David pales as I turn my attention back to him, which tells me my expression must be murderous. I can’t believe he thinks I’m Araminta’s mother. In his defense, it is often impossible to determine the ages of pureblood fae, and with over three hundred years of life behind me, I amtechnicallyold enough to be her parent. Yet I’m happy to say I’ve not once had a litter of kits, despite the many mating seasons I participated in as a pine marten. I’m about to say as much, but something tells me this is one of those times where I shouldnotadmit what’s on my mind.
“I know you were looking forward to spending more of the evening with your best friend,” Araminta says. At first I think she means Monty until I realize she’s referring to herself. For the love of the All of All, this creature is truly delusional. If she can state such falsehoods without a single repercussion from the fae magic that keeps us from lying, she must believe every word she says. “I’ll stay at your place another time.”
“I never once invited you to my place,” I say.
She ignores me and bats her lashes at Monty. “You’ll walk her safely home, won’t you?”
I meet his eyes, finding hesitation in them. In all of him, written in the tight line of his shoulders, his jaw. Then he looses a breath that dissipates every sign of tension, making me wonder if I imagined it. “Of course I’ll walk her home. There’s no way in hell I’m letting her stroll the streets of Jasper alone this late at night.”
“It’s settled then.” Araminta squeals and hugs David’s arm tighter. They’re already halfway out the door when she gives me a parting wave. “See you at work Monday!”
The door slams, and only then do I notice the tightness in my chest. The way my hands ball into fists as I resist the urge to run after them and give David a proper warning. I don’t know why I care. Araminta isn’t a child and can do whatever she pleases. Furthermore, didn’t I consider eating that horrid little sprite this morning? But still. I’ve always had a weakness for worrying over the people who annoy me most.
Case in point being the man beside me.
I glance at him sidelong.
“They grow up so fast, don’t they?” He chuckles. “Come. I’ll walk you home.”
I rise from the settee, arms crossed. “Fine, but you’re telling me all about this muse business.”
“You’re Gladys?”My shocked tone echoes through the silent streets as we make our way from the industrial district toward the heart of the city. I slap my hand over my mouth, glad there aren’t any residences nearby with slumbering souls to wake. I lower my voice. “You’re Gladys? As inAsk Gladys? As in ‘Fifteen Steps to Fantastic Fellatio’?”
Monty’s lips pull into a smug grin. “You’ve read my column.”
“Let me get this straight. You give love and sex advice to women. As a man.”
He shrugs. “Who better to write about fantastic fellatio than the one receiving it?”
My pulse rackets at the influx of images invading my mind, of Monty sprawled on his back, those gorgeous muscles on full display, his lover between his legs, tongue working over the length of his cock?—
I force the pictures from my mind.
Though I kind of want to draw them when I get home…
“Scum,” I mutter, and I’m not entirely sure which of us I’m speaking to.
“What’s that?” Monty leans close, bumping his shoulder into mine, expression taunting. “I believe the word you meant wasgenius. Or maybegenerous. I seem to recall you needing a favor from me, after all. Shouldn’t you be kinder?”
“I seem to recall you proposing an equal exchange, so I’d hardly call that a favor. Now explain what this is all about.”
He straightens and takes a step away from me, returning to a proper distance. It’s times like these I remember Monty is highborn. His parents are two of the most respected humans on the isle. His father is Lord Phillips, the Human Representative of the Earthen Court, and his mother is Lady Phillips. I don’t know much about Lady Phillips, but Lord Phillips is rather famous, considering he’s one of the eleven Human Representatives—the only governing position a human can have in Faerwyvae. It’s strange to think of Monty as his son, yet every now and then I glimpse the part of him that was raised in refinement. This is a man who knows what society expects of him. When he breaks the rules, it’s deliberate.
When I do, it’s an accidental bloodbath.
“Now that you know I’m Gladys,” Monty says, “you may have surmised I’m writing a book.”
“Yes, you wrote the address to the club on the back of your title page.”
“Are you impressed?”
“That you own a fountain pen? Or that you know how to use it? Believe it or not, I always knew you were literate.”
He gives a good-humored roll of his eyes. “No, that I’ve written an entire book. Well, to be more precise, it’s a compilation of my best courtship advice I’ve written for theAsk Gladyscolumn, bound in a single volume. I’ve added anecdotes regarding how to apply said advice to similar scenarios my readers might be experiencing. It’s brilliant as it stands, truly, but Mr. Fletcher insists I need a case study.”
“Which is what you want me to be? What would I have to do?” We reach the heart of the business district on Verbena Street, just a few blocks from Fletcher-Wilson. My apartment isn’t too far from there.
“You would let me coach you through a myriad of the scenarios I’ve written about,” Monty says. “Then you’ll act out my advice in applicable situations. If you make a promising match, you’ll prove my advice works, which will in turn give my book credibility.”
