Page 111 of Kiss the Fae

He breaks off, unwilling to say it. I’ll hurt to the point where I might not recover, either physically or mentally. That’s when he means.

I unroll my fists, a sour lump swelling in my gullet. This is Faerie, and its scars are made to last. But then, so are the ones made by humans. We both know that.

If I win, he’ll lose his future like the rest of these mountain dwellers.

If I fail, he’ll grieve over me, because I’ll be dead.

Either way, he loses me. Either way, I lose him.

Bond or no bond, our link isn’t solid enough because I’m not a Fae. That means we can still fight on opposite sides.

Tímien must know I’m not going anywhere with him. The avian departs, pitching off the lawn and flapping toward the spire.

Cerulean regroups and swings his head toward the range. His profile contorts, then he wheels and holds my gaze. “You’re right. I’m not thinking straight. If it were my wild family at risk, or if it were my brothers, or if it were Moth, or if it were you, I’d tear this land to pieces. I would scale this mountain a thousand times over. Luckily, you only have to do it once.” His mouth lifts slightly. “And that, you shall.”

“Cerulean,” I croak.

“Middle Moon will end in an hour, and the servants will arrive by then. The Wild Peak’s not much farther from here. If you take the haven’s west lawn baring a trail in the hedges, it shall return you to the apex of The Mistral Ropes.”

“Cerulean.”

“From there, do what you’ve been doing. Stay focused. Stay true. Quail before no one, cower to no one, submit to no one. And remember to do one other thing.”

Follow the wind.

But I don’t budge, not until I’ve committed him to memory, because this time I’ve got the chance. His cheeks, pale scythes framed in errant layers. That single tail of hair, the shade of nightfall, with its tip sprouting into a quill. The daggers of his ears and the murky shade of his mouth. The frayed lashes.

I used to dream about him, and then I lived that dream, but dreams are hoaxes.

I should tell Cerulean how I feel before I go. But if I do that, one of us will do something stupid like change our minds. My feet carry me backward, the slipper heels knocking through the green. At last, I turn.

And I yelp as he swings me back around. Cerulean’s straps his arms around my midriff, and his mouth crashes onto mine. My cry curls between his lips as we open to each other, our tongues sweeping in. My fingers dive into his hair and latch on to the back of his scalp, and his palms span my rear, hauling me close, closer, so much closer.

I kiss him because this is all we have left, all we’ve really ever had, and all we’ll ever have. Bond or no bond, this can’t go anywhere. Not with our realms, our kin, my humanity, and his immortality at odds.

My tongue flexes for more, but he tears himself away with a gasp. His eyes chart my gown, then labor to meet my gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Lark.”

Then he evaporates, his body seeping into thin air. For the second time in my life, he leaves me. And for the last time, I let him go.

***

I bolt into the tower, my heels clacking onto the tiles. My nose sniffs, and my eyes withhold tears, because sobbing won’t solve this maze.

My feather skirt rustles around my hips, flouncing as I hustle past ivy walls and flaring curtains. At the stairway, I scrunch the skirt in my fists, hike the garment off the floor, and sprint up the steps to the guest chamber. As long as I’m moving, I won’t be tempted to stop myself.

Yet…the second I smash through the drapery, my limbs buckle. My scarred knees hit the floor, and I crack, bawling until my eyes turn into dry pits. I don’t know how much time lapses, but when I’m done, dawn trickles through the window.

A gentle breeze waves through the room and brushes my wet lashes. I want to hug that sheet of air. Instead, the motions coax me to my feet.

Middle Moon is about to end. Any minute, the household will return from the masquerade. They’ll stumble through these halls, hungover on cream, wine, music, and sex.

A fresh platter sits on the table, laden with buttery biscuits and cheese, a meat pie, those fig-like fruits, a pot of coffee, and a flagon of water. With the servants gone all night, this has got to be from him. I stuff half of the meal into my mouth but fail to taste it; the biscuit dough disintegrates, the flaky crumbs stale on my pallet. The rest goes into my pack along with the waterskin, refilled from the flagon.

I don’t have time to get sentimental that he equipped me with supplies. My heart’s already a disaster. I need the rations, and that’s that.

I peel off the teal gown and drape it over the bed. After jumping into my navy dress, cloak, and boots, I snatch my whip, harness my pack, and haul my ass from the room. Mantras stack in my head that I can’t stay, I can’t stay, I can’t stay.

Juniper. Cove. Juniper. Cove. Juniper. Cove.

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