Page 32 of Bound to the Fae Assassin

That night, Blackthorn sat on his straw pallet in the barn loft, watching moonlight stream through the window as the animals slept below.

At the palace, he slept on a massive bed with silk sheets, and always knew exactly what would happen next.

A servant would come offering tea or chocolate. The sounds of fighting, begging, and sex would echo in the stone halls. He would toss and turn, seeking a deep sleep that never came.

Then the sun would rise, and he would begin again, another indolent day. Or a day where his father summoned him to listen for hours while the older man spun tales of the illustrious battles of the past, or schemes to start future battles.

Of course he hated the man king, but the decision to cross the wall and kill him had not been driven by malice. It had been irresistible merely because it was something new and different.

He wanted the man dead, but even more, he craved to feel alive himself. And right now, he realized, was the closest he’d come in a long time. He would not trade this straw pallet for all the beds in the castle.

He had none of the luxuries he was used to, and not a damned clue as to what would happen tomorrow.

And he liked it that way.

The barn door creaked, and footsteps drifted to him from the straw below, far too soft to belong to one of the horses.

Farrow.

His ancient heart leapt in his chest, and he nearly laughed out loud at himself.

“Blackthorn,” her voice called out softly. “Are you awake?”

He waited, wanting to see what she would do next, and was rewarded with the sound of someone climbing the ladder.

A moment later, her head popped up over the edge of the loft, the moonlight playing on the subtle embers in her fiery hair, still damp and fragrant from a bath.

“Hi,” she whispered shyly.

“Hi,” he replied.

“I, uh, brought you more blankets,” she said, not meeting his eye.

“Come on up,” he told her, crawling over to take the bundle of blankets from her hand to make it easier for her.

Gods, but she smelled incredible.

He backed away carefully, giving her room to climb up while he reminded himself that he liked this girl, and did not want to ruin her. Well, he wanted to, but he wouldn’t. She deserved better than the life of shame that would mean.

“It’s not as nice as what you’re used to,” she said, indicating his bed.

“I love it,” he told her honestly. “It’s an adventure.”

She giggled and the sound washed over him, warm and bright as sunlight.

“What is your bed like?” he asked her.

“Oh, pretty much the same as this,” she told him.

He blinked at her.

“I’m joking,” she said, smiling. “I have a straw mattress, but it’s on a wooden bedframe. My room is small, but it’s cozy.”

Cozy. He liked the sound of that.

He tried to picture her in a small room on a straw mattress and couldn’t. She belonged in a field of wildflowers, or a bed with silk sheets…

“Is there anything else you need?” she asked awkwardly, glancing back at the ladder.

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