Page 68 of Kiss the Fae

Dainty’s not a word that fits me, but all right. I do my best, blowing a tentative noise into the air. Some of the fauna hesitate, but others creep nearer, their tension unraveling as they conclude I’m not a predator. The cougar’s got my blood pumping, the wildcat’s sinuous joints rotating as it approaches, graceful despite its missing back paw and pronounced limp.

“Good,” Cerulean says. “Now moo.”

“What the fuck?” I bleat.

He doesn’t answer. But he’s must be jesting, right?

We’ve got a milk cow at home, so I imitate her. Puckering my lips, I moo, sounding like a calf with a stomachache.

The dwellers waver, tip their heads, and do things that perplexed animals would do. My eyes shift toward Cerulean’s shoulders, which shake with laughter, the flute quiver rattling. That motherfu…

I plop my fists on my hips. “You prick.”

Cerulean twists, smirking in the half-light. “That last part was for me.”

“Uh-huh.” I fake-smile. “Fuck you.”

“If you want my help, then do not rise.”

I keep quiet. He holds my gaze, presses the flute to his lips, and plays a new tune. This one is patient, reaching out with long notes that stretch across the distance.

The animals close in. A petrified thrill coasts through me as they crowd around my limbs, circling and sniffing my nightgown. The winged fauna perch on my head and arms, which I extend for them. The pika settles on my foot, the wires of its whiskers vibrating and longer than normal, extending like balancing beams.

The cougar slinks around my calf, a circlet of intricate markings—the same vibrant color of its eyes—stringing naturally across its forehead. The beauty rolls over like a kitten and gets comfortable, and I laugh quietly.

The music drifts off. My gaze travels to Cerulean, who watches me in puzzlement.

The Fae assesses my audience. “I stand corrected,” he says, referring to the original warning that I’d startle the animals.

In unison, they withdraw, and I watch them fly into the air or ramble through the grounds. From the corner of my eye, the Fae studies my profile. He’s not one to glance away, even when caught peeking, and neither am I.

What do I have to lose?

“Thank you,” I say.

“Thank them, not me,” Cerulean replies flippantly.

“You told me not to approach ’em.”

He swings toward the chasm, his limbs hanging over the edge. “I changed my mind. After witnessing your frolic with the nightingales, I figured I’d best get it over with and introduce you. It was only a matter of hours before you came out here to snoop.”

He spins the flute deftly from hand to hand, the same way he twirls his javelin. Don’t want to overstay my welcome with the dwellers, so I don’t push it. They’ll come to me if they want to.

As for the Fae perched at the edge of the world, I can handle his ass. His attitude hasn’t thawed, and neither has mine. For some queer reason, that makes it easier to settle next to him.

When I’m sure my tush isn’t going to slip off the ledge, I take a second gander at the instrument, a sudden thought infesting my mind. I’m ashamed it hadn’t come to me right away. Snatching the flute, I say, “You lured ’em?”

Cerulean snatches the thing back, his nose crinkling with disdain—as much because of my words, as from me groping his possessions. “In case you weren’t aware, ignorance is annoying and clashes with your snark. Fae fauna are sacred and superior by all measures—they cannot be lured or commanded. Even if they could, I would never do that to them.”

“You’d better not.”

“Do I hear a threat, human?”

“I’d advise you not to underestimate my size.”

“And I’d advise you to put some clothes on,” he remarks.

“Come inside and help me pick ’em out,” I mock-simper.

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