pale. My shoulders sag an inch as I gesture to the other side of the bed. “You have nothing to fear,”I say gently, and then barely keep myself from cringing as the taste of iron spreads across my tongue.

Her chest rises, falls. She takes a few hesitant steps to the bed, pulls back her side of the sheets, and slips in. We stay like that for several minutes. Sitting upright. Neither of us talking, the gap between us wide enough that a third person could be added, and still none of us would touch.

I need to lie down and close my eyes. Pretend that I’m exhausted instead of very thoroughly awake. Perhaps if she thinks I have fallen asleep, she will relax enough to do the same.

There’s just one problem.

This bed is too short for me.

Chapter 14

The Princess

He isn’t going tohurt me. He isn’t going to hurt me.I chant it over and over in my mind as I clutch the sheets and try to find the will to lie down. But despite my rational mind insisting that he clearly has no intention of touching me, it is an intimate thing to share a bed.We are married,I remind myself.

I just cannot imagine that it’s physically possible to sleep with a man only a couple of feet away. Especially afaeman.

Ash goes to lie down, making my heart zip straight into my throat. He scoots down into the sheets. When he extends his legs, however, they hit the footboard. His knees are still bent.

“You humans and your puny beds and your puny chairs,” he grumbles. “Is six more inches too much to ask for?”

The giggle is out before I can stop it.

Ash’s head swivels to mine. “Did you just laugh? At my discomfort?”

If he’d asked me this question an hour ago, I would have apologized as quickly as I could. But now, an apology isn’t what escapes my lips. “No, my lord.”

He blinks, as though surprised I would blatantly lie to him. Then he grins and leans back against the pillows. “I might have to lie diagonally if I’m going to get any sleep. Or . . .” He kicks off the covers and props his feet up on the footboard. He folds his hands across his stomach. “This might do.”

I bite my lip as I smile, then scoot under the covers myself, bringing them up to my nose as I curl into a little ball. I can do this. We can do this.

The relief hits me so hard it blazes past my nerves, straight to my tear ducts. Ilikemy husband. At least, what I’ve seen of him thus far. How is such a thing possible? How am I lying here on my wedding night, which should be the most terrifying night of my life, and instead I cannot stop thinking of how fortunate I am? Just a few nights ago, I faced the possibility of a future as Prince Brochfael’s sixth wife.

Yet here I am now.

I need to cry. Tears of relief, of gratitude, of hopefulness. But I cannot cry. That was one of Father’s strictest instructions. No tears on the wedding night. I’ll save them for when I am alone—or after my husband falls asleep.

“Come, tell me one of those thoughts flying through your brain.”

His voice makes me jerk to attention and blink up at him from over the edge of the covers. He’s looking at me with that one eyebrow cocked. “M-my what?”

“One of your thoughts. I can see them racing around your mind. Tell me one of them.”

Tell him? What I’m thinking? “I am not sure that is a g-good idea.”

He rolls onto his side so he can face me, his elbow propping up his head. “Is that so? Why?”

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