Page 27 of Kiss the Fae

I’m the newest toy.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Cerulean’s voice combs through the roots of my hair.

Again, he’s crossed the distance instantaneously. I squirm away from him and pin my gaze to the range. “You people must have one hell of a time running errands.”

With mild amusement, he whispers, “It’s not as high as it looks.”

“Bullshit.”

“Think again. I’m sure you’re aware that Faeries cannot lie.”

“Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t touch your version of the truth with the end of my whip. It’s not as high as it looks for who?”

Unfortunately, he doesn’t choke on his mirth. “I see. You’d like me to twist my words with more finesse.”

I’d better not answer him. “Reckon the distance depends on how long I’ve got.”

“Is that a question?”

“Only if I get the right answer.”

“Mutinous one. I shall give you thirteen hours, thirteen days, or thirteen weeks. Nothing less and nothing more. Which do you prefer?”

“Are you real or purely a nightmare?”

He leans in, his warm breath coasting across my cheek. “By all means, touch me and find out.”

“You mind if I use my whip to do it? Men like that.”

“And what do you like, pet?”

The question rides a coltish tail of wind that sneaks beneath my skirt and encircles my thighs. That happened in the wagon, plus a few other times over the recent years while I lay in bed. I’d assumed it was one of the infamous Faeries trying to rope me to my doom, using magic to make contact, commanding the wind to their advantage. Back then, I’d fought off the intrusion and won.

Maybe that draft had been him. I would ask, but he’s probably done it to so many humans, he wouldn’t remember.

Cerulean will pay for this. One way or another, I’ll make him pay.

Based on the Fables, the hours pass here in the same way they do at home. When I say as much, Cerulean confirms that fact, assuring me that time only slows down if you stand in a Fae ring of mushrooms. But according to him, those don’t grow on this mountain.

I juggle his offer while my eyes sketch the landscape. Thirteen hours, days, or weeks. Nothing less and nothing more…

The choices are brackets. Not less than thirteen hours. Not more than thirteen weeks.

“Thirteen days,” I answer.

“That’s a pity,” Cerulean pouts over my shoulder. “I wanted you for longer.”

“Tell me the rules.”

“The rules are, there are none.”

“Nice try,” I counter. “No rules other than what?”

Another grin shapes his response. “One, reach the mountaintop—on your own, of course. Two, you have thirteen days, as you wish. Three, either you win or perish in the attempt. And by perish, I mean by the land or my hand. That wasn’t supposed to rhyme, but such is life.”

“By your hand? How so?” Because sarcasm is inevitable, I add, “Don’t be shy.”

No answer. Yet I sense his leer, the possibilities left to my imagination.

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