“I am most fortunate in my devotions, in that case.” Another smile, small and all for Bo.
“You don’t gotta worship me. I don’t need to be the summer anything all the time. Or, fuck, even most of the time.”
The oak crown in Bo’s hair rustled pointedly.
“He saidnotall the time,” Ever observed to the air. Then, like he was apologizing for an excitable pet, “Truly, Faerie doesn’t usually behave like this.”
“Maybe it’s really fond of oranges and snowmelt,” Bo suggested, still grinning. There were definitely worse things than an unfathomable power deciding it didn’t want you crushed into very small pieces. Especially when you were living inside it.
Ever turned his hand in Bo’s and reached to rest those fingers under Bo’s chin. The warm, soft brush quietly electric even through Bo’s languid contentment.
“You spoil me, sweet.” Ever’s thumb brushed over his lips, pausing at the tilted-up corner of Bo’s smile. “May I kiss you?”
“How very forward,” Bo murmured with another lopsided flash of a smile. “Fuck yeah, Ever. Kiss me. I want to taste you.”
Closer still, and a rush of pleasure and satisfaction through the bond. Ever’s lips pressed carefully to Bo’s, chaste except for the way his breath hitched.
“You do bring out the worst in me,” Ever breathed without moving back. “An irresistible influence.”
Bo grinned all the more, watching Ever, basking in the warm glow of his affection and pleasure and comfort.
Infatuation. That’s what the fuck it was.
Fuck knew, Bo was more than okay with it. With the kiss, too.
“It’s true. Me and my terribly crass human temptations.”
Ridiculous kelpie. Silly fucking human.
A soft, laughing voice somewhere beyond the wall of citrus trees kept Bo from saying more. Ever went rigid, then stood, pulling Bo up beside him.
A door appeared on the other side of the room, nestled between two trees. A tall goddamn door.
It looked fucking solid, made of dark wood oiled bright, with a large copper doorknob. The door lookedold; it had a rounded top half and little carvings around the edges. Fires? Fireplaces?
No time to study it; the door opening, and Bo couldn’t help but tense. The woman who stepped through was … large. The door made sense, kind of large. A tall goddamn door for a fuckingtoweringfae.
Stunning, definitely. Leana, it had to be Leana, was smiling and round from her loose, bright red curls to her toes. But at nearly eight fucking feet, not even the warm ember-orange flicker of her luminous eyes, her spark-flecked, sun-kissed skin, or the matron dress and apron could stifle the initial reaction ofoh fuck, she’s tall.
“What a curious citrus grove, showing up so unexpectedly,” she said in a sweet, mellow voice that filled the room. She sounded familiar. Bo couldn’t place where. “While I can’t say it’s the decor I’d have chosen, it’s certainly one of my more unique guest rooms, now.”
Even as she spoke, a bed twisted into existence in one corner, covered in a thick patchwork quilt. A dresser. A mirror. And still, it was an orange grove: ripe fruit and green leaves.
Her smile dimpled. Bo’s skin crawled.
Ever’s breath caught. Like clockwork, that trickle of shame and guilt, there whenever another fae saw them together. Fuck. Ever stepped forward, inclining his head in respect, once again putting himself between Bo and the new fae, his hands locked behind his back, shoulders rigid and jaw set.
“My thanks for your hospitality.” Ever said stiffly. Politely. “I assure you the grove is Faerie’s whims. Our needs were more than met by the room as provided.”
A man who alternatingly clings and freezes.
Later.
“Please, join me,” Leana said, her voice curled at the edges with amusement. “Re-introductions are always more enjoyable with refreshments.”
Bo snagged Ever’s holly crown, left it and his own hanging like the ripe fruit, a kind of acknowledgement. And with that, they went inside like a little trail of ducklings. Leana, Ever, Bo, and the click of the door closing behind them. The scent of oranges, magic, and sex disappeared, replaced by freshly baked bread, spiced drinks, and something bubbling away over a large fire.
It looked like every fantasy cottage, the same way the Council area looked like every stereotypical glade. High ceilings with dried herbs hanging from the rafters, a long table taking up the middle of the room, topped with vegetables and half-finished sketches. At one end, a well-loved kettle waited, three cups and a tray of snacks beside it. The table and counters (and alarder, for fuck’s sake) had all been carved from the same dark wood as the door, made homey with cushions, handmade towels, and small fat ottomans just far enough from the fire to not catch.
