Now, in the harsh light of morning, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve taken advantage of him. I know damn well that he only insisted on having sex because he felt he had to, not because he wanted to. The way he’d lain there at the beginning, all rigid and silent, hadn’t exactly screamed enthusiasm. And I don’t think him taking control means he changed his mind.
Whereas I quite clearly enjoyed myself, a lot.
God, what if he thinks I’m some sort of predator? What if he’d spent the whole night traumatised or terrified that I’d demand more? What if that’s what the fey visitors are here about, to rescue him from his abusive human husband?
I splash cold water on my face and try to get a grip. I’m pretty sure he knew what he was doing and the reasons why. And I know I didn’t hurt him. But still, the doubt gnaws at me.
The voices have gone quiet. I wait another few minutes, then cautiously pad down the hallway and open the bedroom door.
The bedroom is empty except for Dyfri, who is no longer in the bed, which has been stripped. He’s standing by the window, still in his nightgown, and he looks... different.
Human. Completely, utterly human.
Gone are the elegant cheekbones that could cut glass. Gone are the otherworldly pale skin and the faintly pointed ears. Gone are the dark, curling horns that made him look like some beautiful demon.
He turns when he hears me emerge, and I have to blink several times to reconcile this version of him with the ethereal being I married yesterday.
“They’ve gone,” he says simply, as if random fey materialising in our bedroom is perfectly normal.
“Right,” I manage. “Everything... alright?”
Something flickers across his expression. “Everything is as it should be.”
Which isn’t really an answer, but before I can figure out how to ask for clarification, he’s already moving towards the door of the ensuite.
“I’m going to bathe,” he says. “I assume breakfast is served at a reasonable hour here.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me standing there in rumpled pyjamas wondering what the hell just happened.
I take a shower in what I guess is my bathroom now, get properly dressed, and spend another ten minutes staring at myself in the mirror trying to work up the courage to face my husband. When I finally make it to the dining room, I find him sitting at the breakfast table, methodically buttering a piece of toast.
He’s wearing jeans. Actual jeans. And a simple black t-shirt that fits him perfectly, showing off a lean butathletic build I hadn’t quite appreciated under all those flowing silks. His hair is still that impossibly rich black, falling to his waist in a dark cascade, and threaded through it, I can still see the plait I wove during our wedding ceremony. The white ribbon shot with silver thread catches the morning light streaming through the windows.
Seeing that braid still there does something odd to my chest. I’d assumed it would be gone by now, that whatever strange fey custom it represented would have run its course. But there it is, woven neatly through his hair like some sort of... well, like some sort of bond.
He looks up as I enter, one dark eyebrow arching in a way that manages to convey both amusement and mild irritation in a single gesture.
“Sleep well?” I venture, immediately feeling like an idiot. Of course he didn’t sleep well. I was there. I could tell he was awake and unmoving. Just like I was.
“About as well as one might expect when sharing a bed with a stranger who snores,” he says, taking a precise bite of toast.
“I don’t snore,” I protest automatically.
“You absolutely do.” He doesn’t look up from his breakfast. “Like a congested bear.”
My face heats up. “Sorry. I can sleep in the other room if you’d prefer.”
Something flickers across his expression, too quick for me to interpret. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure I’ll adjust.”
Right. Adjustment. We’re both going to have to do a lot of that.
I pour myself coffee from the pot on the sideboard and try again. “So... the whole looking human thing. Is that...?”
“Glamour,” he says simply. “It seems prudent to blend in with the local population now that I’m living amongst them.”
“Right. Of course.” I pause. “Does it... I mean, is it difficult? Maintaining it?”
This time he does look up, and there’s something almost surprised in his expression. As if he hadn’t expected me to ask.
