But they’ve got me good. Their sharp papery mouths rip my clothes, leaving long, jagged gashes. I can’t beat them away. I’m pinned.
That’s when the biggest, ugliest book of all hovers a couple of feet in front of my face. A long scar runs down the middle of its right page. It approaches, snarling and snapping. It’s slowly bouncing up to me (they can’t walk, no feet and all), right between my legs. The pages curl as it growls menacingly.
It’s going to rip my face off. For sure, that’s what’ll happen.
I struggle to free myself, but it’s no use. The books are holding me tight.
The tome rears back, readying to pounce. This is it. I’ll be scarred with a thousand papercuts to the face for the rest of my life.
In a flash, all the books release me and lunge.
I scream, waiting for my demise.
The front door crashes open, bringing with it a wind so severe that loose papers (where did they come from?) scatter like birds.
Feylin stands in the doorway, his eyes narrowed in anger, his jaw jumping in rage.
The books flip toward him and attack. One grabs his arm, and he snatches it with his hand, throwing it to the floor and stomping it with his foot. It whimpers in pain, its anger deflating. Another lunges for his face, but he grabs it with his lightning reflexes and throws it across the room.
Watching Feylin is like watching Jet Li take on an army ofassassins. All I can do is stare, slack-jawed as he neutralizes every single guard book, throwing them off him and hitting them with magic until they’re all lying on the floor, limp and whimpering.
That’s when he turns his attention to me. I sit there for a moment, staring, shell-shocked from what I’ve just witnessed. Worry flares in his eyes as he stalks over. “Are you all right?”
All right? I’ve literally just watch an American Ninja Warrior destroy an army of guard books. I’m in the presence of greatness and can’t speak.
But somehow I manage. “Yes. Thank you.”
He offers his hand and I take it. He pulls me up, and I’m still staring at him, dumbfounded. His gaze searches me from head to toe. “Are you sure that you’re okay? Are you hurt? Did they cut you?”
“No. I’m fine.”
That’s when I spot a long gash down his bicep. One book sliced through his wool coat and white shirt. Blood seeps onto his clothes.
“You’re hurt.”
He shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” I scold. “There’s a kitchen in back. Come on. I know there’s a first-aid kit here somewhere.”
Yes, he’s fae and could heal himself. But it’s because of me that he got hurt, so the least I can do is play nurse.
He follows me as I pick my way over loose papers and knocked-out guard books that litter the floor.
I flip on a light and rummage in the cabinets until I find the kit. “Take off your shirt,” I command.
He complies without argument, and I take his coat and shirt, draping them over the back of a chair before opening the first-aid kit and turning to him.
My heart jumps into my throat at the sight of his muscledchest. The dips and swells of his body are mouthwateringly beautiful.
I take in his body a second longer, which I hope isn’t so long that he notices I’m drooling over him.
He sits on a chair, and I survey the wound. It’s a long gash but not deep. A little soap and water, Neosporin and a bandage is all he needs.
“Thank you,” I murmur, gently pressing a cotton ball to the wound, “for saving me.”
“You do have a habit of getting into situations that you need saving from.”
I chuckle because he’s right. “You followed me. How?”
