“What did you do, Daph?” There’s no disapproval in his tone, no wariness. Only genuine curiosity.
I cover my mouth with my hands and mutter the truth beneath my palm.
Monty chuckles and leans across the blanket. With his cigarillo perched between his lips, he pries my hand off my mouth. “I didn’t hear that, dear. What did you do to that wretched harpy?”
I meet his eyes with a guilty look. “I bit off the top of her ear.” A beat of silence. Then my next confession. “And I ate it.”
He throws his head back with a hoot of laughter. When his eyes return to mine, his are glittering with mirth. “That’s my fucking girl.”
My heart flutters at those words, doubly so when I realize he’s still holding my hand. To my disappointment, he releases my palm and settles back on the other side of the teapot, still chuckling to himself.
I clear my throat and push myself up to sitting. “Now you know why I’m anxious around strangers,” I say as I pour a fresh cup of tea. My hand still tingles from where he touched it. “That’s enough about my humiliating past. You asked about my type, and now you know why I don’t have one. So, what about you? What’s your type?”
He furrows his brow. “My type?”
“Yes, your type.” I cut him a good-humored glare. “I know it isn’t four legs and furry.”
As his face falls, I realize I’ve said the wrong thing.
I flap my hand at him. “I’m not mad?—”
“I’m so sorry.” The emotion strangling his voice silences me. “I never should have said that to you that morning on tour. I didn’t mean it.”
A lump rises in my throat. The last thing I was seeking was an apology. I was more trying to lighten the mood. I force a smile and try a different angle. “Oh, so youareinto bestiality. Noted.”
The soft smile that breaks through his somber look tells me he has at least somewhat taken my bait. “No, I am not sexually attracted to fae creatures in their animal forms,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “But…you know what I mean. I’m sorry.”
I sip my tea. “I know. I’m not mad about it, honestly. I’ve learned a lot these last couple of years.”
Monty sits up and props his arm on one knee. He finishes his cigarillo only to extract a new one, which he flips over his fingers, unlit. “You say you’re not mad, but you had every right to be. To still be. I know how I am with people. How I…push them away. It’s what I’ve always done. There are reasons I can’t get too close to another person, so when I’m afraid that’s happening, I act cold.”
My breaths go shallow. I’m too afraid to move. Too afraid to make a single sound, for fear that he’ll end this unexpected candor.
“When I’m not pushing others away on purpose, I’m hurting them unwittingly because I’m a fucking asshole, born and raised.”
“Why would you say that?” It’s not the first time he’s been so self-deprecating. During the tour, he’d remind Edwina how he’s a heartless rake and not a hero, always with the kind of smile that made me wonder if he was being serious. The way he says it now, there’s no doubt. He truly doesn’t hold himself in high regard.
Several long beats of silence pass.
“I had a furry little friend once,” he finally says. “A fox. I was quite young and spent much of my time playing outdoors on our country estate. Every time I went outside, my fox would come to visit. She was a curious creature. A fennec, more often found in courts with warmer climates like Fire, Summer, or Solar. I’d drag her around like a house cat, climb trees with her, dress her in my sister’s baby clothes. Then one day, my fox spoke. What a magical moment, to discover one’s animal companion can talk. A dream come true, for most children.”
Despite his hopeful words, his voice holds no joy.
“Then she said, ‘Monty, I’m sorry but I can’t be your pet anymore. I’m leaving.’ That’s all she had to say before she ran into the forest, never to return.” He shakes his head, his eyes brimming with remorse. “I made a friend of a fae creature and I treated her like a pet.”
My heart aches at the pain in his expression. “You didn’t know she was fae.”
He gives me a sad smile. “Should I have been so unruly with a wild creature, even if she wasn’t fae? Should I have dressed her in bonnets and carried her in a basket?”
“You were just a child.”
“Yet I didn’t learn, did I? You said yourself that I treated you like a pet.” His voice holds no criticism for my accusation, only regret and self-loathing for himself. Twice I’ve insinuated that he treated me like a pet. First, after I woke up on his chest during the tour. Next, when we parted the day he got fired.
I shake my head. “I don’t feel like you were treating me that way. Not anymore.”
His still-sad grin turns wry. “Don’t make excuses for me. You’re not the only one I’ve hurt. Not the only woman I’ve treated like shit.”
I want to reiterate that he didn’t treat me as badly as he’s determined to believe, but I’m curious what he means regarding other women.
