Somehow.
Gods, I must have really been unconscious.
How he did it without me waking is beyond me. What a task that must have been. A wicked grin curls my lips. I’m sad I missed the struggle. I would have teased him the whole time.
Upon the nightstand sits a glass of water and a note propped against it. It’s not my name in the beautiful script I’ve memorized as Ryc’s, but ratherLittle Death.
Plucking the folded parchment between my fingers, I unfold it and read.
Don’t forget the north lawn this afternoon.
—Ryc
I’m glad he left the note.
Iwouldhave forgotten.
Refolding it, I set it aside. Another seven-word note to add to my small trove. Over the last few months, I’ve garnered quite the collection of his notes. Studied the swirling strokes of his handwriting. I can’t bring myself to throw them away.
Though… there’s a small problem with the note.
While brevity is appreciated, there’s no mention ofwhywe’re meeting and my memory proves hazy.
I glance at the windows.
It’s late morning.
And Ryc’s side of the bed lies empty, long cold. He’s been up for hours already and is likely in the middle of some meeting with his Olloran lords. I won’t harass him by asking.
I can wait.
At the very least, I’m glad I didn’t oversleep.
Not that Ryc would be upset if I had—no, the damn fae is more patient than he should be. He’d give me a concerned look, one that’s too easy to imagine, while asking how I’m feeling.
His attention, his care—it’s unlike anything I’ve known.
A lot of the time, I don’t know what to make of it.
I keep waiting—waiting for the change. For the kindness to transform to contempt, the touches to turn brutal, and for his gaze to take on distance. And while it’s only been a few months, the opposite has happened.
He’s a doting, foolish fae.
Attuned to me in a way that shouldn’t be possible.
And I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the fact he’s as enamored with me as I am him. Granted, he’s more open with his affections than I.
Rubbing the sleep from my face and eyes, I yawn. If I’m going to make Lilith’s lesson on time, I need to attend to this raven now. Rising from the bed, Ryc’s barely buttoned shirt swallows me and I laugh. I cross the room to retrieve the raven, pitching myself over the back of the couch.
And pause—my heart stopping.
“What?”
The basket is empty.
The towel used to wrap the raven lies half-strewn over the side of the basket. A single pinion feather rests on the couch cushion nearby. Snatching the towel, I fling it aside. It lands on the floor near the bathing room door.
Nothing.
