“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“Remember the town I mentioned?”
“We’re going to a town?”
“You seem shocked. Aren’t you used to towns and civilization? I’m told it’s not that bad, although sleeping rough and eating insects is so much fucking better, if you ask me.”
A very unladylike snort escapes me. “I can’t deny I’d love to sleep on a real bed for a change.”
“I’m thinking of getting a room at the inn, staying the night. Let those hunters get on with their hunt before we head back out.”
“But we have no coin,” I remind him.
“I have contacts in the town.”
“They’d work with the dark fae?”
“Not everyone thinks we are monsters,” he mutters.
“You’re right. I just thought…”
“That everyone hates us?”
“Yeah.” This newfound guilt, when it comes to how I treated him, returns to bite me, twisting my stomach. “I did think that.”
He stops and turns to me. “Princess.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.
“No. You’re right. Many of us are monsters. It’s just that… not all of us are.”
“I know that now,” I whisper, and I clamp my mouth shut because I’ve said too much already.
He lifts a hand to my face and cups it, his palm warm and rough against my skin. “You’re an unknown species to me, Princess.”
“What do you mean? I’m human?—”
“You’re courageous and proud, but you recognize your mistakes and don’t hesitate to apologize despite the wounds my people put on you. You allow my touch?—”
I step back. “Valen…”
“—sometimes.” He chuckles, letting his hand fall. “And you trust me. You’re a match for me, you’re…” His gaze goes distant. “A match.”
I frown. “What does that even mean?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “It means nothing. Come on, we should get moving. And we’ll also get you a clean dress to wear. Can’t have you arriving at the human idiot’s place looking like a wraith.”
“Hey, mind how you speak of Lord Eorl.”
“Beg your forgiveness, my lady,” he growls. “We animals don’t know any manners.”
And yet, that’s not true. So why is he acting like that when it comes to my future husband, and why does it make me want to laugh?
“Why… why are you so angry with him?” I ask.
“I’d be angry with any man who’s given permission to touch you and call himself your husband, Princess. He’d better be perfect.”
“He will be,” I insist.
