I grate out, “Crossing the Triad was an accident. I was being chased by a bunch of bloodthirsty wankers and had no choice. And with the Fable—”
The Fae flicks his wrist with a dismissive flourish. “Forget the Fable. Worry about your penance.” From the tips of his fingers, a snowy feather appears midair. With every twist of his digits, the wind dashes about, twirling and flipping the quill. “You see this plume? It’s you, dancing to my tune. Do you like to dance?”
“What do you want?”
The feather swoops toward my chest and brushes between my collarbones. The shaft tips my chin high to meet Cerulean’s gaze. “I want you to be sorry, pet. So very sorry.”
“It’s Lark,” I murmur furiously, my breath coasting against his hair. “Look, trespassing wasn’t my plan.”
“That is a defense, not an apology.”
“Listen, assh—”
The quill spears to my heart and pauses there, pricking through the material as easily as a blade. I swallow my words. Satisfied, the feather sweeps across my mouth like a finger, advising me not to finish that sentence.
My molars slam together. The plume vanishes.
Cerulean steps nearer, his silhouette stretching across daggers of grass. His coat brushes my nightgown, the contact stirring a scent between us, an unnerving combination of musk and tempests.
Scents that permeate the atmosphere. Scents with stamina.
The aromas dredge up kernels of the past, yet I can’t place them.
His expression strikes a balance between flippant and imperious, his irises mapping a lustrous path across my throat, then soaring to my face. Meanwhile, I struggle not to kick, bite, or scratch.
Cerulean bears down on me, his eyes slicing through the darkness. “Now, then. In the forest, and in the caravan, you heard the flute. Why did you not follow it?”
The warm texture of his breath glides down my throat. “It was off key.”
“Never lie to a Fae.”
“Never doubt the truth.”
“Choose your truths wisely.”
We’re whispering, waiting for the other to buckle. But considering how long he’s probably been alive, Cerulean’s honed more patience than I have.
His angular features are one heck of a sight, not a flush to his ivory skin. But fuck if I don’t see the volatility blazing there.
“It was a trap,” I answer. “The music was a trap.”
Cerulean’s expression narrows. “I see. Well, then, it appears I’ll have to be extra creative with you.”
A shiver crawls up my nape. The Fae’s body heat clashes with his frigid voice, inciting mayhem beneath my nightgown.
It’s a mistake to cower in his presence. Disgusted, I stand on tiptoes and blow a bitchload of moxie into his face. “You and every other bloke on this continent.”
“Careful,” he warns, the murmur sliding across my throat. “Very, very careful.”
“Do you what you want to me. Just let Juniper and Cove go.”
“Sacrifice,” the Fae observes. “How pitifully human. Except we never stole them to begin with.” With a vindictive grin, he whispers, “But now you know we can.”
Feminine shouts tear through the trees. “Lark!”
I veer around. “Juniper? Cove?”
The wind funnels, releasing its suction around me. I swing toward Cerulean, but he’s gone. My eyes tear apart the thicket. The owl’s nowhere in sight, the branches hang still, and the evening colors have dulled, the rasp of night less piercing.
