Read between the lines. Stay vigilant of twisted words and promises they won’t keep. And no matter what, be polite.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m gonna have trouble with that last one.
“I’m no little girl, either,” I say.
His eyes slide down my nightgown and spark with intrigue when they land on my pebbled nipples. “Oh, but I see that,” he says while sauntering toward me with careless grace. “I saw it before as well—a most unusual, most beguiling, most intriguing sight in The Colony of Fireflies. Your body clad in nearly nothing, the smut of your attire exhibited to the wild.”
This shocks me for all of three seconds. That’s a lot for me. About three seconds too many, which I realize is the point.
Apparently, that alcove beyond the Faerie Triad is called The Colony of Fireflies. Guess that explains why those insects were hanging around, cindering whatever surface they landed on.
And those hidden eyes, watching me. That had been him.
“Hmm.” The Fae pauses, observes my stupor, and grins. “Do I make you nervous?”
“Where are my sisters? Please?” I grit out.
“A question for a question. What’s your name, pet?”
“Who wants to know?” But when he stays quiet, I fume, “Tell me where they are.”
“Not to worry. Your rambunctious siblings are safe, though when next you reunite, be wary of what you tell them. Your name?”
“Why? What are you planning to do with it?”
“On any given dawn or dusk, I plan many things and nothing whatsoever. In this case, it depends on your reply and how much I like the texture of your name on my tongue. Will it be coarse or slick? Will it taste of brine or sugar?” He tips his head. “Does that assessment suffice?”
The hell, it does. “I’m afraid not.”
“You’re hardly afraid.” He leans in and hisses, “Shall we change that?”
“Let ’em go. Please, let ’em go.”
“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you this, but: What you speak, you cannot unspeak.”
And the Lark said, “Will somebody snatch these two so I can have a break?”
“The Fable?” I balk. “I wasn’t serious. I was improvising.”
“Be it a joke, a lark, or a farce, it’s all the same.”
Because I’m three inches away from roping his otherworldly prick, I glower, letting the temptation show on my face. From the start, I should have coated the handle and end of my whip in iron, the way Juniper had tipped her crossbow bolts and Cove inlaid her spear with iron scrolls.
The Fae inspects my noose with distaste. “Mortal weapons. It appears your trio takes after one another.”
I fake a saccharine smile. “Nah, we just like props. Wanna touch mine?”
This earns me a leer. “A touch for a touch.”
What he means is, don’t test him. Reluctantly, I loosen the whip.
Humans used to believe that giving Faeries our names meant trouble, but the Fables dispelled that myth long ago. Matter of fact, it’s the opposite. Learning a Fae’s true moniker is the real power.
“My name’s Lark,” I say.
His blue lips crook to one side. “Call me Cerulean.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s your name.”
“You didn’t ask for my name, but there it is. As far as I know, it’s the only one I have. I wasn’t born twice.”
“Fine. I’ve told you mine. Now tell me where my sisters are.”
“And why would I do that?”
“You said if I—”
“I said a question for a question. I never said an answer for an answer,” Cerulean replies, the side of his mouth still caught in that invisible hook.
I grate out, “Crossing the Triad was an accident. I was being chased by a bunch of bloodthirsty wankers and had no choice. And with the Fable—”
The Fae flicks his wrist with a dismissive flourish. “Forget the Fable. Worry about your penance.” From the tips of his fingers, a snowy feather appears midair. With every twist of his digits, the wind dashes about, twirling and flipping the quill. “You see this plume? It’s you, dancing to my tune. Do you like to dance?”
“What do you want?”
The feather swoops toward my chest and brushes between my collarbones. The shaft tips my chin high to meet Cerulean’s gaze. “I want you to be sorry, pet. So very sorry.”
“It’s Lark,” I murmur furiously, my breath coasting against his hair. “Look, trespassing wasn’t my plan.”
“That is a defense, not an apology.”
“Listen, assh—”
The quill spears to my heart and pauses there, pricking through the material as easily as a blade. I swallow my words. Satisfied, the feather sweeps across my mouth like a finger, advising me not to finish that sentence.
My molars slam together. The plume vanishes.
Cerulean steps nearer, his silhouette stretching across daggers of grass. His coat brushes my nightgown, the contact stirring a scent between us, an unnerving combination of musk and tempests.
Scents that permeate the atmosphere. Scents with stamina.
The aromas dredge up kernels of the past, yet I can’t place them.
His expression strikes a balance between flippant and imperious, his irises mapping a lustrous path across my throat, then soaring to my face. Meanwhile, I struggle not to kick, bite, or scratch.
Cerulean bears down on me, his eyes slicing through the darkness. “Now, then. In the forest, and in the caravan, you heard the flute. Why did you not follow it?”
The warm texture of his breath glides down my throat. “It was off key.”
“Never lie to a Fae.”
“Never doubt the truth.”
“Choose your truths wisely.”
We’re whispering, waiting for the other to buckle. But considering how long he’s probably been alive, Cerulean’s honed more patience than I have.
His angular features are one heck of a sight, not a flush to his ivory skin. But fuck if I don’t see the volatility blazing there.
“It was a trap,” I answer. “The music was a trap.”
Cerulean’s expression narrows. “I see. Well, then, it appears I’ll have to be extra creative with you.”
A shiver crawls up my nape. The Fae’s body heat clashes with his frigid voice, inciting mayhem beneath my nightgown.
It’s a mistake to cower in his presence. Disgusted, I stand on tiptoes and blow a bitchload of moxie into his face. “You and every other bloke on this continent.”
“Careful,” he warns, the murmur sliding across my throat. “Very, very careful.”
“Do you what you want to me. Just let Juniper and Cove go.”
“Sacrifice,” the Fae observes. “How pitifully human. Except we never stole them to begin with.” With a vindictive grin, he whispers, “But now you know we can.”
Feminine shouts tear through the trees. “Lark!”
I veer around. “Juniper? Cove?”
The wind funnels, releasing its suction around me. I swing toward Cerulean, but he’s gone. My eyes tear apart the thicket. The owl’s nowhere in sight, the branches hang still, and the evening colors have dulled, the rasp of night less piercing.