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I hate the tiny part of me that feels warm at the thought. The wicked part that wonders how this relationship would even work. Would I sleep in Lux’s bed for one night and then Castor’s the next? Or would we all share a bed so I can sleep between the two men?
Heat pools inside me, and I shake my head.
A princess can’t have two princes. That’s not how the fairy tales go.
That’s not how my life is going to go.
With a scowl, I force open the door at the end of the hallway and charge outside, only to find myself colliding with a tall, slim-built man.
“Careful,” he drawls as I look up.
His wavy hair is long and as black as the night sky. There are streaks of white in it too, like shooting stars, but he’s not old. Far from it. He looks about my age, maybe a year or two older. But there’s something about him that makes me feel so small. Like he’s taken all the air out of this garden and there’s nothing left for me to breathe.
“Sorry,” I stammer. “I should’ve watched where I was going.”
“You should have.” His gaze falls over me, his eyes oddly light compared to his hair. They’re sharp too. Faerie eyes. Just like his pointed ears.
“E-excuse me.” I shuffle past him into the garden. I don’t really need the toilet. Just space.
This mossy garden surrounded by mushroom-covered trees seems like the perfect spot.
Pushing my hair over my shoulders, I take a seat at a small iron table.
It’s then that I notice the faerie man hasn’t left. He’s leaning against the wall with one knee bent as he brings some kind of cigar to his lips.
“You smoke?” His voice weaves through the long grass.
Glancing at him, I shake my head. “No. Thank you.”
“You should,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“You should smoke.” A cloud of something earthy-smelling wafts over to me. “You look like you need it.”
“Oh…” I drop my gaze again. Father smokes sometimes. I’ve seen him with cigars in his study. But I’ve never tried it. Now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a lady smoke before.
“Here.” He pushes away from the wall before I can refuse, slipping into the chair opposite me. Reaching into his pocket, he brings out another finger-sized roll of what looks like parchment before holding it out to me.
I take it, confused.
His lips twitch. “Don’t tell me you’ve never tried heppaleaf before?”
“Heppa-what?”
He chuckles. “Open your mouth.” When I do, he takes the roll from me and places it between my lips, using his fingers to close my mouth around it. He then pulls out a matchbox from his pocket, lights a match, and hovers the flame over the tip of the roll.
“Breathe in,” he instructs.
I do, only to burst into a fit of coughs and wheezes. “It burns!”
The faerie chuckles, shaking out the match. “You’ll get used to it. Next time, don’t breathe in too fast and try to take some air in with it.”
Hesitantly, I do as he says. By the fifth inhale, it’s not so awful, and for some reason everything feels softer but also somehow sharper at the same time. My gaze catches on a gorgeous orange flower, and I giggle.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you.” I sink back into my seat. Who could’ve thought an iron chair could be so comfortable?
