Page 92 of Empress of Fae

“Me?” She shook her head. “Oh, no, I’m not taking responsibility for this.”

I frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps we both are.” I looked at the cottage closely. “Come to think of it, it does look... familiar.”

“How so?”

I felt my cheeks heat slightly. “I used to imagine something along these lines.”

“A cottage? You?” Morgan looked delighted. “Draven, do you have secret fairytale aspirations? Perhaps you wish to become a farmer and give up court life altogether?” Her eyes twinkled.

“There are worse things than becoming a farmer,” I said, refusing to be embarrassed. “A simpler life wouldn’t be so bad.”

“So this cottage, it came from your imagination, did it? I wonder what’s inside...” She gave me a playful look and began to stroll up the path.

Just the way I’d dreamed she would. My heart thundered in my chest like a drum as I watched her walk away.

Did she have any idea how bewitching she looked? Doubtful.

The runes along her arms glistened like stardust against her golden skin, while her long, silver hair fell in undulating waves down her back, catching the fading sunlight as if each strand were a ribbon of moonlight. Her gown, a rich, velvety crimson, clung to her in all the right places, the fabric caressing her hips in a way that set my pulse alight. Every delicate sway of her hips was emphasized by the soft, shimmering material, creating a captivating play of light and shadow that made my heart skip a beat.

I breathed deep. I could almost feel the warmth of her skin and the softness of that moonlight hair beneath my fingertips.

She was a feast for the eyes, leaving me hungry for more.

I followed her up the path and watched as she lifted her hand to the polished, bright blue door and gently pushed it open.

Inside, a tea tray was arranged by a crackling fire. Cups of a sweet-scented herbal brew sat steaming beside a squat teapot, accompanied by plates of warm, buttery scones still fresh from the oven.

It was as if Hawl had simply stepped out for a moment.

I grinned to myself. I had no wish to see the Bearkin in the fur, as it were, in this dream.

Over our heads, wooden beams stretched out across the ceiling, crisscrossed with strings of dried herbs and flowers that dangled like chandeliers. The walls were a soft, buttery cream color and had been covered with paintings and sketches, some showing landscape scenes and others portraits. One in particular caught my eye. I turned my head away quickly.

Sunlight filtered through lace curtains, casting gentle patterns on the wooden floor. Over the mantle hung a large, wood-framed mirror that reflected the room's light, making it feel bright and spacious.

Hand-painted dishes and brightly colored jars sat on open shelves over a large, wooden counter in the little, rustic kitchen, while in another corner of the cottage, prettily painted wooden screens bordered a bathing area with a copper clawfoot tub in the center.

At the far end of the cottage, a beautifully carved four-poster bed dominated the room. Flowing linen curtains in pastel shades of green and blue billowed in the breeze from an open window like ethereal clouds. A vase holding an arrangement of fresh wildflowers sat on the nightstand beneath a square glass window.

Morgan turned here and there, taking in everything. Then she looked back at me. “Who lives here?”

I cleared my throat. “I think we do. At least...”

Her eyes became wistful. “For tonight?”

“We might be able to bring ourselves back here if we try,” I said. “Would you like that?”

The truth was, I had no idea what was or wasn’t possible. I had never shared a dream with anyone before. Certainly not two in succession.

But I had no doubt whatsoever that this was real.

Oh, not the surroundings. But Morgan—her presence, all that she had told me. This was real. And it would become a very real memory for us both in the morning.

Until then...

Morgan was looking at me with a strange expression, biting her lip.

“I’ve missed you,” I said directly, meeting her gaze and feeling the heat as her golden eyes turned scorching.

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