Page 24 of The Fae Queen's Captive
“As long as it’s your bed,” I say, giving her my best pouty face—which doesn’t last long, because I break into a disbelieving smile right after. I can’t believe that I feel more like myself, here, captive in a mushroom and stag castle, than I did in Edinburgh while building a respectable and interesting career.
She makes a noise. It’s almost like a laugh inside her chest, but it never leaves her mouth. Instead, she stands, takes her towel, and knots it securely around herself. She steps gracefully out of the tub and then takes my hand to raise me to my feet.
“If my bed is what you want, you shall have it,” she says as seriously as a monarch giving a royal decree. “Come.”
I follow her, floating on my feet, ready to follow her everywhere. I feel like the whole world is mine to take a bite out of, like my entire life is ready to be plucked and eaten on the spot.
And then somehow I’m already lying in her bed, my wet robe long gone, cloud-soft blankets pulled up to my chin. It’s like I’m stoned—or drunk—because time seems to slip again, and then the queen is in bed next to me, her face next to mine. Her breath is sweet, and all over again, my body rouses.
Before tonight, I would have made sure to keep close to the edge of the bed, I would have tried to keep my body small, my breathing light. I would have waited until my lover fell asleep and then I would have snuck out, not wanting to seem too needy by asking for another round of sex or staying the whole night.
And that’s if I even got into their bed at all—I’ve gotten very skilled at the quick-and-easy hookups over the past two years. One and done, in and out, on to the next. That way I never burn through someone’s attraction to me, through their patience, through my own self-respect.
But whatever I’m feeling right now, worry about being small and easy is the least of it.
Whatever you do, I shall find pleasing, because you are mine.
And so I don’t stop myself from inching even closer, from reaching for her.
She lets me kiss her and stroke her, and held tight in her arms, I lose track of time, until I can barely keep my eyes open. I never want to stop kissing her, though. I want to kiss her until I die.
“You will need rest for the hunt tomorrow,” she tells me, pulling away.
“Can’t we stay in bed all day?” I ask, because why not.
Another noise from her chest again. That almost laugh. “No. The ruler of the Stag Court hunts every Samhain. It’s a tradition I cannot break.”
I sigh unhappily. I don’t particularly want to be tramping around the wet Highlands this late in the year. Some things just soundcold.
But when I realize the alternative is being away from the queen, my chest aches, like the organs inside it are trying to push free.
So to the hunt I will go.
I force my eyes open enough to resettle the covers around me and then nestle into her. She allows it, although there’s something tentative in the way she does. Like this isn’t typical fairy queen behavior, the after-fuck cuddle. “How is it still dark outside?” I murmur sleepily, smashing my face into her shoulder and rooting until I’m comfortable.
“You might remember I said days and nights move differently than in your world,” she says. “To you, these next two days will feel longer. All the more reason you should sleep now.”
And as much as I need to kiss her again, taste her again, stare wide-eyed at a sky that’s alien in its glittering, bright bustle, I can’t argue with her. With the scent of roses and magic in my nose, I fall fast asleep.
Chapter9
Iwake not in the queen’s bed but in my own, blinking up at a canopy embroidered with black roses and bone-white antlers. The indifferent light of dawn stretches through the window, which means it should be early, but I feel as if I’ve slept an embarrassingly long amount of time. Like I’ve slept the first hard, real sleep I’ve had since jumping feetfirst into the sausage grinder of grad student life.
Even so, when I sit up and swing my feet out of bed, I still feel floaty, bright and aware andhungry.
Not for food, though. Not at all.
But my eagerness to get back to the queen is forestalled when I see the tub in the middle of my room has been replaced with a table. It’s carved and fashioned in the shape of a doe dipping her head to drink, and on her wooden back rests a plate of warm bread and fluffy butter, a bowl of mixed berries and cream, and a steaming cup of tea. A note written in dark red ink is propped against the teacup.
You may not see me until you’ve eaten. Don’t forget salt.
–M
M. It can only be her, which means that can only be her initial. Her name starts withM.
I guess a few possible names as I find the salt—Marian, Margaret, Myrtle—and sprinkle a few grains on each of the breakfast items. Maybe I could get the queen’s name today—or whatever it is she’d like to be called, in light of the fairies’ wariness around true names. I yearn to call her something more intimate thanYour Majesty. Even if the wholeYour Majestything is a little hot.
And the need to see her is like a leash tugging on my neck, and how would she know if I’d eaten anyway? Maybe I could just eat a bite or two, so that it wouldn’t be lying if I said I atesomebreakfast, and then I could go find her right away…
