“Do you hunt at night? Is that why I hear the noises?”
“It’s better if you don’t worry about the noises.” He begins to pull his hands from mine. “The less you know, the safer you are. That creature already tried to use you once to get to me.”
The idea that I could be used to get anyone continues to startle me. I’m not accustomed to meaning that much to anyone or anything. My feelings are becoming murkier by the minute, clouded with emotions that I’ve never felt and am ill-equipped to understand. His fingers slip from mine and I’m filled with the insatiable urge to snatch back his hands.
Before I can, he runs a knuckle over my cheek. I feel him tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. My breath catches. How close is he? I imagine his face mere inches from mine, staring at me with all the desire I’ve hardly ever dared dream someone would look at me with.
“What else should I know about the fae?” I whisper. I only know the warnings my father would give me in the folk stories he told me when I was a girl.
“You don’t need to know anything else. With any luck, you will not be cursed with fae in your life for very long.” He pulls his hand away.
I try to catch it and grasp nothing but air. No doubt looking a fool in the process. “But the more I know, the more likely I am to be of help to you while they pursue you.”
“You’ve already been help enough. More than you know, really.” No smoke, no lies. “Now, you should get some rest. Eat what you can and go back to bed.”
He stands and I bite my lip. There’s more to be said. I can feel how tired and worried he is. I’m filled with the urge to say something as comforting or as beautiful as the old songs my mother would sing when I was fussy. But I’m not a poet; I can only repeat the words I’m taught. My whole life I’ve been a vessel, allowing others to fill me with their wants, needs, thoughts… There is so much of everyone else that there is no room left for me. And now, when I need something of my own creation to offer, I come up short.
I hear him leave and can’t even muster the words to tell him good night. I realize even later that I never properly thanked him for saving me.
* * *
To my surprise,Lord Fenwood gives me a second chance to find my voice the next night.
As I return to my wing from dinner I find the door to the study open, fire lit, chairs at the ready position. I take my seat, eager to speak with him again. I’ve had a day to recover now. My head is clearer. And my guilt has been lessened some with the opportunity to apologize to Oren over dinner as well.
I hear Lord Fenwood’s footsteps the moment he enters the room. Warm heat rushes over me at the sound, pooling in my stomach. My throat is already gummy. Just as I try to squeak out a greeting, a cloth is dropped over my eyes from above. I reach up, my hands grabbing his in surprise.
“What are you—”
“You gave me an idea the other night,” he murmurs as he continues tying the blindfold. The silk is cool against my flushing face. “I wanted to try it again, if you don’t mind?” His voice comes from above and behind me. He must be kneeling on his chair and reaching over. The sounds of him—his words, his breathing, his movement—fill my ears and are accented by the ghost of his warm breath on the nape of my neck. I try to suppress a shiver and lose.
“It’s fine with me,” I manage to say.
There’s a bunch of movement behind me, the scraping of the chair, the clinking of ice in his glass. I feel the air move as he comes to stand before me, and my nose picks up keenly on the crisp and earthy aroma that follows him. I imagine him looking down at me. There’s something vulnerable, in an exciting way, about knowing he can see me when I can’t see him. In my mind’s eye, he’s a mere silhouette, picked out from the darkness by the firelight. His features are hazy voids, waiting to be filled.
“Stand,” he commands. I oblige. He takes both my hands in his and guides me a step over. I listen as he moves the chair I was just sitting in, presumably to face his seat. “There, now sit.” He guides me back to the chair.
“It’s not fair,” I blurt, catching his hand as he goes to pull away. “You can see me, but I can’t see you.”
“The rule—”
“I know the rule; I’m not trying to change the rule.” I want to touch his face, to feel the bridge of his nose, to run my fingertips down to his lips and outline them. Are they full or thin? What is the cut of his jaw like? Or the angle of his brow? “May I ask you questions about what you look like? That way I have something to imagine about the man I’m speaking with. All I know right now is that you have very nice shoulders.” I grin.
“Very well. I shall grant you this.” He chuckles, pulls away, and takes his own seat. I amuse him. I’m shocked to find how much I like that.
Suddenly, the new seating arrangement feels like an interrogation. It’s rather thrilling. I’ve gone from being vulnerable due to my lack of knowledge to having the power. He’s going to answer my questions. “Your hair, is it long? Or short?”
“Somewhere in the middle,” he answers.
“To your shoulders?”
“Just beyond, only slightly.”
I purse my lips to stop myself from grinning like a fool as I begin to paint my mind’s portrait of him. “I should warn you up-front, it’s impossible to lie to me. So don’t even try.”
“I wouldn’t even dream of attempting it.”
“Good.” I lean back into my chair. “Is your hair curly? Wavy? Straight?”
