CHAPTER ELEVEN（Untitled）Grace

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Grace

If I thought the Branikk of yesterday was attractive, the Branikk of today is irresistible. Every time I look up, he's there, watching me, his eyes drinking in my every move. He feeds me, he makes me tea, and he hands me things before I even know I want them.

And dear god, he keeps touching me, these little brushes of his fingers that he doesn't even seem to notice. But I do. Oh, god, how I do. By the time we're done with breakfast, my entire body hums with need. Bad body!

It's getting harder and harder to remember all of this is a lie. Or maybe I'm too tired to care, too tired of keeping my guard up.

Too tired of being alone.

Waking up curled up against another person for the first time in my life must have short-circuited my brain, because a roll in the hay with a gorgeous guy might be worth any consequences. The way his legs felt against mine, the sound of another's breaths, the scent of man and leather and pine, the solid presence of him beside me—I've never felt anything like it.

Don't be stupid, my inner snark cuts across my daydream, snapping me back to reality. He's not going to sleep with me. He'll string me along until they capture me on camera throwing myself at him. I've seen enough reality TV to know if I give in, they'll punk me on air and I'll be a laughingstock everywhere I go for years .

I can picture Calvin sniggering at me, first for being fooled by him and then for making an even bigger fool of myself on whatever show this is.

Branikk reaches for another hard biscuit, the side of his hand brushing my arm and making it tingle, making my body want him all over again.

I leap to my feet, shoving locks of hair out of my eyes. After dragging the pink satin scrunchie from my sleep-destroyed updo, I flip my head upside down and gather my hair, making a ponytail on top that I spin into a bun. Since I'm not being allowed a mirror of any kind, it's probably messier than ever, but it'll keep it out of my face.

"I could braid it for you," Branikk says.

"What?"

"I can braid your hair. I might not wear a full warrior braid all the time, but I'm fairly good at braiding."

A shiver runs through me as I imagine him playing with my hair. God, I think I'd internally combust!

"Maybe later," I squeak out, hating how high my voice just went.

But I don't catch any kind of break. As soon as he has camp all packed up and everything strapped to Aurora's back, Branikk's big hands are on my waist, lifting me into the saddle. Then he's up behind me, his chest cradling my back, his thighs bracketing mine, his hand splayed across my stomach, which starts to flutter.

I swear the saddle's even smaller than it was yesterday. I can't get away from him or the way he makes my body ache.

It's going to be a hella long day.

We do nothing but ride for the next two days, and my determination to hold myself upright and away from him only lasts for the first couple of hours each morning. By the time lunch comes, I lean back against Branikk, his strength the only thing keeping me in the saddle. I'm so used to thinking of myself as strong, as able to pick up heavy machinery and unscrew the tightest of bolts. But riding uses muscles I didn't realize I had, and my inner thighs ache. If we keep this up, I'll get used to it and come out stronger than before, but for right now, I really want some damned aspirin.

So I make use of the well-muscled guy willing to support me instead of using my legs. And if it feels like he's holding me in a prolonged hug all day? Can't be helped. I'm certainly not doing it on purpose. Not even a little bit.

We talk about this new world, this "Alarria" as they keep calling it. Aurora tells me all about the Umbriall Plains, where herds of unicorns live. "It's not as large as the grasslands of Umbria, the Faerie realm unicorns originally came from, but the grass is sweet, and enough foals are born to keep our numbers steady."

"And that's a concern?" The backstory the writers have created for this world is far more detailed than I expected for a reality TV show. I wonder if any of this will make it on air.

"Fae, even the heartier Wild Fae like unicorns and orcs, do not conceive as easily as humans," Branikk says, his hot breath teasing over my ear.

My body tightens, my nipples hard and aching. Since when is the word "conceive" so damned sexy?

"You are strong, my bride." His voice drops to a seductive purr. "I look forward to giving you many younglings."

An ache fills my chest, followed immediately by hot anger. "That's too far, saying stuff about having kids."

"You don't want children?"

"I do want them." Which is what makes his lies so cruel. I long to be a mother, but I've never met anyone who wanted to have babies with me. Unwilling to admit that to a guy who can walk down any street and have women throw their panties at him, I say, "Just drop it."

His hand tightens on my stomach, and even though I'm mad at him, my body still reacts, my heart skipping, my tummy fluttering. Bad tummy!

"So if all of this is Faerie, where are all the different types of fae?" I ask, ready to talk about something— anything —else. "Aren't there supposed to be elves?"

"The Moon Goddess brought a handful of elves to Alarria several centuries ago as moon bound brides, but most elves must still be back in Avalon, their home realm."

"Huh." That's the opposite of what I'd expect a TV show to do. You'd certainly think elves would be a lot easier to pull off than orcs—just slap some pointy ears on the actors. No need for all the body paint.

It reminds me of how much I've been wondering about Branikk's body paint. How far does it extend? Every bit of skin I've seen is done, his face and upper chest, his neck all the way around, even the parts his hair usually hides, his ears.

My gaze drops to Branikk's hands. I can't see the one he has wrapped around me that well, but the one holding Aurora's mane with looks just as perfectly green as yesterday. It even darkens across his knuckles exactly like you'd expect if the skin color was real. And his forearms are green for the entire length his sleeves are rolled up.

I swallow. Good god, whoever thought forearms could be so sexy? But they are. The way the muscles bunch and flex whenever he moves his hands is mesmerizing.

As if he knows I'm thinking about him, the hand on my stomach tightens, pulling me even closer to his hard chest. His thighs press even more firmly against mine, and I start to tingle everywhere.

It's been days of being forced so close together, and we've got many more to go.

I don't know how much more I can take.