Well, then. Desperate times call for easy measures. As warmth drizzles into the ravine between our clavicles, I turn the tables.
Shifting my hips sinks him deeper into the vent of my legs. “How’s about now?” I purr, testing the authenticity of his leer.
Are you done yet? Or should I finish you off?
A startled, ravenous glint cuts through his pupils. Arousal? Self-loathing? They both look the same on him, and dammit, I’m not far behind. The sensations collide below my navel, clashing lower, lower, lower, but I welcome them. I want these emotions to blur, to cancel one another out. I want them to be indistinguishable from one another, impossible to feel separately. If not, they’ll have too much power.
Evidently, the feeing’s mutual. Soon enough, the Fae remembers he finds my kind appalling. He cringes, those eyes festering with contempt, which suits me fine. I need him to fuck off before I start getting used to his weight.
Cerulean releases me and slips off the cot. Air rushes in, my lungs expanding. He doesn’t nab the whip as a precaution, probably because his javelin leans against the fireplace wall, situated in within grabbing range.
Moth was right. The ruler of the sky had known where to find me.
Maybe he’d accept a fair brawl. Nonetheless, my bones are limp, and I have a feeling this is a cease-fire. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have bothered with the fire, the food, my wounds, or my clothes.
Cerulean saunters into the kitchen and returns with a chalice of water. The swish of liquid rekindles my thirst, my tongue as dry as parchment. I watch him lounge sideways on one of the chairs before the fire, his limbs thrown over the arm, the same way he’d sat on his throne. Routinely, he manages to make every lethargic pose seem polished and every careless gesture appear elegant.
The Fae drinks, the muscles in his neck contracting. Licking his lips, he inclines his head toward the kitchen. “Nothing’s poisoned or toxic, except for the canister of chimera berries. They were an impulsive addition, however they’re also native to Faerie. Sweet they may be, but they’ll char a mortal’s womb to cinders if gorged on. In which case, ingest those in limited qualities, and chew slowly.” His voice drips with innuendo. “Very slowly.”
“What is this?” I balk. “What are we doing?”
“Literally, figuratively, or magically?”
“What are we doing temporarily?”
“Ah. Consider this a parley before I send you out, out, out and back into the big, bad labyrinthine world.”
Yeah. He and Moth are two peas in a pod. “Sustenance. Bandages. The rules say I’ve gotta win this on my own.”
“There you go, being human and translating the fine points verbatim. Winning on your own does not mean favors are forbidden.”
Go figure, particularly if it’s in the Fae’s interest to help.
His eyes follow me as I wrap the blanket around my body and shuffle into the kitchen. A feast weighs down the dining table. Roasted partridge with steaming pears, bread crusted with seeds, a wedge of hard cheese, a date cake embedded with walnuts and topped with cream, that canister of chimera berries he’d mentioned—they look like raspberries, except they’re green—a jug of milk, a pitcher of water, and a pot of coffee.
I’m proud, but I’m not too proud to accept a meal when I’m dehydrated and starving. Anybody who does is plain stupid.
Problem is, every morsel might be jinxed. I thought the same with Moth’s prickly, pomelike fruit. If Cerulean can’t glamour me with music, does that extend to food? I could bite into a wedge of cheese without knowing it’s a moldy liver crawling with maggots.
From the living room, his lingering gaze dares me to find out.
A hutch displays earthenware cups, carafes, and flagons. I choose a cup, fill it with water, and sip carefully. When my heart keeps beating, and my body parts stay in the same place, and I don’t have twisted visions, I take another swig. Then, because he’s still watching, I pitch that sucker down my pipe, moaning inwardly. The liquid sloshes across my tongue, rinsing away the dryness.
Best to let Cerulean think his interest has no effect on me. Pouring another cup, I return to the living room and perch on the chair across from him, making sure to skid several inches from the flames. The fireplace writhes and spits embers. Flinching, I think about cinders collecting in the pit and smoke suffocating the chimney’s throat.
I’m no fan of ashes. Or chimneys. Or anything enclosed.
Most times, I disguise this reflex, even from my sisters. Though it doesn’t go unnoticed here. Cerulean quirks a brow at my actions, but I’m not gonna explain myself.
And instead of asking, he swerves toward the flames. His ankles cross, and the chalice dangles precariously from his fingers while flaxen light illuminates the wing-shaped caps at the tips of his ears.
The blanket emits a whiff of thyme and soap. I snuggle into the folds and take hefty chugs of water.
“This bores me,” Cerulean says, swiveling his chalice. The rotation causes the contents to darken from translucent to dark grape. I blink, inhaling blackthorn wine.
I lower my own cup to my lap and whistle. “Where were you when I tried to spike the elderberry cordial at Reverie Hollow’s annual jubilee?”
Cerulean tosses me a wry, sidelong glance. “Your favorite drink, I gather?”
