He groaned against my mouth. The hand resting over my waist tightened, nudging my hips closer to his. Then every inch of his body stiffened. His arms became marble. His torso flexed, hard muscle rippling against my stomach. His thighs went rigid as his knees bent. He jerked his hips and the beginnings of his arousal away from me.
“No.” His lips unfastened from mine. “No.”
I pouted. My dreams didn’t usually reject me. I reached for him again.
But he caught my wrists in his huge hands and pinned them across my chest.
“No,” he said again. “Not like this.”
I frowned—I didn’t know what he meant. But it didn’t matter much anymore. I rolled over and slid into unconsciousness.
I woke in the dream-glow of dawn. Remnants of the flower’s toxin still coursed through my veins—apparitions lurked at the edges of my shivering vision. The ordeal had left me with skin like sand and bones like glass. But the warmth on the horizon quickened my pulse.
“I need to get back to the Gate,” I croaked.
Silently, Irian helped me dress, then bent space to deposit me beside the Willow Gate.
Tír na nÓg by dawn was exquisite. As the sun rose, riotous colors burst from impossible flowers. Trees with honeycomb leaves reflected prisms of light. The birds’ aubade was like bells tolling across still water.
“Irian—” I turned toward him. But there was nothing but retreating shadows and a few stray black feathers catching the air and slicing it into shards of red and gold.
He was gone. And I was late.
After the glory of Tír na nÓg, Roslea felt devoid of color or life. I fell forward onto the loam, choking against the lingering aftereffects of the black flower—nausea, dizziness, creeping hopelessness.
“Changeling!”
Rogan dropped to his knees before me and, before I could react, gathered me against him. He was solid—almost too solid. He crushed me in the circle of his arms until I thought my bones might break.
“I was so worried,” Rogan was saying in my ear, low and fierce. “I waited at the Gate until nearly sunrise before crossing over. I didn’t know whether something had happened to you or whether you crossed over early and went home without me—”
“Thank you for waiting.” My voice came out hoarse and listless.
Rogan pushed me to arm’s length, taking in my bedraggled appearance. But instead of concern, his eyes narrowed with something like suspicion. He caught my chin, tilting my face up to the light.
“You’ve been kissing someone.”
I jerked my face out of his hand, climbed crookedly to my feet. “I haven’t.”
“You have.” He also stood. “I know what it looks like. I’ve seen it enough.”
His palms gripped my arms, too hard. My frazzled nerve endings sparked. Green rippled along my skin.
“Let go of me, Rogan.”
“It washim, wasn’t it?”
“You don’t get to be jealous.” Spiny thorns burst from my biceps and shoulders.
Rogan jerked his hands away, hissing as droplets of red pooled on his palms and fingertips. “I’mnot. I’m concerned. I warned you, Fia—he’s dangerous.”
“I think I am a better judge of who among the Folk is dangerous—and who is not.”
“Changeling—”
“You don’t get to tell me who I can or cannot spend my time with,” I snapped. “Focus on yourself—focus on your princess, like you did last night.”
He stared at me. “What?”
