Cerulean places a finger to his mouth and spreads a bundle of foliage to reveal a nest of adorable woodpecker chicks. At my urging, he shares lore about the ancient fauna, explaining how Pegasi roamed this peak before falling to the dragons.
I rattle off the problems Middle Country’s having with trade poachers. We debate about poaching for profit versus hunger and how to reconcile the two. It’s hard to condemn those who need to feed their families, people willing to trap and steal animals from private lands if it means putting food on the table. But they’re not the only ones around. The last git I fucked is an example of that, though Juniper knows that type best of all.
Then there’s the rest of the continent. Elf territory sees its share of habitat loss, something having to do with a mortal trade for illegal magic that compromises the northern landscape. In the dragon lands, humans sell animals for entertainment—baiting games, animal fights, and other horrors where lowlifes place wagers. I’m not enlightened about the details of those regions, and Cerulean admits he’s only traveled outside of Middle Country a handful of times. All the same, the knowledge weighs down our shoulders, so we retreat into tales about the creatures of those remote lands. The hares, wolves, snow leopards, white bears, and reindeer of the north. The tigers, sphinxes, panthers, jaguars, and reptiles—including crocodiles—of the south.
We wander from corner to corner, hiking along shrouded passages and torchlit steps that lead to stacked levels with dizzying hedge routes. I spot mini bridges arching over bottomless gaps. The park is bigger than it had seemed from a distance, yet another outward perspective distorted.
I figure we’re doing this to keep one another in check, but it’s more than that. The walk is meandering, the chatter effortless, and the tension palpable. When his hand thuds against mine, a bolt sizzles from my fingers to my navel. From the corner of my eye, Cerulean’s fingers strain.
I hate that. I hate it for a thousand reasons. And I hate that one of those reasons has nothing to do with hatred.
Hours pass. Dawn unfolds itself gradually, pouring a languid blue haze onto the park. Where has the time gone?
We reach a secluded enclosure, where a gazebo crocheted with additional moonflowers perches at the cliff’s edge. Beneath a torch pole, Cerulean props one booted foot atop a mossy boulder. “Well, well, well. We’ve underestimated ourselves.”
My gaze sketches the gazebo, then returns to him. “Why haven’t you looked for her?”
The day’s first light paints his face in a netting of plant shadows. He goes rigid, then sighs dramatically, dangerously. “And here, we were doing so well.”
We were, but I’m done with doing well. We never finished talking about his past, and I’ve been avoiding the facts. But the night’s about to end, and I refuse to leave it alone.
The Fae stalks toward me. “Beware, Lark. You’re treading an unsteady path. It’s a substantial drop to the bottom, and I assure you, it will hurt.”
“All you had to say was, ‘It’s private.’”
“Is that a fact? Well then, it’s private.”
“So was my life before you took it from me.” When that doesn’t work, I sucker punch him. “Are you scared to look for her?”
His blue eyes glitter. “I haven’t had time to search. Being a ruler comes with a ruler’s schedule.”
“That’s rich. You’ve found loads of time for little ol’ me.”
A violent gale batters our clothes. He backs me up against the gazebo where foliage chafes my nightgown. Cerulean leans in, setting his hands on either side of me and crushing the leaves in his fists. That single weave of hair swings from the rest of his layers, the feathered tip brushing my clavicles. I feel that tickle behind my knees, at the tips of my breasts, and between my thighs.
He’s everywhere, like the sky, the wind.
He slinks toward my ear and does his worst, his whisper licking across my flesh. “You’re an unfortunate priority.” I gasp as he dips his head, his dark lips abrading the column of my throat and charting a path up the center. “A rather troublesome—” then to my chin, “—tiresome,” then to the crook of my mouth, “—meddlesome one at that.”
Unwillingly, my head lolls. My eyes fall shut, a flurry of sensation prickling my skin. I’m fired up hotter than a pyre, going damn near limp in the arms of a Fae. A sexy, destructive Fae who knows what he’s doing.
“You took the words out of my mouth,” I say, my fingers instinctively landing on his waist, the points of my digits slipping under the silk trousers.
Cerulean releases a shuddering, threatening blast of air, his cunning lips less than an inch from my own. “I could take a lot more from your mouth. I could lap at every mutinous muscle contracting inside you.”
“And I could bite your tongue,” I vow while arching against him, my tits skidding over his torso.
“Or,” he proposes, sneaking his head under my jaw and skimming the rim with his lips, “you could hate-fuck me.”
Fables eternal. I feel that suggestion in the cleft between my legs.
The way he said that, passionately revolted and shamefully desperate. It sums up how I feel, too. I don’t know what’s binding us together, but it’s one relentless force.
I’m embroiled with my nemesis, who’s likely the boy from my past, and who’s offering to pound me. I can’t help imagining our entwined bodies moving hectically. My legs strapped high around his waist. His hips snapping and spreading me wide.
I want to claw through that dark mess of hair. I want to dishevel it even more than it already is. I want to know the texture of his skin. I want that vicious mouth.
I can’t trust this. I can’t trust myself.
