“I don’t think my legs are ever going to work again,” I tell him.
He chuckles. A sound of pure delight. “In that case, I guess I’ll have to carry you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s rather undignified.”
“Who’s going to see?” He shrugs. “I won’t tell, if you don’t.”
For some reason, I’m nodding and agreeing with him. “Deal.” I say softly.
Jack beams, and bends down. He scoops me up into his arms as if I weigh nothing. He places me into a bridal carry and strides towards the bedroom.
I hear myself laughing. I sound happy. Happy at the wedding custom I vetoed less than a moon ago, when the thought of being carried by Jack seemed like a humiliation too difficult to bear.
Now I’m laughing. Now I’m enjoying the feel of his firm muscles. Now I’m exulting in feeling safe and protected. Even though I know it’s merely an illusion.
Who even am I right now?
Jack lays me carefully on the bed. He pauses, hovering over me, and we both stop laughing as a more intense feeling fills the air.
“You may fuck me if you like. I am your consort,” I say solemnly.
Jack shakes his head, and for a moment outrage at the insult burns.
“I don’t want to fuck you. I want to make love to you.”
I blink, but still nothing makes sense.
Jack tenderly runs a finger over my cheek. “You don’t want me in that way, so I have to wait to see if that ever changes.”
He straightens, turns the lamp off and gets under the covers. He snuggles up to me, inhales near my hair as if breathing my scent in. Then he sighs a deep sigh of contentment.
“Goodnight, Husband,” he murmurs.
Within minutes he is snoring. Alcohol no doubt smoothing the path to sleep.
I blink into the darkness. I’m so very confused. Utterly bewildered.
But sleep sounds nice, and perhaps in the morning, things will make sense.
I yawn, close my eyes and snuggle closer to Jack. Then, I allow sleep to carry me away.
Chapter seventeen
Jack
“Jack.”
Blearily, I open my eyes. It’s morning, and Dyfri is standing next to the bed, looking down at me. He is neatly dressed in human clothes, and his hair looks amazing, all tied back in braids and plaits. Each one threaded through with one of the ribbons I gave him.
He must have been up for hours. Clearly, fey don’t get hangovers. Lucky bastards.
“You need to redo my braid.”
I blink. One small section of Dyfri’s hair is loose, and there is a comb in his hand, and the white ribbon I wove into his hair on our wedding day is in the other.
I sit up.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, back to me. He hands me the ribbon and the comb.
