There’s someone behind me. On the bed. Chest against my spine, arm heavy across my ribs. Breath stirs my hair. A heartbeat that isn’t mine beats slow and steady against my back. I can feel the length of a body pressed along mine, and against my backside, unmistakable and hard?—
Oh gods. It’shim. The fae. The creature who dragged me across the countryside, who broke my ribs and healed them … who pinned me to the floor last night.
I’m lying in his arms like we’re lovers, and he’s … he’s?—
Panic floods through me, ice-cold despite the heat of his body. My heart slams so hard I can feel it in my throat, my temples,at the pulse point in my wrist where his hand rests over it. His chest rises and falls against my back in a slow, steady rhythm.
Maybe he’s asleep. Maybe if I’m careful, if I’m quiet, I can slide out from under his arm before he?—
“The last time a human female had me in her bed,” his voice is low and rough, a rumble against my back, breath hot against my ear, “the last thing she wanted to do was run away.”
I throw myself forward, scrambling off the mattress so fast my hip catches the wooden frame. Pain blooms outward. I don’t care. I need distance, space. I need to not be touching him. I need to not feel the ghost of his body imprinted along my back.
My shoulders hit the wall, and I stand there gasping, skin hot. My clothes feel too thin, too revealing, even though I’m fully dressed in the same hunting gear I set out in days ago.
But I can still feel him, the weight of his arm, the heat of his chest, the press of his hips, and?—
No! I can’t think about that. I can’t.
He’s still in the bed, propped up on one elbow now. In my mad dash to escape, I took the bedsheet with me, leaving him uncovered. The rags he’s wearing—can it even be called a tunic?—has ridden up past his hips and I can see … I swallow … I can see he isn’t wearing anything underneath. Just pale skin and lean muscle, and shadows between his thighs that I shouldn’t be looking at …that I can’t stop looking at… that make my face burn and my stomach muscles tighten.
I wrench my gaze up to his face, which isn’t any better. Those gold eyes are fixed on mine, and one corner of his mouth has curled up slightly. He’s watching my panic, the way my chest heaves with each breath … and he’senjoyingit.
“I was asleep.” The words come out strangled. “I didn’t mean to … I didn’t know I was?—”
My eyes betray me, flicking down before I can stop them.
“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s nothing more than reflex.Conditioning.” There’s a pause, then softer, but no less cold, he adds, “It stopped meaning anything a long time ago.”
I open my mouth. Close it. There’s nothing I can say to that.
He sits up, and the tunic falls back into place.Barely. “You were cold. Humans run colder than fae.” It doesn’t seem to be an accusation. Just a flat statement.
But I can’t escape the fact that I wrapped myself around him in my sleep. I pressed against him like he was safety instead of danger, comfort instead of threat. I burrowed into his warmth, and heletme. He lay there with my body curled into his, and he didn’t push me away.
Animals seek out warmth too. Dogs curl up with their masters. It doesn’t mean anything.
But dogs don’t speak. Dogs don’t look at you with eyes that make you feel like prey. Dogs don’t make your pulse race and your skin burn and your thoughts turn in directions they shouldn’t be going.
“How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough.”
Long enough for what?Long enough to decide whether to snap my neck while I slept? Or long enough for his body to react to the closeness of mine?
He rises to his feet, the movement fluid and unhurried. Even standing, the tunic barely covers his thighs.Why have I never noticed that before?I keep my eyes fixed on the wall above his head.
“We need supplies. Clothes and food.”
It’s an order, not a discussion. My hand moves to my waist where, by some miracle, my purse is still tucked into my belt. I have some money in there. But I don’t know how much it will buy.
“When?”
“Now. Come.” He drags a hand through his hair—it catches in the snarled mess of thick ropes that look like they haven’t seen a comb in years. He grimaces, then his features blank, as though allowing any expression to show is a crime of its own. His glamour settles back into place between one blink and the next.
The transformation is instant and nauseating. Because Iknowwhat is underneath it now. And it isn’t the mindless beast I’ve been taught to believe.
The square is busy with morning traffic. Farmers, merchants, servants with baskets. Normal people living their lives, with no idea that death is walking among them. Because heisdeath. I have to remember that. He is dangerous. He’s still fae. He’s still the thing that broke my ribs with two kicks.
