I lie in the dark and smile.
What is this strange emotion that is cocooning me? I’m warm, relaxed. I’m enjoying Jack’s snores. But there is something else I can’t name. Something strong and profound.
It must be the aftereffects of such a powerful orgasm. Whatever the cause, it is a nice feeling. Pleasant. I could get used to this. Used to Jack.
It is a shame this is all nothing more than a means to an end.
Chapter twenty-one
Jack
“Are you ready?” Dyfri asks, standing in the middle of our living room with a small, enigmatic smile that I suspect means he’s about to do something that will probably give me a heart attack.
I’m not ready. I don’t think anyone could be ready for whatever this is. But I nod anyway, because backing down now would mean letting Dyfri face whatever’s waiting for us alone, and that’s not happening.
“Good.” He takes my hand, his fingers warm and reassuring against mine. “Try not to panic.”
“When you say, try not to panic...”
And then he’s leading me straight toward the wall.
I have about half a second to process the fact that we’re about to walk directly into solid brick before everything goes strange and disorienting. The wall seems to ripple around us like water, and suddenly we’re stepping through it as if it were made of mist.
“Fucking hell!” I breathe as we emerge on the other side.
“Language, dear Husband,” Dyfri says mildly, though I can hear the amusement in his voice.
I look back at what should be a wall and see nothing but empty air. “How many of the walls in our flat are actually walls?”
“About half,” Dyfri admits. “I’m very fond of secret passages.”
We’re standing in what appears to be a disused office building, all concrete and broken windows and the sort of industrial decay that suggests it’s been abandoned for years. The December air cuts through my jacket like a knife, and I can see my breath misting in the cold. Graffiti covers the lower walls, and there’s that distinct smell of damp and neglect that clings to forgotten places.
Three people are waiting for us in what might once have been a reception area.
The first I recognise immediately. The tall, blond Welshman who approached me in the rose garden. He’s dressed down today, wearing jeans and a dark hoodie instead of an expensive suit, but those emerald green eyes are unmistakable. There’s something regal and dangerous about the way he holds himself, like a coiled spring ready to unleash violence at a moment’s notice.
The second is a young man who looks like he’s stepped out of a particularly brooding music video. Dark hair falls across sharp cheekbones, and he’s dressed entirely in black. Fitted jeans, leather jacket, boots that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. He’s beautiful in the way that dangerous things are beautiful, and when those dark eyes fix on me, I feel like prey being assessed by a predator. There’s an aura of power around him that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, something primal and otherworldly that speaks to instincts I didn’t know I had.
The third person makes my chest tighten with an awful recognition, even though I’ve never seen him before. He’s young, probably early twenties, with long blond hair tied back in a simple braid and the sort of otherworldly beauty that screams ‘fey’ even in human form. But where Dyfri carries himself with confidence despite his past trauma, this young man seems to fold in on himself, hugging a steaming mug like it’s a lifeline.
The sadness radiating from him is almost palpable. I just know he is a victim of the Fey Court.
Dyfri immediately moves toward the young man, his entire demeanour shifting into something gentle and protective. He sits beside him on a makeshift bench and takes one of his hands with careful tenderness.
“Hello, Ninian,” he says softly. “How are you holding up?”
Ninian gives him a tremulous smile. “Better, now that you’re here. Though Silas has been making me drink his awful coffee again.”
“My coffee is perfectly adequate,” the dark-haired young man, Silas, says without looking up from the map he’s studying. “You’re just spoiled by fey luxuries.”
There’s no real heat in the words, and I catch the way his eyes flick toward Ninian with what might be concern.
“Silas,” Dyfri says, and there’s a note of amusement in his voice. “Jack doesn’t need to hear about your ongoing coffee disputes.”
So the intimidating one is Silas. I file that information away, along with the growing certainty that he’s something far more dangerous than he appears.
“Why did you bring him here?” Silas asks, those dark eyes fixing on me with calculating intensity. “He’s a nobody.”
