by H. E. Edgmon
His lips part, and then he sighs, pressing them together again. He shakes his head.
When we reach the fifth floor, Mateo motions down the hall. “Yours is the first room at the right. The red door. No keypad required for the guest rooms. If you need anything, there is an intercom system in the room connected to the servants’ quarters. Is that all I can help you with today?”
“Um. Yep.”
“Have a good evening.” He dips back into the elevator and the doors close behind him.
Emyr and I stare at each other for a long, long moment in the hallway. Something lingers in the air between us, but I’m not sure what it is. Black and gold crackle against each other like hissing alley cats.
Before Emyr can say whatever it is he’s going to say—because I know he’s going to say something, and I don’t think I want to hear it—I clear my throat and jerk my head down the hall. “I really am tired. And I’d like to get out of these ridiculous clothes.”
He considers me for a moment longer, and then breathes deep. Maybe he’s resigning himself to shutting up and letting me sleep. Maybe this means we won’t have to discuss dinner with the queens.
Good. Because I don’t want to talk about it.
Together, we approach the room with the red door. Emyr reaches down and twists the handle, pushing it open.
In the center of the room sits one bed.
CHAPTER TWENTY
WORRIED YOU MIGHT ENJOY YOURSELF?
As if totally unfazed by our predicament, Emyr lopes into the bathroom. By the time he emerges, minutes later, suit jacket shed, belt and shoes gone, I’m still standing there with my mouth open. When he starts pulling his T-shirt from the waist of his pants, I make a strangled sound that pulls his attention back to me.
“What?”
“We are not sharing a bed.”
He looks down at the mattress as if just realizing there’s only one, then looks back up at me. His eyebrows knit together and he shrugs. “Why not?”
“I don’t share beds.”
“You share a bed with Briar every single night.”
“Yeah, well. You’re not Briar.”
“No. I am your future husband.”
My mouth sets into a firm line. I don’t have a decent comeback for that. But that’s mostly because he’s gone back to taking off his shirt and the sharp planes of his abdomen are coming into view.
God, he’s hot. I have accepted the fact that there’s probably no one as unfairly attractive as Emyr North.
Once, I’d looked at Derek Pierce and thought he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. And in some ways, maybe that’s still true. Derek looks like someone who just stepped out of a cologne commercial. He looks like the kind of guy whose pictures get circulated online with the caption “daddy” and water spray emojis. You don’t expect to see a guy like him just walking around in real life, un-Photoshopped.
But there are plenty of guys that look a lot like Derek. Most of them are named Chris, and they all live in Hollywood. There isn’t anything special about him, not once you get past the charm and the magic.
And he’s kind of a huge dick.
Emyr doesn’t look anything like a Hollywood Chris. If Derek belongs in a cologne commercial, Emyr belongs on an avante-garde runway, showing off weird-ass clothes that no one would ever actually wear in real life but still look incredible on him. His features can be deadly and soft at once, like a killer’s fangs framed by a plush mouth. His body is somehow slender and muscular in a way that doesn’t entirely add up. Something about the way he moves is both wild and regal, the boy who tends to hellhounds and peryton existing in perfect harmony alongside the man who sits on the Throne. It’s unsettling.
I’ve never questioned that he’s attractive. Emyr has never not been beautiful. But the longer I’m around him, the more time we spend together, I realize Emyr is like a work of art. Like expensive paintings hung up in museums I’ll probably never go to. Like a bunch of abstract shapes twisted together that make something phenomenal, but you have to pay attention to see what it is. The longer you stare, the more you see.
Well, I’ve been paying attention. I think I’m finally beginning to see him in his entirety. And Emyr is incomparably, undeniably, really irritatingly beautiful.
And hot, which is a completely different monster altogether. He is so, so hot.
We are definitely not sleeping in this bed together.
As if oblivious to the meltdown happening inside my head, Emyr continues taking his clothes off. He strips until he’s wearing nothing but his boxers, miles and miles of skin exposed before me, and puts his hands on his narrow hips. Like this is a challenge!
I cross my arms. “How am I supposed to fit in this bed with you?”
“I was thinking I would sleep on the left side, and you could have the right.”
I do not find his joke funny. At all. I narrow my eyes. “I mean, I don’t know if I’m going to fit next to your giant wings, asshole.”
“Surely it can be done. Many fae are coupled. Presumably, a majority of those couples sleep in the same bed.” He stretches his arms over his head and his wings stretch with them, spanning out behind his body and flexing. “We’ll need to get some practice in, anyway.”
“Practice.”
“What’s the matter, firestarter?” He tosses the edge of the blanket back and knees his way onto the side of the bed. “Worried you might enjoy yourself?”
