10

The screaming starts the moment my step-family enters the house. Vashli and Amisa are both hysterical, both drunk, and both hoarse from shrieking at each other, which they’ve probably been doing since they set foot in the carriage for the ride home.

From what I can discern, soon after I left Amisa with the Prince, Vashli moved in and ensnared him, monopolizing his attention skillfully for two hours before he excused himself to dance with other ladies. Amisa is distraught over the loss of the time she felt she was owed with him, while Vashli is both triumphant at her success and upset that the Prince didn’t spend the whole night with her.

My stepmother says very little to them or to me. “Bring me a glass of whiskey,” she orders me in an undertone. “I have a headache, and I’m going to bed.”

I follow her orders, then return downstairs and stand quietly in the hall while my stepsisters bawl threats at each other. I was given no command to help them prepare for bed, so when the fight escalates to them throwing vases and shoes at each other, I head downstairs to the cellar. Hopefully they won’t kill each other, but if they do, so be it. Either way, I’ll have a mess to clean up tomorrow, and I need my sleep.

The one good thing about the fight is that I wasn’t questioned about how I spent the evening, and no one seemed to notice the fluffy robe I was wearing, which I forgot to swap for one of my usual well-worn garments.

All of them sleep until noon the next morning, which is a delight for me. I ponder cleaning up the mess in the hallway myself, and then I have a rather brilliant idea. A certain Faerie owes me a favor, so I muster a tear and smooth it over the face of my pocket watch.

The Faerie appears in the cellar, and this time I spot how he does it—walking out of a sheet of shimmering air, a barely visible portal. He glances around, then covers his mouth and coughs lightly. “You sleep down here?”

“Yes,” I reply, feeling a little self-conscious about the grimy, dusty state of the place. I try to keep it tidy, but there’s only so much one can do with a coal cellar. “I need a favor. There’s a mess upstairs, lots of broken things, and I know you can fix it all with magic. But you can’t be seen, so I want you to glamour yourself to look like me and go clean it up.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Glamour myself to look like you?”

“Exactly. And if anyone comes downstairs while you’re cleaning up, act as if you’re cleaning it normally, not with magic. Can you sound like me, too?”

“I can alter my voice, yes.”

“Perfect. Get on with it, then.”

He taps his lips, which have fully healed. “Can I fondle my own breasts while I’m glamoured in your form?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“It’s a fair question.”

“No, it’s not. Go.” I push him toward the cellar stairs.

“And where will you be while I’m doing your work?”

“Taking a nap. ”

“Very well,” he drawls, with mock reluctance. “I suppose I’ll do this for you. But after that I must go. I have places to be, important things to accomplish.”

I hesitate, my hands still pressed to his back. “Do you have other humans you’re helping?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“So it’s just me?”

He turns around so quickly I catch my breath. His lavender eyes meet mine with an expression so intimate and tender I almost can’t bear it.

“It’s just you,” he says.

“Oh,” I say breathlessly, my face burning. “Well… that’s good. Now, go on.”

The Faerie transforms into me , complete with the same blue work dress I’m wearing. He takes a cautious peek down the front of the dress, waggles my own eyebrow at me, and continues upstairs.

“Fuck you,” I murmur as I descend the steps and fling myself onto my cot.

I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep. I keep seeing two faces dancing around in my head—the silver-haired King with his bold jaw and wolfish eyes, and the slim purple-haired Faerie with his light, sarcastic voice and unexpected tenderness. I’ve never asked his name. Perhaps I should. And I should tell him my name, too. I’d like to hear it from his mouth.

Fuck, did I really just think that? Do I wonder what it would be like to hear him say “Celinda” with that smirking mouth of his? Or… what if he gasps out my name while he’s coming?

A trickle of delicate pleasure runs along my pussy, and I put my hand under the blankets, working my way beneath my dress and underwear. I shiver when my fingertips brush my clit. I’m more sensitive than usual lately. After the long sexual drought I’ve experienced, my body is roaring to life, having its first great awakening .

Arching my knees, I rub my fingers in quick circles. It should take the Faerie a while to finish his task, so I have a few moments of privacy.

Shit, now he’s in my head. I picture him as he stood over me last night, his hips swayed toward me, his elegant fingers stroking his cock until he shot delicious cum over my tongue…

“All done,” he announces cheerfully, appearing abruptly in the cellar.

