“Fucking tragic,” he repeated, his head shaking. He spread his fingers on ——wrist, warm and solid under his touch. Warm and solid, real as the spray of cool water and brush of summer grass, like curling up under the yawning old boards of a place tucked away. “C’mon. Come here.”
Memories tugged painfully at his skin, still fresh and forming. He wanted to keep them. They were his. Just because he was the only one they meant something to didn’t mean they were for the taking.
“If you don’t make it back before I finish my pancakes, I’m taking yours,” he warned. A lie. He would never fucking finish these pancakes. They were eternal. He turned again to watch —— and the man for a moment and, when satisfied, returned to face both his plate and ——.
“You’ll starve soon, human.” Coaxing, and he bristled. “Eat.”
But the fish nipped at memories, and the vines held tight to shield them, and he wouldn’t eat until the ocean receded. He clutched the scrap–the leaf–tighter and didn’tfeelhungry. That was something.
“Just relax your throat and focus on my hands. I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”
Or at least, he’d not let —— fall alone.
Both of them wrapped up in the dark, surrounded by bones of history and long-lost lives. Freedom and bare feet, the first rush of cold water in a dry throat. Fucking parched.
He wanted to see if he could make —— shake (and shake and shake).
He hid behind the vines and hissed and kicked and spat, even when nothing of his moved but his mind and an echo of words, littered with profanity.
Cursing and, somewhere deeper and trembling with something not anger, nothim, “Summer yields only if I will it.”
It was fucking stupid, how much it meant that —— called the sidhe out over his name. —— said he would, yeah, and he’d believed him. Just different, saying and doing. Actions being louder than words, —— strung wire-tight for reasons he understood anddidn’t mind knowing.
Too long at sea, and suddenly, there was sand beneath his feet. Marble under his ass, behind his shoulders, and oak leaves spiraling from crown to collarbone like curls. Fiadh on her knees before him, beforeBo,his fucking name was Bo. Fiadh kneeling and her expression twisted to one of sadness, regret, and disappointment.
“You play a dangerous game, human,” she said gently, as ifhewere the one with his brain-fingers up in her memories, whispering creepy shit. “We’ve been here three days. You tread the line of losing the whole of your mind.”
“You’re the one trying to peel my fucking brain,” Bo snapped. His stomach threatened to heave. “So you can fuck right off with that victim-blaming bullshit.”
“I’m trying tohelp you.”
“And doing a shit job of it.”
She flinched like Ever had. Bo set his jaw and hugged his knees to his chest, trying to calm his breathing, body aching and mind still trying to drag itself free of the ocean.
“Aren’t I supposed to be in my world?” he asked after a moment of silent watching. Mutual watching, her gaze reproachful and small. “Ever said I would be.”
Fiadh sighed. Soft, like the wind, beautiful still. Asshole. She stood, looking down at him.
“You will. You’ve been granted twelve hours to make the right choice, with food and drink and rest. When we return you to the mortal realm, youwillforget.” Fiadh gestured to a tray of food near them that Bo, not hungry despite the fucking time loss, ignored. “Fight or not, we go regardless. You keep struggling, human Bo, and all your memories will be gone by the time we are done, no matter how careful I am. You yield, and you lose less than a week.”
Bo stared at her. There were words he could say. Plenty of them. Hateful, sharp fucking words she’d let roll off her back and not give a shit about because she was ‘helping’ him.
He wanted Ever. Even if Ever didn’t want him, looked at Bo and felt shame at their closeness, Bo just … wanted him. His skin itched with the lack of the kelpie, unsettled and ill-fitting. It hurt not to see his almost smile or sidelong glances. It feltwrong. No matter what the fuck he’d agreed to, Ever wouldn’t have said yes tothis. He’d count this as fucking hurting.
But Fiadh didn’t. Bo wasn’t sure which mattered more in Faerie.
“He’s going to fucking kill you for this,” he said at last.
Fiadh smiled, all regret and bittersweet concern. “He’s the one that aimed true, hunter. Not me. I will return to this House in twelve hours.” She hesitated and added, gently, “This is the best way to keep you safe, just as he bargained for. What I do is to help you. When it comes to those we love, there are always casualties. You’ll never need to flinch at his disregard again.”
Shehadseen his fucking thoughts through the … whatever the fuck the vines were.
Faerie. Fucking figured. At least it hadn’t changed its mind about Bo.
It didn’t matter, though. Fiadh left before Bo knew what to say.
(Nothing. There was nothing to say.)