Is he—I’m sorry, is he flirting with me?
I will rip your throat out with my teeth.
“Hardly.”
“Not at all concerned you might get turned on again?” He smirks.
I regret every life decision I’ve made that’s brought me to this point. “Not even slightly.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Maybe I’m worried you’ll enjoy yourself. Too much.”
He raises an eyebrow and then seems to concede. At least enough to say, “Sleep on the floor, then.”
“That’s not a denial.”
Emyr fluffs his pillow. “I’m not going to lay a hand on you unless you want me to.” He stills, tilting his head up and meeting my eye again. “If that’s really what this is about, I can go to the queens and ask for separate rooms. I’m sure there’s somewhere else in the palace for me to sleep.”
Ugh.
Bitterly, I stomp into the bathroom.
An assortment of toiletries have been set up for us on the counter. I don’t even know what half of this shit is for. Why would two overnight guests possibly need this many skin-care supplies?
When I glance up and catch my reflection in the mirror, I nearly jump. I haven’t paused to look at myself since the night of the riot, and while I knew Unicorn Boy’s blinding light had sliced my skin open and left me with some new scars, this is the first time I’ve surveyed the damage. Little white streaks run from my jawline down the sides of my neck.
They aren’t so bad, I guess. They’re not as noticeable as the ones on my arms, except for the fact that they’re on my damn face. Oh, well.
I tug my phone out next, shooting off a message for Briar, then get to work brushing my teeth. And trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about these sleeping arrangements.
It’s been a long day and I’m exhausted. There’s no way I’m actually going to sleep on the floor, not when I have to fly back to New York tomorrow.
Emyr offered to go and talk to Paloma and Maritza. I should have him do that. I should go back in there and tell him I don’t want him anywhere near me and I’ll be taking this room on my own.
Definitely, I should do that.
It’s definitely what I want.
I have absolutely no reason not to want that.
So, I have no idea why I don’t.
I spit into the sink and rub my moist h
ands on my pants before stalking back into the main room. I kick off my shoes with too much heat, sending one flying into the wall with a thud. Emyr’s chuckle curls up and dies in his throat when I shoot him a glare. I hesitate after pulling off the hideous green pants, unsure what to do next.
With Briar, I usually just sleep in my boxers. But there’s nothing to be nervous about when it’s just Briar and me. There’s no question of will-we-won’t-we when I’m in bed with Briar. With her, it’s like I’m sleeping alone, only warmer.
The same can’t be said of Emyr.
“Something still wrong?” Emyr asks, stretched out on his stomach with his wings folded against his back. He rests his cheek on the pillow, gaze following my movements.
I waffle some more. Shirt on? Binder on? Just boxers? Secret fourth option? Oh my god, this should not be as hard as it is.
And it isn’t really about my body in the sense of me being dysphoric. I don’t have a huge issue with my body. Actually, if we’re being totally honest, I kind of like the way my body looks. Being trans comes with plenty of downsides, but being forced to hate every second I spend trapped in my own skin isn’t one of them.
It’s more about the way other people think about my body. And I don’t know if I want to open myself up to Emyr treating me differently because he sees me without my extra layers on.
There’s also the small, insignificant issue of not totally trusting myself to be half-naked in bed with him.
He’s just...so...hot.
“Hey, I’m being serious here, are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” I’ve been standing here too long. I don’t want to sleep in this button-down, so I opt for gathering up Emyr’s discarded cotton undershirt and turning around to get undressed. Offering him my naked back, I strip out of the button down and my binder and tug his shirt on. After plugging my phone in on the side table, I climb into bed, tossing the blanket back as I do. I keep as close to the edge as I can, maintaining as much distance between us as possible, the mattress stretched out between our chests.
Emyr and I stare at each other for a while.
Finally, in an attempt to break the quiet, I ask, “Did you know before tonight that Paloma and Maritza were the ones who refused to break the contract?”
He shakes his head. “I had no idea. I didn’t even know it was a unified couple. I sort of thought one of the no votes might’ve been my dad.”
Well, that’s interesting. Leo not as happy to see me as he seemed to be the night we sat down for dinner? Hmm. I file that away for later. “You wanna explain to me why you made it seem like you were refusing to go to the Court to ask for the contract to be dissolved when you knew you couldn’t actually do it in the first place?”
Emyr winces, rubbing a hand over his face. “My answer would’ve been the same, either way.”
“Yeah, well, I would’ve been a lot less annoyed at you if I’d realized from the jump that it was out of your control.”
“Well...” He pauses, then sheepishly says, “I didn’t want you to think my mother disapproves of our marriage. She had extenuating reasons for going to the Court.”