I whip my hand out from between my legs and sit up, a guilty heat flaming in my cheeks. “Fuck you! I told you I was going to take a nap!”

The Faerie has resumed his usual form. He cocks his head, his nostrils quivering. “Hmm. Taking a nap, were you?”

“Stop smelling .”

“You might as well tell me to stop breathing.” He turns a wooden chair backward and sits astride it, crossing his arms over the chair back and watching me with interest. “By all means continue what you were doing. You watched me pleasure myself, so it’s only fair I should observe you.”

“I thought you were busy,” I counter. “You have things to do.”

His tongue traces his lips, and his grin turns feral. “Nothing so interesting as this.”

My pussy feels swollen with heat and need, but I’m not so desperate that I’ll come on my fingers while he watches. “I’ll see you tonight,” I tell him firmly.

“As you wish.” He rises with a sigh, blows me a kiss, and disappears.

When he leaves, I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. But I don’t resume what I was doing. Instead, I chastise myself inwardly for having sexual encounters with two different men. I haven’t promised myself to either of them, so I’m within my rights to do as I like, but it feels odd to me. As if I should choose one. But neither is a permanent fixture in my life, so why shouldn’t I enjoy them both while I have the chance?

Once my stepmother and stepsisters rise, the work begins again. Vashli and Amisa seem silently astonished that all the things they broke last night have been mysteriously mended. But they don’t mention it to me or their mother. They were both quite drunk—maybe they assume they’re remembering the fight incorrectly. It’s amusing to watch their confusion.

My stepmother still has a headache. She gets terrible ones occasionally, and I’ve learned to appreciate them, because when she’s in the throes of one, she’s quiet and less prone to give me orders.

Between her headache and the events of last night, there’s significantly less enthusiasm among my step-family about going to yet another ball. Halfway through the afternoon, my stepmother announces, “Cinders and I will be staying home tonight. I plan to take a sleeping potion and get some relief from this pain in my head. Cinders, prepare the girls. They will attend the ball together.”

“Just the two of us?” shrills Amisa.

“Yes,” replies her mother curtly. “It’s time to see what you can do with His Royal Highness when Cinders isn’t there to snare his attention on your behalf. Whatever you do, do not fight over the Prince in public, do you understand? Save your battles for later. Present a united front, and be the most loving and charming sisters that were ever seen. Or else.”

“Yes, Mother,” they reply in chastened tones.

I’m secretly delighted. When Gilda said I would be staying home, she didn’t word it as a command; it was a statement. An oversight caused by her pounding headache. I’m only bound to help the girls prepare—I’m not restricted to the house. Once Gilda is soundly asleep, I’ll be free to leave.

I can’t appear in the ballroom lest my stepsisters notice me, but perhaps I can meet the King in the library again and explore more of the books—or more of him. I think I’m becoming rather addicted to secret trysts and stolen pleasures.

Getting my stepsisters ready is far easier this evening. They’re more subdued, too tired to think of cutting remarks, intent on their own schemes for attracting the Prince. I take my time with each of them, offering quiet advice and fixing their hair and makeup so they each appear to their best advantage. Vashli smiles when she sees her reflection, and Amisa actually thanks me. I think I might faint from shock.

Shortly after Worden drives them away in the carriage, I prepare Gilda’s sleeping potion. I’m drizzling some honey into the potion to improve the taste when my Faerie godfather appears in the kitchen. Tonight he’s dressed in dazzling white with a purple scarf, and he looks so startlingly beautiful that my jaw actually drops when I see him.

“You’re early,” I whisper. “My stepmother is upstairs. I can’t leave until after she drinks this potion and falls asleep.”

“Potion?” He bends over, holding his scarf against his chest while he sniffs at the mug. “There’s no magic in that.”

“Just herbs. But it’s usually effective.”

“Let’s make sure she stays asleep.” He passes his fingers in a circle over the cup and whispers something I don’t understand. “There. That will keep her in dreamland until late tomorrow morning.”

“You’re rather useful, you know,” I tell him.

“Why, thank you.”

“Now hush, and wait here.”

