Page 33 of Bride of the Fae Prince

Then he rolls over, kicking his feet up on the footboard and falling back against the pillows before closing his eyes. With a flick of his wrist, all the candles in the room go out. Darkness wraps us up like a blanket.

Breath puffs in and out of my mouth. I taste the linen of the sheets and the faintest fragrance from their last wash. My eyesare wide, too wide, as if I can make them adjust to the darkness faster. I’ve heard fae have excellent night vision.

I want to cry, but it’s not safe yet. I need to be sure he’s asleep before I let myself shed a tear.

There’s no chance I’m falling asleep with him right there. What if he changes his mind about . . .expectations? What if he wakes up in the middle of the night, and he’s a different person? What if I just ruined the tentative trust we were building with my reluctance to speak? Father would have punished me for speaking my mind. How am I to be sure Ash is different? Besides, why would it matter for him to know what I’m thinking?

I lie awake, not moving a muscle, as I wait for Ash’s breathing to even. My mind spirals deeper and deeper into doubt, which is ridiculous, because I ought to be thankful for how fortunate I’ve been so far. I shouldn’t be scared or worried about the future or about losing my husband’s good opinion. Did I even have it to begin with?

Can I even trust my own ability to know if he likes me or not?

Does itmatter?

It’s impossible to know for certain, but I guess an hour or two has passed since Ash rolled over. He hasn’t moved. His breathing has evened. It should be safe now, right?

I turn my face into my pillow, and as quietly as I can, loose the dam I have on my tears. I don’t let myself sob—that would be too loud. To keep from sniffling, I breathe through my mouth.

I cry out my fears of tonight; I cry my gratitude, and then I cry for the looming future I don’t understand. I cry that I don’t know what my husband wants from me. I cry because he has been kind to me, and I like him. I cry because after tomorrow, I will never see Amelia again.

Finally, the tears slow. I keep breathing through my mouth, keep fighting to stay silent. Then, as carefully as I can, I push upon my elbows, wipe away the tears stuck in my lashes, and try to peer into the darkness at my sleeping husband.

It’s hard to see much except the broad expanse of his frame, his wide shoulders and chest, his long legs sticking out over the end of the bed. One of his hands is beneath his head, the other lying across his stomach. He doesn’t lie beneath the covers, and I don’t understand how he’s not cold.

His hair is much longer than human men typically wear it. I don’t mind it as much as I thought I would. Though he could be bald, and it wouldn’t dim his beauty.

Even so, I’m glad he’s not bald. Prince Brochfael is bald.

A sudden thought occurs to me. If he is to become the High King of Faerieland, then does that mean I’ll be Queen of the Fae? I shove the thought out of my mind before it chokes me, but not before my stomach bottoms out.

What does it even mean to be queen of his people?

I won’t worry about that now. I just need to make it through tonight. Later, I’ll worry about the rest.

“Stare at me any longer and I’ll fear you’re plotting to put a dagger through my heart.”

His voice is a dagger throughmyheart. Something a little louder than a squeak but quieter than a scream bursts from my mouth as I scramble back, back, away—

The bed ends. I go tumbling off the edge, scrabbling with my nails for any kind of hold on the sheets. They give way, and I land on the floor, my skirts riding up my calves as I catch myself with my hands.

Faster than I expect, Ash is kneeling beside me, a hand on my back and the other planted on the floor beside my knee. “Great Kings, wife, did you hurt yourself?”

I shake my head, despite my rattling teeth, and yank my dress back down to my ankles.

“Are you sure?”

I nod and bite my lip. It’s too dark to see clearly, but his brow is knit in concern. As if he’s genuinely worried about me. I’m more worried about what I’ll be like in the morning when I’ve gone the whole night working myself into an anxious tizzy and not getting a wink of sleep.

His words register belatedly in my brain.Stare at me any longer and I’ll fear you’re plotting to put a dagger through my heart.HeknewI was studying him? He was awake all this time? Did he hear me crying? Did my crying wake him up?

The blood drains from my face. His expression is hard. Is that anger glimmering in his eyes?

“I’m s-s-sorry I w-w-woke you up.” Why won’t my stupid tongue work? I just—I want to go hide somewhere. I don’t want my husband looking at me right now, seeing the tearstains on my cheeks and beneath my eyes.

He scoops me up, eliciting a surprised hiccup from me. This feels different from earlier, without mounds and mounds of fabric between us. It is far more intimate, the warmth of his strong arms burning into my back and knees through the thin material.

He sets me on the bed without a word, then walks around to his side.

I don’t know what to say to get rid of that expression on his face. I want something lighter, brighter, happier on his face. I want him grinning again, chuckling, or even laughing like that one glorious moment earlier. But even if I did know what to say, my tongue wouldn’t cooperate.

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