Page 6 of Bound and Beguiled

Chapter Three

Isagged, then jerked forward, my only thought a desperate need for space. I was trapped. I couldn’t breathe.

“Don’t rush off, now,” the mystery fae chuckled, nestling me securely against him.

My eyes stretched wide as hot, invisible hands slid over my body. Steam curled from the splatters of champagne on my arms and legs.

“There you go.” The words vibrated against my back, luxuriously deep. Terrified as I was, I had to resist the urge to beg this man—a complete stranger—to never stop talking. “All safe.”

I shuffled my feet on the now dry floor, blinking.

Cleaning. He’d just been cleaning. And keeping me from falling onto my clumsy ass. Heat blazed in my cheeks and burned behind my eyes.

“Godsdamned mages can’t take no for an answer,” Emyr grumbled, stomping back to us. “An apprentice could have seen that the booze was already bespelled, but the idiot just had to whip out his magic. Oh, good, Kynan, you have her.” His mood shifted mercury-fast, the aggression melting away, replaced by heat of a different kind. “Aren’t the two of you a picture?”

The chest at my back thrummed with low laughter again, and even though I knew it wasn’t for me, I melted into it. Kynan shifted, cupping my chin, bringing my face around until our gazes met. His eyes were the same endless field of black, set in a face made of bold, chiseled angles. In contrast, the dark hair that fell to his shoulders looked heart-breakingly soft.

“Quite,” he purred, sliding his thumb over my jaw.

It was too much. Flirtation might be a game to them, but I wasn’t strong enough to play. I pushed away from them both, catching myself with a pained hiss against the table where Mared and Efa sat, gaping.

“I need some air,” I squeezed out, looking away before I saw pity or disappointment in their eyes. Emyr called my name, but I kept walking and didn’t look back.

∞∞∞

Night had fallen, and the cool air was a relief against my hot cheeks as I slumped against my car. I ignored the poke of gravel and the ache low in my belly, hugging my knees to my chest. I hadn’t struggled to achieve a meditative state since I was a child, but it took me long moments before my breath evened out. Try as I might, I couldn’t quiet my mind.

Something licked my hand. My head shot up as something else snuffled at my arm, and yet another something nipped at my jeans. A three-headed, long-haired Chihuahua stared at me with two of its heads, the third busy chewing a hole in my denim. The dog was pale in the darkness of the parking lot, jeweled and studded collars glinting at its necks.

“Uhhh. . .hi?”

“Russ, what did I tell you about eating stranger’s pants?” a giant Ogre boomed, clomping over. His Cairn Rider’s vest was the size of a billboard, stretched across his wide chest. “Sorry, ma’am. I—hey, what’s wrong?” His green eyebrows furrowed, and he scooped up the little dog before plopping down in front of me.

I blinked at him, bemused. He had to be eight feet tall—slabbed with the kind of thick, solid muscles I could only describe as “meaty”—with mossy green skin covered in tattoos. His head was shaved, his face boldly hewn with a jagged scar that split his right eyebrow and snaked up his temple. But the tiny dog panted happily in his lap, and he was looking at me—a sniffling nobody—with open concern.

“Nothing. I’m just an idiot.” I sidestepped; my attention caught by the name embroidered over his heart. “Your name’s Mouse?”

“Yep,” he said, beaming. “What’s yours?”

“Mouse!” I blurted. “I mean, it’s Tereza. But my family calls me Mouse.”

His laughter vibrated the car I leaned against, and he held out a huge hand for me to shake. “Well, I guess that makes us family, little Mouselet. This here is Sir BurrRuss,” he pointed to each head in turn and I giggled at the pun. “And now you’re going to tell me what upset you.” He frowned at me sternly when I started to shake my head, and I sighed, relenting. Friendly or not, he was still an Ogre.

“It’s stupid,” I muttered. “I met these fae: Mared, Efa, Emyr, and Kynan.”

“The Bwbachod, yeah,” he encouraged.

“Boo-bah-khod?” I repeated, sounding out the unfamiliar name.

“Uh-huh. Cymreig cousins to the English Brownies, but don’t repeat that. They’ve got some kind of feud going on.”

That explained the resemblance, not to mention the accent.Bwbachod, I repeated, committing the name to memory. “Not Scottish, then.”

“Confused by the kilts, were you?” Mouse chuckled.

I nodded, trying not to squirm in embarrassment. I hadn’t actually meant to say that out loud.

“Understandable. But they’re not cultural, they’re compromise.” Clearly enjoying my confusion, the big Ogre winked. “The Bwbachod don’t wear much of anything, left to their preference. Sid refused to let them serve drinks bare-assed when she took over, and whoo! That was a fight. Now they wear the kilts. Nudity is a snap away, nobody’s junk is hanging in the beer, and everybody’s happy.”

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