Not many people know about that secret tattoo, but I know what to look for—thanks to Juniper.
I want to kick this man’s tail out of my bed. I want to boot him so hard, he’ll be airborne and flying off our land. He’s an outsider, not a tenant of this community, so this whole thing might be a coincidence—or not. Because of my family’s specialty, this chap might have come here with an agenda but got sidetracked by my tits. With a bunch of innocent animals roaming freely in his proximity, I can’t be too careful.
He’s a log, so I check his pant pockets, using a sleight of hand I’d learned from Cove. After that, I mosey to the chair and fuss with his satchel. My hand fumbles around, feeling something long, fringed, and tapered. I stiffen, recognizing the size and shape. Oh, hell no.
I yank out the blue feather, its fringes bathed in the ethereal, blue-black pigment of nightfall.
My heart stutters, the Fable rekindling in my mind. And the Lark said, “We may fly separately, but let our direction be the same.”
I must have left the feather someplace where this git—whatever his name is—noticed it and licked his chops. A prize like this is the stuff of otherworldly magic. This quill’s the perfect candidate for a fat sack of coins, which’ll likely turn out to be phony, since the nearest bargainer in a three-mile radius isn’t known for being a sucker.
I’ll be taking my possession back, thank you very much. As I wedge the feather into the binding around my chest, a groan rumbles from the bed. The scruffy noise lets loose as if it’s been stuffed in a jar, collecting dust all this time.
I can tell a few things about men based on how they fuck. For a start, this poacher’s got no swagger. He’s rash, all brawn and temper, considering the love bite he gave me. Not to mention what his movements did to the headboard and the vicelike grip he kept on my hips. He holds tight, which means he likes control, which mean he’ll get testy if I try to rush an exit. In case this really is a fluke, I’ve gotta butter him up, sweet talk him out of here.
My whip is looped around one of the footboard finials. I pluck the weapon and sling it over my arm like an accessory, then grasp the footboard and lean forward to expose my cleavage. “Finally,” I purr. “Have a deep one, handsome?”
The git sits up, the wide goblet of his head balancing on the thin stem of his neck as he aims a lopsided grin at my chest. “Well, aren’t you a sight.”
“Sorry it took you so long to wake up. I’ve got bad news, hon. Seems you’re trespassing.”
“Want me gone already?”
“I’m a busy girl.” I sway the whip and tease, “Better get moving, or I’ll have to string you up.”
“That sounds like a naughty threat. With this kind of bawdy talk, maybe I’d like seconds.”
Fables curse him. “The first romp was for fun, which means it was free. Seconds don’t come cheaply.”
I don’t sell myself, so I’m not serious and make sure my smile is coy. Keeping it simple is keeping it believable. Longer explanations bury people in a pile of dung.
He laughs and drags himself to his feet, fixing to collect his things. That’s when the front door downstairs opens and closes with a perceptible click. My back stiffens as two sets of feet hike toward the room and pause on the threshold’s opposite side.
The first voice quacks, “Lark!”
The second voice flows like sweet water. “Lark?”
“Please tell us you’re alone.”
“But if you’re not, it’s all right.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Go on back downstairs. I’ll be there in a minute.”
On the outside, I’m casual. On the inside, I’m stressing about the feather this trade poacher still thinks he nabbed.
There’s a beat of silence, followed by retreating footfalls—measured footfalls.
Son of a bitch. Sometimes, I wish they didn’t know me so well. They’d caught the traction in my words, which means this is gonna get complicated unless I wheedle this poacher out of here.
“Who the hell was that?” the man asks.
“Time to get going, handsome,” I simper. “Make it snappy.”
“What? No good-bye kiss? A hostess shows her lovers courtesy, unless you haven’t been taught manners.”
Well, fine then. I grin. “My sister’s in the room pointing a bolt at you.”
Beside the attic window—where she’d crawled through after mounting the side of the cottage—a spindly, petite figure plants her foot on the iron sill, her fingers poised on a crossbow. Spruce green hair frames Juniper’s spunky face, the straight layers pinched into a low, side ponytail that falls over her shoulder. Her cotton blouse is tucked primly into a pocket skirt, the short sleeves revealing a gold leaf bracelet that winds around her arm.
“Hello, there,” Juniper says while aiming the crossbow.
“The other sister just walked in with a spear,” I finish without needing to look.
“Pleasure,” Cove greets, having doubled back and swept through the attic door.
Her watery blue hair ripples into a loose but intricately twirled bun at the nape, a few errant waves trickling from the back. A muslin dress drapes around her tall frame, the graceful neckline dipping modestly down the back to reveal a gold chain and a waterdrop pendant. She’d look the part of a dainty damsel, if it weren’t for the spear angled subtly between her fingers.
What can I say? Caution runs in the family.
My latest mistake assesses our trio. His brain must be experiencing a growth spurt, because he blinks. Thing is, my sisters and I don’t share bloodlines, but we’re the same age, and we’ve got another trait in common that strangers tend to gawk at. Our irises match the rare shades of our hair. Pale gray to the white mane flouncing from my head, crisp spruce green, and tranquil teal blue.
The colors are unusual, but stranger things do happen. Anybody who’s been living here for a week or so can vouch for that.
Both females pause, processing the scene and my guest. Papa Thorne will be home soon, and I don’t usually bring my fun home with me.
Juniper shakes her head. “I knew it.”
Cove sighs. “Lark, for Fable’s sake.”
“What do we have here?” The git looks impressed and assumes we’re entertaining him. The flirty way I’d announced their arrival had done the trick.
But because Juniper’s crummy at recognizing banter, my sister clips her pert chin toward the man’s tunic slumped on the floor, then to the man himself. “You. Get dressed.”
“If you please,” Cove amends, the words ending on a delicate lisp.
Thankfully, his immediate frown melts. “Hey now, I don’t like being told what to do,” he jokes while whipping the tunic over his head and taking our measure. “But you know, this makes sense. I heard talk in the square about you three. A strumpet, a show-off, and a spinster. That’s a trilogy I wouldn’t mind getting to know better. What’s the price for guests to slip through those doors?”
And that’s where I draw the line. “Keep talking about my sisters like that, and in a second, you won’t have legs to carry you through any door.”
His eyes narrow at the warning. “Is that right?”