Page 79 of Blood of the Fairest

"Uh-huh. It's a magical thing in my world for people like me who are too lazy to develop a sense of direction. Anyway, I appreciate you escorting me all the way here, but you can skedaddle back to whatever guest room you picked to get some sleep."

Wulf doesn't bat an eye. "My things are stashed in a nearby room, but I will sleep here."

I'm about to push through the door, but I turn slowly back to face him. I fling the veil back.

"Sleep here? As in, crash in Rhinestone's room, with me? I don't think so."

He nods toward the still-damaged door. "You have no lock."

"And whose fault is that?" I point out, propping a hand on one hip.

His eyes track the movement before he pushes the doors open to the queen's chambers. He nods at a space on the rug-covered floor.

"I will sleep there. Guarding the door."

The thought of this hunk sleeping anywhere near me makes my stomach do a mini loop-de-loop.

But there's also a fresh wave of discomfort as, yet again, I remember the pure hatred on his face in the faerie's prison. Even if he was being that brutal and vengeful on behalf of the needlessly slaughtered northerners, I can't forget how terrifying it was to be on this guy's bad side, even by mistake.

What if, in the middle of the night, he decides he regrets making a pledge to me and just snaps my neck to get out of this whole self-imposed lifetime of devotion thing?

Or worse—what if I can't stop smelling traces of his blood like I am right now, and I wake up biting his neck?

Whatever is written all over my face, the Huntsman looks defeated, dropping his gaze to the ground. His knees follow until he's kneeling in front of me, head bowed.

"I must put an end to your fear of me," he whispers. "Give me any order. Punish me. Tell me to beg like a dog or lick the ground you walk upon, and it will be done. Anything. I have told you, I am yours to command."

The edge in Wulf's voice makes me realize…the fact that I haven't tried to level the playing field between us is starting to torture him. I haven't used the power he gave me over him to hurt him, retaliate, or order him around out of spite, like he must have expected me to when he made the pledge.

It says a lot about this guy that he's this insistent about receiving a fair punishment from someone he hurt.

I guess it also says a lot about me when I don't give him a single order before I slip into the room—because I know being left to wallow in guilt is a worse punishment for someone as noble as him.

20

Verena

At first, my nightmares are the normal kind.

As in, the kind where I'm chained to a bed with my neck, arms, and legs covered in fresh ointment as I stare numbly at the little wood pellet stove that never fully warms this freezing, unfinished, bloodstained basement.

But as I stare at the wood pellet stove, it rearranges before my eyes, warping into darkness framed with wood. A single fragment reflects my face, showing me the desolate tears I remember too well.

All it takes is a blink, and I'm suddenly running barefoot through the woods.

I run a lot in my dreams, but these woods are different from the ones burned into my mind. They're not the frigid, hopeless, godforsaken place where I killed for the first time.

Instead, these woods are warm. The leaves surrounding me are green and luscious. Sunlight glitters through branches overhead.

When I trip, it's not because he's tackling me. It's because of a harmless little branch.

The infectious, hearty laugh of a man tumbles through the forest air as I roll over, and I realize I'm not alone in this dream. Someone big and strong has joined me on the floor of the forest, picking leaves from my hair and murmuring low.

Whatever he's saying, I don't catch it.

I also can't make out my own response—but my subconscious goes from zero to sixty, and I'm suddenly straddling this man's hips. I grind against the bulge in his pants as my teeth plunge into his neck.

His moan is almost familiar, his hands banding around my waist⁠—