Page 109 of Kiss the Fae

He gives me another tender kiss, which ends on a forced smile. “I need to tell you something, but not here.”

Cerulean’s wings pleat into his back before he exits the gazebo and collects our scattered clothing. I hesitate before following him. Since he’d ripped his own shirt, he goes without it, letting me dress him in the trousers and coat. I set the bronze wing caps onto his ears, and he coasts the teal gown up my limbs, fastening the bodice with endearing concentration. Lastly, he steps into his boots, and I slide my feet into the slipper heels.

Then he takes my hand. He weaves our fingers together and ushers me from the park to the tower’s promontory. There, he walks ahead of me and halts at the overhang, his hands fisted on his hips as he glances at the vista.

A scarf of wind laps across the valley, its texture visible now that he’s taught me how to see it. At least, when I’m looking closer.

A moment later, Tímien materializes from the clouds. He lands on the lawn, his regal eye reflecting…pity?

Cerulean ducks his forehead and presses it to the owl’s in silent communication. During my walk with Cerulean last night, he told me while fauna comprehend bits of his language, Faeries and animals talk instinctively, some interacting through signals in the wind, too. I remember being right jealous of that skill.

Maybe his intentions had been scribbled on the air. Either way, whatever he’s about to say to me, the raptor’s been informed.

Instantly, I don’t want to hear it. Moments ago in the park, I recognized the slant of Cerulean’s voice. I’d spoken with the same bereft tone once, back when we were little, when I had no choice.

Cerulean releases the avian. Then he strides toward me, brackets my face, and pushes the word out. “Go.”

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Go. That single word rings familiar.

He stands there, creases engraved into his face, piebald in torchlight. Did I hear him right? I retreat a step, dumbfounded. Because yeah, I did hear him right, and what I heard was tenderness, defiance, and resignation. I recognize the coarse, burlap texture of those emotions, because it had scratched up my throat nine years ago when I told him the same thing.

He’s setting me free.

The Horizon underestimated him when it claimed he wouldn’t let me go. I underestimated him, too, not because I didn’t think he cared about me enough to do this, but because I thought he cared about this land more.

“You can’t be serious,” I belt out.

“No, I shouldn’t be serious,” he replies quietly, then attempts to grin. “Yet I’m rarely reasonable when it comes to you.”

“Dammit, don’t say that. You’ve got kin to save! You’ve got a mountain to preserve!”

“And I’ve got a mortal to love.”

My chest contracts, crushing to smithereens what I’d been about to say. The wind spirals around us. It disturbs the leaves and stirs up panels of mist.

Love. Now there’s a word.

We haven’t tackled that kernel. I’ve been uprooting more questions than answers about him, about myself, about the past versus the present, about fate and magic, about what’s real and not real between us. In spite of this dreamscape setting, in spite of these precious hours, I hadn’t known where we’d go from here. I hadn’t cared, surrendering to the unknown in exchange for one fleeting night.

“We Folk are fickle beings,” Cerulean says, his outline rippling over blades of grass. “You’re my exception. You always have been.” He clasps the sides of my face and leans in. “You’re my weakness, inspiring me to break my own rules. You’re my strength, granting me the fortitude to endure without you. Oh, but it’s a cruel paradox, yet there we are. You’re worth…” He sucks in a tremulous breath. “…every crack in my soul. You’re worth the loss and longing.”

Loss and longing. What he says pulls water from my eyes, beads swelling at the rims and threatening to spill. I speak against his mouth, “Whichmeare you talking about? Who I was or who I’ve become?”

Cerulean startles, taking stock of my expression. He looks incredulous, hurt staining his reply. “What makes you believe those females aren’t one and the same?”

“Because I’ve changed.”

“As have I, but my heart still beats in the same direction.”

“Which is?”

“Fables help me. Do you honestly believe I care less for you now, when I know you better than before? The woman who swept chimneys yet found the courage to change her fate? The woman who loves coffee and nightingale song? The woman who gives a tongue-lashing as persuasive, potent, powerful as her whip? The woman who battles poachers and rescues animals? The woman who donned a feisty teal gown and disarmed a ballroom of Fae? The woman who pretended to be glamoured, thus glamouring them in kind? The woman who flayed me alive with her unyielding spirit?” His thumbs skate across my jaw. “That’s the woman I respect. That’s the unprecedented creature whom I adore. It has nothing to do with idolizing the past.” He quirks a brow. “Nor to do with being your mate.”

I tense. “How did you know…?”

But my tongue stutters. In the gazebo, I’d moaned something indecipherable, something that stumped our lovemaking.

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