Page 78 of The Hidden Fae Prince
His control fractures, shards of possessive need escaping. No. Nevander’s shield remains intact. That’s Seren’s own heart, responding to the rasp in Nevander’s voice with mirroring greed.
“Say that again.”
Nevander’s eyes flash. “My prince.”
Seren groans with the heat. He can only return the gift. “My guardian.”
Nevander’s grip tightens, and his breath quickens. “Sometimes I’m wary of speaking to you. I cannot lie, and my true thoughts might frighten you.”
Memory shivers down Seren’s spine. A breeze twisting past the village creek. Leaves rustling in the garden. An invisible gaze haunting his steps. Seren’s stomach flutters—not with fear.
“Do I look afraid?” Seren asks, hips jerking. Tension builds between nerve and tendon. He’s losing track of everything except the man above him. “Can I feel you again?”
Nevander loosens his shields. Adoration, obsession, greed, the sweetest edge of fear. Everything spills out in ribbons, binding Seren by the spirit.
Sensation and spirit coalesce. Seren cries out, going rigid, and spills into Nevander’s hand.
A kiss soothes Seren’s brow. Shared emotions disentangle and recede, leaving love-marks on Seren’s hindbrain. He collapses into the pile of furs. As Seren softens, Nevander massages his seed into the flushed skin of his lower belly. Like a primal claim.
Seren could bask here happily for the night, but consideration goes both ways. He sits up enough to reach for Nevander’s belt buckle. “Your turn. Or should I say my turn?”
Nevander catches his hand and kisses his knuckles, so tenderly that Seren nearly stirs again. “I would be honored. But that had best wait until the elixir has finished its job.” His eyes dart away, like he’s about to ask a great favor. “May I simply hold you for an hour?”
“How about two?” Seren counters.
Nevander kisses his hand again. Gods and spirits, Seren could get addicted to this adoration. He yanks his trousers up enough to be comfortable, then settles into the nest of fur and silk and fae. Nevander’s chest is the perfect pillow, his arm the perfect shield against the world.
The slightest movement makes Seren’s skin tingle, a mirror to his spirit’s thrum. No wonder Nevander keeps his emotions tightly guarded. Such desire is too vulnerable to share.
Seren had thought Nevander hid other emotions, though. Perhaps Seren’s prying isn’t yet done for the day. “You lost control once before, in the Garden of Rites.” Seren buries his face in Nevander’s chest. “When I asked to escape, I felt your pain.”
Still stroking Seren’s hair, Nevander doesn’t answer.
The thorns of that pain were difficult to untangle. Complicated. Only two emotions cut that deep. Serenhas felt them before from Edith and Alard. Hatred, sharpened by love for their stolen son.
Nevander took a blade for him today. Yet Seren can’t resist digging in his claws.
“I had asked what you were sworn to,” Seren says.
Outside, shifting leaves dance with the setting sun. Inside, rainbow lights spin their own waltz, and a sigh whispers through Seren’s hair. Nevander’s silence isn’t refusal, but gathering thoughts.
“It’s not a secret,” Nevander says eventually. “Valerian knows. Primrose and Lysandra, too. Anyone else could guess, if they knew me for the past twenty-one years.”
“I didn’t,” Seren says, envying those who did.
“That’s the trouble.” Nevander’s caress wanders to Seren’s arm. “I swore myself to your protection.”
Seren frowns, unsurprised. Nevander’s right—that would be easy to guess. Except Seren can’t see why that would be a problem. Perhaps a fae culture thing he hasn’t learned yet. “Is that common?”
“It isn’t,” Nevander says quietly. “Most high fae protect themselves and their kin. It’s a matter of pride. A sworn guardian is rare and usually temporary, for a particular quest or a time of great danger.”
Elladar seems dangerous all the time, from what Seren’s seen. Except moments like this.
Nevander continues. “When your mother asked for my service, your brothers had already vanished.”
Seren recalls the silver flash of Midnight’s eyes. Another concern presses to the forefront. Less important, but somehow more urgent. “So, you met me as a baby. Is this weird?”
He traces a circle over Nevander’s heart.
