Page 14 of Mischief Maker
Faela, too, has gotten too comfortable. Her tasks are less and less specific now, and it’s simply that I know what she means and what it is she wants me to do. I understand her now, I think. While her hands move slowly and precisely, her mind is quick and she’s not to be underestimated. She has a grand plan for everything, and I’m learning my place in it.
“Kireth? Will you please hand me that knife? I need to cut this cord.” I reach for the knife without thinking twice about it and pass it to her by the handle—but I realize that I’ve been doing many small things like this for her, without even counting them.
“Fifty-six,” I say, drawing a tally in the air.
The smile on her face wavers. We’ve been working on weaving new baskets for the produce that will soon be coming.
“Th-thank you,” she says anyway, taking the knife but looking uncertain. She does not ask me for any more small favors that night.
I know she is keeping me here as long as possible, and the more time passes, the less I mind the idea. I do not feel like her servant here. If anything, she treats me like a friend, a companion.
One night, we build a fire in the pit behind the house to cook a lamb that was born this past spring. While we wait, occasionally turning the spit, Faela studies me.
“How old are you?” she asks after a long silence.
An odd question. I cock my head. “Older than time.”
“Were you here before humans were?”
“You know the right questions to ask.” I turn the spit a quarter round, then sit back down. “No. I am a plaything, just like you are. Who would call on me to perform tasks, if not for mortals?”
“True,” she says. “The world must have been different back then.”
I bark a laugh. “Oh, yes. But in many ways, still the same. Blackberries grow in the summer, and pretty women are still pretty women.” I make sure to arch an eyebrow at her as I say it.
She giggles and blushes.
The rest of the night, she asks me lots more questions about myself, what I’ve done in my long life, what I’ve seen. I steer away from the more lecherous adventures because, for some reason, I don’t want her to know about them. I don’t want her to think of me on top of another mortal, bringing them to that height of ecstasy.
No, I don’t want her to think of me inside anyone but her.
It’s undeniable now, and almost painful to keep to myself, how much I want her. But it feels wrong to act on it. She has a sweetness, an innocence, that I fear I would spoil with my touch.
And yet my cock hungers, more and more every day, as my hands and lips and soul do, too.
One afternoon, Faela returns from the river, wet and dripping through her clothes. She’s been bathing, and as her hair dries, it puffs up into sleek brown waves. I wonder if it is as soft as it looks. While she works on the house, trying to fix a collapsed back step, I find myself sidling up to her. I stop at her backside and run my fingers through her hair, and it’s as smooth as a mink’s fur.
Faela falls still under my hand, and I realize what I’ve done. When I pull away, she turns around, her eyes wide, and I wonder if I’ve offended her by touching her.
Instead, she takes my hand in hers and brings it back up to touch the side of her head.
“I liked that,” she says quietly.
I tilt an eyebrow. She enjoyed my touch, did she? Perhaps this woman has more needs than I anticipated.
So I comb my hand through her hair again, my claws peeling apart the knots, and a small sigh escapes her lips. Those full, wonderful lips—how I would love to take them in mine and tease them open. Her eyes close as I draw my hand lower, running my fingers through the strands that hang down over her shoulders. Unconsciously her body leans into me, and I know then that she feels some small portion of what I feel for her: this craving, this need, this itch that’s telling me to touch even more of her.
The bark of the dog startles us apart. I regain my footing, remembering again where I am, what I’m doing, and what this young mortal woman is to me.
I want her, yes. But she is my master, and me her servant. As much as I want her, she is still my end point—when I have completed her tasks, I will be free to return to my long sleep. There is nothing truly between us, as there never will be. If I were to take her, to cradle her to my chest and slide myself inside her, I would be taking something precious, doing something irreversible. A girl like Faela does not need such things when I inevitably finish my tasks and leave her at the end.
But once we’re inside, cooking some of the greens that have come in, I want my hands on her again. Her slight waist and rounded hips call to me, singing my name, urging me to wrap my arms around her. She must sense my pull because when she turns away from the counter, she rotates into me. A gasp falls from her mouth when she collides with my chest. She reaches out to steady herself, her hand firmly against my skin, but she yanks it away when she realizes she’s touched me. Her face is bright red, and I know then that she lusts for me, too.
Perhaps I can serve her in this way, after all, if she truly wants me.
I stop her with one hand on her shoulder.
“Don’t run,” I say, leaning down closer. “No, sad girl. Stay here and tell me what you want from me.”
