Page 133 of Kiss the Fae

Moth grumbles, “I suppose you’re not that horrible to bunk with. But don’t think you can boss me around, mind you.” She nicks her head toward the wildlife park. “I’m no one’s servant but theirs.”

“How’s about we try being friends instead?”

She purses her lips, dragging out the moment. At last, a small grin crooks the corner of her lips, and her tongue gets restless. “Soooo…”

“Don’t,” I warn, reading her nosy mind. “That’s our business.”

“He’s written all over your face.”

“Keep it up, and you’ll have pain written all over yours.”

“You never answered me. Do you love him?” Immediately, she lifts an upturned palm. “It’s merely a prompt. I’m not the one who needs to hear it.” She examines my unshod feet and dress, then steps aside and tips her head to the trail. “Go on, then. I tire of hearing him play the same petulant melody over and over. Do something about it.”

She pops into the air, her wings flapping. “I’ll dismiss the servants—the ones who’ve stayed loyal, at least. They’ll delight over an intermission of rest, and I could use a respite at my cottage.” Zipping off, her squawks resound from the tower. “All of you! Out!”

With a laugh, I dart along the path, crashing through foliage and moonflowers.

***

Hate breaks hearts. Love reinforces them.

Papa’s words rush back, mingling with the silvery slide of music. I quicken my pace, following the notes of a flute. The melody sways through the park. Up a flight of steps, I reach another level and bear east, where I burst through the shrubbery and stumble in place.

He stands inside the gazebo, leaning against a post and facing the vista. His flute quiver sits on the railing while he plays a tune that floats along the breeze in one long and continuous ripple. A pewter-dyed coat hangs off his shoulders, billowing against the current, and the ends of his hair brush the upturned collar.

My antsy heart punches into my breastbone. He’s so lost in the flute that he hasn’t heard me. It could be that, plus several other culprits, his senses reduced because we’re not those kind of mates, and maybe because his battle wounds haven’t fully healed, his power drained until then. The wings are invisible, stashed in the plates of his shoulder blades, so I can’t tell for sure.

My knees wobble. I shuffle and fidget and do shit that I normally don’t in front of blokes, because none of them mattered like this. None of them stripped me to the bone and then confessed I’ve disarmed them. None of them showed me the wind yet believed I didn’t have to fly to save myself.

None of them loved animals like I do. None of them understood that passion. None of them shared it. None of them pushed me to rage one second, rapture the next. None of them confessed their demons and listened to mine. None of them were raised by wild fauna. None of them filled me with loss and longing.

I love you.

The music trails off, then halts abruptly. His head raises, and his body stiffens, a cliff of arms and limbs flexing with tension.

Slowly, his head twists. Over his shoulder, he sees me.

The flute clatters to the floor. Cerulean’s eyes flare, his irises bright with disbelief. He turns unsteadily, blinking as if I’m an apparition. His slackened features absorb my face, savor the white dress, and soften at my bare feet before meeting my stare again.

Absently, I grapple for the nearest torch pole, to keep myself from buckling. It’s all I can do not to hurl myself at him.

The wind tosses the hem of his coat, the material slapping his calves, and he’s got the sleeves jammed up his forearms. An untucked shirt slumps over loose trousers the color of iron. The long tail of obsidian-blue hair extends from the rest of his shag, the feathered tip swinging over that perpetually exposed chest.

He always did have some nerve, I think with affection.

“Mutinous Lark,” he whispers, the sound rolling down my spine.

My tongue flops inside my mouth, unable to muster up a snarky comment, or a genuine one, or a broken one, or a tender one. Not until the second Cerulean breaks from his stupor and strides from the gazebo. A mishmash of emotions—riveted joy and predatory determination—consume his face, but if he touches me right now, I’m a goner.

And I’ve got stuff to unpack first, and I also don’t know how to do this, how to be raw with someone, and I don’t want to muck it up, and I’m scared, and so I gush out the first thing that’ll stop him from reaching me.

“Tidings from Puck,” I blurt.

At the halfway point, Cerulean’s boots stall in the grass. The torch poles bathe his countenance in amber. “My brother cornered you?”

“He showed up past the Triad.”

Cerulean hisses, the words honed like the edge of a blade. “Did he hurt you?”

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