Page 65 of Kiss the Fae

And it’s not because this Fae’s incapable, since he communicates in other ways. No, he just cups my cheek as if that’s all I need, as if I can handle the rest on my own. Then he flashes a wayward smile. That barest hint of chiseled canines would terrify Cove, but it seizes my breath, taking my fears with it.

A laugh trips out of me. A stunned, silly laugh that soars into the rafters.

In the murk, I savor the traces of his grin. I want to see if he’s got satiny or coarse hair, and if he’s got blemishes or birthmarks. I want to know the shapes of his eyebrows and width of his forehead. But even if he removed the mask, we’d need more light, and I can’t be here until dawn.

Yet it doesn’t it matter. My heart’s already done for.

The good: I like this Fae boy.

The bad: I really like this Fae boy.

The ugly: I love this Fae boy. I love him like I love my whip, and that’s a whole lot of loving. His touch makes my chest stutter. He’s never said a word to me, but I love the hell out of him anyway.

Why? I’ve got no clue.

I love him just because I feel like it. I love him because he’s made of feathers, and he plays games like I do, and he listens, and he touches my face, and he lets me feel what I feel. No theories, comforts, or fixes. No pranks or double speak. No magic but the wind.

He opens his mouth. I gulp and wait. I wait so very much.

His head whips up and darts to the side, surging toward the workshop door. I blink—and hear it. Somebody’s horse whinnies, its hooves cantering through the field. A muffled voice drifts from outside and gets louder. I register the glassblower’s meaty drawl, cooing to the steed.

Dread ripples up my spine. If the tradesman finds me here, I’ll be in a pickle. Papa will find out and forbid me to return.

The glassblower might yell if he catches me, and he might take it out on my friend, and my friend might try to hurt him. They might both get hurt, and either way, I won’t get to see this boy one last time before the villagers take him away. I won’t get a chance to say good-bye.

But I don’t want to say good-bye. Not like this. Not knowing what’s going to happen to him, one more creature that I can’t save.

I swing toward the Fae and choke the bars in my shaky fists, which suddenly look so tiny. Am I really that small? Are we both really that small? Air pumps in and out of my lungs, my scalp tingling. Am I angry? Am I terrified? When it comes down to it, maybe they’re the same emotion, only with different shapes.

My head jumps between the door and the Fae boy’s profile. In minutes, this will be over.

His pupils flare as he veers toward me. Through our visors, we fixate on one another. Those black orbs swell with menace, and his desperate fingernails claw at the cage floor, ready to shred our visitors.

Still, some inner battle stunts his breathing. Those fathomless orbs kindle with brutality and something else as they pin me to the ground.

With a rightward click of his head, a surge of wind pushes me away from him, pushes me toward the door. The force of it urges me to flee. He knows if I’m spotted here, I’ll be punished.

I totter sideways, my feet sliding over dust bunnies. But tonight, it’ll take more than a gale to bring me down.

Everything the Fables taught me springs through my head. They’re vile and gruesome. They’re corrupt and lewd. They use humans as toys and slaves. They’ve vicious Faeries.

But I don’t care. I race to the basket, grab the errant mask-feather I’ve been using to pick open the forge, and scurry to the cage. My actions must stump him, because he doesn’t try his wind stunt again.

On a grunt, I jam the plume’s tip into the bolt. The device shudders and splits with a rusty pop. I shouldn’t be able to tell, but somehow I sense confusion and shock blasting across the boy’s face as he stares at the lock—then at me.

I hustle backward, leaving the door open for him. Before I lose my nerve or start to cry, I lift my chin. And I whisper, “Go.”

He watches me, the lower half of his face unhinged, apparently dumbstruck behind the owl mask. Thuds approach, a pair of booted feet thunking through the grass. The boy fixates on me, then slowly crawls from the cage and rises to his feet. All the while, he studies my face.

He’s taller than I am—by a lot more than I thought. And he’s willowy, though his arms look strong, flexing with tension.

His slender shadow wraps around me as he approaches. His tipped ears cut a harsh line as he cocks his head; I get the impression his gaze is tracing my mask with a glare.

He’s mad. Really mad.

Again, they don’t like favors, don’t like owing people.

“Oh, for Fable’s sake.” I rip one of the plumes from his mask and hold it up for his inspection. “There. That’ll do for payment. Go!”

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