Page 115 of Defy the Fae

Warmth. Devotion. Pride. Remorse. Humility.

They converge like waterways and spill through me. Because my features struggle to remain fixed, approval floods his tone. “Those are exactly the reactions I wanted from you three.” Then he pauses. “I want to see them.”

In my message through the water, I had neglected to identify my unexpected companion. Lark’s injury must be well on the mend by now, though it is likely consuming Juniper and Cove’s attention in The Heart of Centaurs.

Nor can they manifest. They would need time to travel here, even with the aid of the fauna.

I do what I should have done at the onset. My fingers dice through the pool and send another missive to Coral. This time, I instruct my first-in-command to depart for the forest and convey the news.

“I have sent a dispatch,” I answer. “But they must travel a considerable distance. It shall take a while.”

The man huffs. “I wouldn’t be their father if I weren’t tempted to rip your heads off. But they’re grown women, and I like to think I’ve raised them with a willingness to learn differently and practice forgiveness. In the meantime, I want to be wrong about you. I’ll hear their stories soon enough, but for now, I want yours.” Across the steaming pool, he says, “Start at the beginning.”

Cerulean goes first, followed by Puck, then me. Our tales unravel like the river, fluid and dark. But there is lightness, as my lady has proven. We speak of The Trapping, of meeting his daughters as striplings, and of the games. We tell him of the wild and our kin. And we tell him of our days with Lark, Juniper, and Cove.

It is only one half of the saga. The other half is for our ladies to share.

The obvious, we omit. He doesn’t want to hear that I’ve thrusted my cock so deeply and frequently into Cove that she has branded me for eternity. And without his woman, Puck wisely does not mention the child he and Juniper have conceived.

We finish at the point where Cerulean and Puck were taken, including the rod whipping and Scorpio’s flubbed intervention. I tack on the details of the rescue, up to when the father showed up.

The man sighs, carrying the weight of everything we’ve said. “So much destruction.”

“So much to fight for,” I counter.

I feel him nod. “I wasn’t home when the whipping happened. I’d been making camp some miles off, intent on rescuing a poached fox. By the time I freed the animal and came home, the nightingale was waiting for me with my daughters’ letter. The bird must have been there for a day, based on the message’s date.

“Then this morning, I heard the reports in town, heard you two were caged, and saw the cobblestones painted in blood. I made a plan to get you once night fell.”

“I’m indebted for the rescue,” Cerulean says.

“It was mostly your brother.”

“Yes, well.” I feel Cerulean’s blue eyes breeze toward me before returning to the father. “Then allow me to say something else instead: I apologize.”

“Same.” Puck’s voice is humble, loaded with remorse. “For what it’s worth, most days I want to flog my own ass. I’m sorry for what I did.”

“As am I,” I say.

The mortal is staring at us, wavering. “Did you tellthemthat?”

“We shall never stop telling them,” I answer.

The cascades slip down tiers of rock. Mist floats through the enclave.

“In their letter, they said your names were Cerulean, Puck, and Elixir.” There’s a newfound tilt to the man’s inflection—something smoother, easier. “Call me Thorne.”

Warmth floods the space behind my eyes. Faeries do not take the offer of someone’s name lightly. His manages to be piercing and trustworthy at the same time, protective rather than harmful.

It is the name of a guardian. It is strong, like his daughter.

Just then, my lady’s tremulous voice slips through the enclave. “Papa?”

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That sound, like a gentle flow of water passing over rocks. It washes through me and draws my gaze. When my eyes find her, the world takes shape, akin to waking up.

I see her, clear and luminous. My lady stands at the enclave’s threshold, strands of teal trembling down her shoulders. Around her, the environment blurs like a puddle, offering mere glimpses of splashing water and mist.

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