Can she not see that having her around makes me less inclined to agree to her proposal? “I am tired.”
She sidles closer, “walking” her fingers down my chest to the buckle on my belt. “Then we can sleep until you are not tired anymore.”
I catch her hand before she can unfasten the leather strap. “Go home. I am not in the mood.”
Her hand falls, but her eyes flash. “You are never in the mood.”
Exactly.
And that is part of the problem.
16
“Sometimes love is a whisper.”
Celeste Hanson Dawn, An Observation
My lashes flutter open, and all I can do is stare up at the beams on the ceiling. What time is it? It feels as if I just closed my eyes, but according to the clock on the mantle, it’s almost noon. The last time I slept this late was…
I can’t remember ever sleeping through breakfast.
I throw the covers aside and sit up. The book on the Unseelie clatters to the carpet from where I must’ve dropped it in my sleep. My head feels heavy, as if filled with cotton wool. I slip out of the bed to retrieve the book, setting it on my bedside table next to the flower Ronan brought me two days before.
Thanks to the water in the vase, the shimmering petals look even healthier than they did yesterday.
As beautiful as the flower may be, when I think of the prince, there is a distinct lack of fluttering in my stomach. In contrast, when I think of a certain Unseelie, I have to clutch the sheets to keep the butterflies from lifting me clean off the floor.
This is a problem.
A big one.
One that could easily be solved by putting said Unseelie out of my mind.
But how am I supposed to do that when I can still hear the deep rumble of his voice and feel the dark sweep of his gaze upon my skin?
Thankfully, quelling the whine in my stomach provides the perfect distraction from these troubles of my own making.
By the time I dress and go downstairs, everyone is already sitting at the kitchen table for lunch.
Nia’s lips twist as she dips her spoon in and out of her bowl. “Good morning. Or should I say afternoon?”
It’s like she can see straight through me to those damn butterflies. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I never sleep this long.” A sheepish smile insists on taking over my lips as I collect a bowl from the counter, filling it with hearty vegetable soup. When I find brown bread still warm from the oven sitting next to a dish of smoked salmon, my heart leaps. I snag two slices on my way past, carrying everything over to the table.
My aunt stretches a hand across the table, pressing a cool palm to my forehead the same way my mother used to when I’d complain of any ailment.
It’s amazing how something so small and seemingly insignificant can make one’s eyes burn.
“You do feel a little warm,” she muses. “Hopefully you aren’t coming down with something. I hear Mrs. Willis’s youngest has had an awful fever for the last week.”
Since I have no clue who Mrs. Willis or her youngest are, I assume I haven’t caught whatever ails them.
If my family knew with whom I spent my night, they’d probably blame Everett for my lie-in and insist I bathe to keep the warts away.
The memory of how small my hand looked in his when he used his water to heal me sends my stomach fluttering anew.
This is a big, big problem.
Nia taps her spoon against her smirking lips. “Another dress arrived from Madame Ella this morning.”