I take the tray and carry it upstairs to the darkened room where my stepmother lies. I leave the bedroom door open, giving her just enough illumination by which to see the tray and drink the potion. She sits up and gestures for me to hand her the mug, but she doesn’t speak to me. I wait patiently until she has drained it all. Then I pick up the tray and leave the room, closing the door behind me .

When I return to the kitchen, the Faerie is tilted back in a chair with his boots propped on the table.

“Off,” I tell him, and he reluctantly swings his feet down again. “Did you bring the dagger?”

He strikes his forehead with his palm. “Shit, I forgot.”

“You what?” I start toward him, incensed, but he holds up a finger and frowns as if he’s thinking. Then, with a flourish of his other hand, he produces a dagger from thin air. It has a poisonous-looking green blade and a hilt like a coiled snake.

“You absolute fiend,” I hiss. “This is not a joking matter.”

“All matters are joking matters,” he replies. “Especially the most serious subjects.”

Instead of dignifying that with a response, I set my foot on his knee. “Try it.”

My stomach flips over with a panicked throb of hope as he brandishes the dagger. If it works, I could be free in a matter of seconds—free forever. I can’t even imagine the wonder of that future.

He sets the blade to the gold band around my ankle and saws against it for several seconds. Then he tries stabbing the anklet. But I can tell by the bend of his brows that if the dagger was going to work, it would have done so immediately.

“It’s alright,” I say, even as my heart goes cold and dark.

“I brought a few other things to try.” A leather satchel appears out of thin air, and he dumps its contents onto the kitchen table. I don’t recognize half the items he brought, but I remain still, watching him smear the anklet with pastes and creams, drizzle it with various liquids, and ply various weapons and objects against it. He even prepares a concoction of herbs, lights it, and waves the smoke back and forth while reciting a spell in some other language.

The anklet doesn’t react to any of it.

“Fuck this fucking thing,” he snarls, pushing my foot off his knee and shoving himself back from the table. With a tempestuous burst of glittering blue magic, he explodes every item he brought into puffs of dust, then hurls the satchel into the fireplace. He stands by the mantelpiece, gripping it with one hand, staring into the flames.

“Your stepmother put the anklet on you,” he says. “I’ve figured out that much. She controls you with it, somehow.”

A long sigh pours out of me. It’s an immeasurable relief, just knowing that someone knows about the truth.

“I’ve seen your scars,” he continues without looking at me. “I know she has made you do terrible things to yourself. And I assume she has laid various laws upon you, under which you must operate—such as the rule that you may not tell anyone about the anklet or its purpose.”

Too overcome to speak, I simply nod.

“I wish I could kill her for you,” he says earnestly. “But I took a vow before the god-stars, years ago, that I would value mortal life and never kill a human. For a Faerie like me, breaking such a vow can have lethal consequences.”

Just my fucking luck.

“Even if I had not taken such a vow, killing her might destroy you as well,” he adds. “That object has been spelled with very powerful magic, and sometimes, if the master of such an object dies, the wearer dies as well, or is forever trapped by the orders the master gave while they were living.”

Dread seeps into my soul. “I didn’t realize that could happen.”

“It’s a very real possibility, unfortunately.” He gives a frustrated sigh. “What I don’t understand is why she chose you to wear it, instead of someone with greater power and fortune.”

“I’ve wondered that too. She ensnared my father with it, and he killed himself to escape. I think she was so furious about what he did that she put it on me, as a way of punishing him from beyond the grave. I doubt he ever imagined she’d do such a thing to a child. ”

It’s strange, being able to talk about it aloud, but the anklet doesn’t stop me. Perhaps, because the Faerie knows my secret, he’s exempt from the rule that I can’t tell anyone.

Emboldened, I continue. “My father probably figured Gilda would look for another powerful victim. As you said, it would make more sense. But I think she was so angry with him that vengeance felt like her only recourse.”

“And she has never tried to find another man to ensnare?”

“She tried and failed for years, and then she gave up. Men in this kingdom aren’t kind to women above a certain age.”

He scoffs. “How foolish of them. Youth is fleeting, and beauty is common. Intelligence, humor, and spirit are of greater value.”

“I would agree with that. But unfortunately, beauty is what most men understand. You yourself aren’t exempt from the seduction of beauty. Though I can’t understand what you see in me, when you must have met so many beautiful Fae women.”

