Page 21 of Stolen Threadwitch Bride
I let him fill my glass, clinked mine with his, and held his gaze over the rim as I took my first sip.
My body seized at the liquid flame running down my throat, sweet and sharp as pure pleasure. Sunshine and rich, dark fruit coated my tongue, mellowing to an aftertaste of black cherries.
I gave a shaky exhale as the tent spun. My muscles hadn’t ached as much today, getting used to riding long hours, but that dull pain dimmed from just one sip.
“My gods.”
His eyes lit as he gave a slow smile. “Itoldyou.”
I chuckled, no act behind it. “I didn’t believe you. But…” My head shake was the only way to finish that sentence. I needed to be careful—this fae wine was even more potent than I’d expected.
We chatted, and I pretended to sip my drink.
While I’d had one lover, Rose was only too happy to regale me with stories of her conquests, and I’d been fascinated to hear them. One thing I’d learned from her tales was that people liked to talk about themselves, and it turned out, the same was true of fae.
I asked him about his people, about their customs, about his home, topping up his glass as he answered. Some of it was as I’d heard in the stories, but other aspects made my eyebrows rise. They respected contracts to the letter, much like bargains, but it even extended to marriage promises. To separate a married or an engaged couple against their will was a grave sin.
Was he telling me this to pave the way for our inevitable marriage? Throat tight, stomach churning, I bent over and pretended to pick up my glass, but he’d left his on the floor, almost empty, so I took that and left him my untouched drink.
Our marriagewasn’tinevitable. I was going to escape. Tonight.
When I straightened, I managed a smile and changed the subject. He told me about their upcoming Calan Mai festivities, which didn’t sound so different from ours. Had fae inspired humans or the other way around?
More importantly, why wasn’t he drunk yet?
Our chatter stretched on, each minute painful, making my plan seem more and more flawed. Maybe fae didn’t get drunk. Maybe elderberry wine, while strong, wasn’t strong enough. I shifted in my seat, limbs at once heavy and restless.
A frown twitched between his brows. “Are you uncomfortable? Here.”
Before I could stop him, he was on his feet, crossing the room. He produced a blue velvet cushion from one of the chests and returned. Standing over me, he paused and glanced from me to the back of the chair as though unsure whether he should hand over the cushion or put it in place himself.
Eyebrows rising, he tilted his head, putting the decision in my hands.
I was meant to be flirting with him, making him believe I’d given in so he’d drop his guard. That woman would choose the latter.
With a coy smile, I lowered my gaze and leant forward.
He slid the cushion behind my back, bringing his cheek inches from mine. The drink had already made my face hot, and now it made my pulse pound quick and hard. I’d barely taken three sips, but it seemed that was enough… too much, even. His proximity stilled me, so I could only watch from the corner of my eye, barely breathing as he patted the cushion.
Once he was done, his gaze drifted to mine. Firelight danced in his midnight eyes, stilling my lungs entirely. Even with my skin too hot, the warmth of his cheek reached mine, teasing, tempting.
Too close. We were far, far too close. If we both turned our heads, our mouths would touch. Which I didn’t want, but no one had told my lips that, because they tingled.
When he straightened, his chest moved faster, deeper than a moment earlier.
I tore my attention away, pushing it to the fire instead. “Thank you,” I muttered, leaning against the cushion. Another pang of guilt twisted through my stomach. It had been thoughtful of him to fetch the cushion—and as much as I hated to admit it, this wasn’t the first time. The well-matched clothes, the cloak, wrapping my cold hands in his, the offer of wine when I’d been so sore.
Then again, he had to look after his “mere human,” didn’t he?
They weren’t thoughtful, kind actions—he was just keeping me alive. If he considered me a person, rather than a pet, he would’ve told me his name and asked mine.
No, he didn’t deserve my guilt.
So I topped up his glass and pretended to do the same to mine, and I smiled like my life depended on it.
Because once again, it did.
Free at Last