“In Faerie, especially in my home kingdom, we’re surrounded by pristine loveliness,” he says. “I prefer something more earthy, more carnal, less flawlessly perfect. The very appeal of humans is your mortality, your fragility. The fact that you’re so deliciously corruptible.” He turns from staring into the fire and looks at me. “You are gorgeous. Any flaws only make you more appealing.”

I swallow down a lump in my throat, fighting the tears threatening to fill my eyes. “That’s another compliment.”

“If you would let me, I would give you a thousand compliments,” he says softly. “And a thousand favors in payment.”

He’s making this so difficult. Confusing me so thoroughly that I barely know what I want anymore. Still, no matter how many sweet words he offers, he is a denizen of another realm, a servant of magic, an unknown entity whom I cannot fully trust. I’m not sure I will ever be able to trust another living soul .

What if he lures me in with his kindness, and then traps me like my stepmother trapped my father? I’m sure Gilda said wonderful things to him when they first met—wrapped him up tight in cords woven of golden words. She soothed him, seduced him, claimed him. Their courtship was quick and their marriage was sudden, and it led to disaster, both for my father and for me. I can’t allow myself to be enchanted by anyone who wields magic. I can’t break out of one prison only to climb into another.

The Faerie has been watching me with a keen look in his eyes, like he’s reading my very soul. Like he understands the thoughts passing through my mind.

He doesn’t speak any more of compliments and favors. Instead he says lightly, “What sort of dress would you like tonight? I was thinking of a gown even bigger than the others…”

“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “I’m not supposed to be there tonight, so I can’t be noticed. I was hoping you could create something else for me. Something dark and sleek, with a cloak. And… some beautiful underthings.” I blush at my own request.

His gaze turns sober. “You want me to dress you in sensual attire for your secret lover?”

“Yes.”

He groans. “You realize this is traumatic for me.”

“It shouldn’t be,” I say primly. “Remember, you and I have a business arrangement, nothing more.”

“Of course. Business. Very well then.” He waves a hand at me, and all my clothes vanish. Before I can gasp or yell at him, his magic dresses me in a clinging web of black lace and thin leather straps, complete with thigh-high lace stockings and garters. He gives me a second to absorb the look, and then he flings a simple, form-fitting black dress over it all. Instead of buttons at the back, this dress has ribbons along my left side, holding it together—and making it easy to untie and remove.

The Faerie’s magic twines my blond hair into a loose braid.

“Shoes,” I remind him .

“Right.” He snaps his fingers, and black heels form around my feet, lifting me slightly. “You’re still far too eye-catching, so—the cloak, as requested.” As he speaks, a heavy, hooded cloak enshrouds me. “And black gloves, too. There you are. The perfect outfit for a clandestine meeting of lovers.”

He speaks cheerfully, but I don’t miss the twinge of pain in his eyes, despite his bright smile.

Impulsively I move toward him, but he looks away, his gaze downcast. I press my gloved hand against his cheek and turn his face to mine.

“My name is Celinda,” I tell him.

His lips part, startled pleasure replacing the pain. “Celinda.”

Hearing him say my name is even lovelier than I thought it would be. “Will you tell me your name?”

“Bold of you to ask,” he says with a playful arch of his brow. “In the past, Faeries haven’t given their true names freely, but that principle is becoming far more relaxed lately. So I’ll give you my name, if you’ll promise to use it often.”

“I will use it every time I rebuke you for something,” I say.

“All the time then! Perfect. My name is Killian.”

“Killian. It’s a pleasure to meet you properly.”

“Since when do you and I do anything properly?” He winks at me. “Your stepmother should be soundly asleep now. If you like, I can transport you to the palace through one of my portals.”

“You can take people with you?”

“Two living things can pass through one of my portals, yes.”

“And why have you never offered this service before, Killian?”

He grins wider, a touch of pink on his cheeks. “You never asked. And on those other nights, you needed to arrive at the palace like a normal human would. Tonight, you’re sneaking in, so a sneaky entrance seems appropriate.”

“How will I get home? ”

“I’ll have a black coach waiting. When you’re ready to leave, simply stand on the palace steps, and it will come to you.”

The sheer power of the magic behind that statement boggles my mind. He talks of summoning magical carriages like it’s normal, like it’s easy. One more proof that his life and mine are vastly different, and could never be compatible.