I blink. “You didn’t want me to think your mom disapproved of me?”
Emyr huffs.
There are so many things I want to say to that, starting by calling him a mama’s boy. But Kadri is, like, actively dying. So I don’t say any of them.
My tongue flicks out against my lower lip. “What do you think Paloma was talking about? When she said she’s seen things?”
“I don’t know. But it didn’t sound good, did it?”
“Not even a little. You sure you still wanna marry me?”
It’s meant to be a joke, but somehow it isn’t.
His dark gaze feels as heavy as a touch as his gaze slides over the place where his shirt rests against my throat. He swallows, lips parting as he drags in a deep breath, not looking away for even a moment.
“That looks nice on you,” he finally manages to say.
I frown. “It’s a white T-shirt.”
He shrugs one shoulder.
“Well, I’m glad you approve,” I finally mumble back at him. “I wasn’t keen on sleeping naked.”
This is some, like...some guy thing, right? Seeing me in his clothes? Some weird hyper-masculine territorial thing? That’s why he’s into it?
Or else he can totally see my nipples through the fabric. Shit. I glance down at my chest to make sure that isn’t the case. Nope. Totally opaque. I’m in the clear.
It actually isn’t all that difficult, sharing a bed. Maybe psychologically, but not logistically. His wings are tucked behind his back, the tips stretching over his shoulders into the air above my head, still leaving plenty of room for us both to get comfortable. I can make out the blue veins threaded through them, see a hint of shine as moonlight from outside catches one clawed tip.
Briefly, I have the ridiculous thought that I want to reach out and touch one. I want to graze my fingers against the wing and feel the softness under my palm.
I don’t, though. I’m not actually masochistic enough to do that.
My black aura settles down, sinking lower and lower into the mattress with every deep breath I take. The golden glow of Emyr’s energy washes over us both like a warm blanket. That shouldn’t feel as nice as it does.
After a while, Emyr says, quietly, “It didn’t occur to me that you might be uncomfortable sleeping together because you would be more...exposed.”
I scoff. He’s not saying it, but he’s saying it, in his own delicate, roundabout, Emyr kind of way. I think about not responding at all. He didn’t ask a question. But, after a moment, I shrug. “I know you know I have tits. It’s not like this is some big secret. Everyone knows.”
“It isn’t your fault you were born in the wrong body,” Emyr begins, and I really don’t care where he’s going with that, and I definitely don’t let him finish.
“Oh, god, no, shut up. Stop.” I wave my hand at his face. “Somewhere, at some point in time, some random cis person who’s probably dead now decided all trans people were stuck in the wrong body, and that became law. But I’m not a boy trapped in a girl’s body. My body is a boy’s body because I’m a boy and it’s mine. My body isn’t wrong. Okay?”
My sharp teeth and soft edges and blood and sweat and zits and, yes, boobs. They’re all mine, and they’re fine. I spend enough time being angry at other people. Why the hell do I have to waste time being angry at my own body?
Emyr frowns, but he hears me. He nods. “Okay. I’m sorry. So...what is it?”
“I just, uh. I don’t know. I didn’t want you getting weird around me or anything. That would be incredibly annoying.” I crinkle my nose and roll my eyes for good measure. “And frankly, you’re annoying enough already.”
His frown deepens. “I know you think very little of me.”
No, I don’t. The thought surprises me, and even more surprising is the realization that it’s true. Emyr definitely isn’t my favorite person, considering the context of our relationship. But he’s not a bad person, either. He’s a boy capable of acts of both awesome power and immense gentleness. He’s clever, and beautiful, and there’s something wild in him that the wildness in me recognizes.
I think, in another world, under another set of circumstances, I really could have fallen in love with him.
Instead of answering him, I just shrug. “I think very little of most people.”
“Except Briar.”
I am so sick of him bringing her up every time we have a conversation, a hint of accusation always hidden behind the corner of what he’s saying out loud. “You have got to get off the Briar thing.”
He considers me for a moment before admitting, “I don’t understand your relationship.”
“She’s my best friend. It’s not complicated. Haven’t you ever had a b
est friend before?”
“Yes. You.”
Don’t say shit like that to me. I don’t answer, just stare at him. I have no idea what to say to that, anyway.
We were more than best friends, once. We were...we were something I don’t have a word for. At least, not a word I can let myself think. Once. But then I got older and angrier, and Emyr got older and princelier, and everything fell apart because we live in a terrible, horrible, unfair world where everything sucks.
Or maybe because I am a terrible, horrible, unfair boy. Looking back now, I can still see myself for who I was then. Angry at the fae for treating me like a second-class citizen. Angry at my parents for treating me like my only value was in my engagement to Emyr. Angry at Emyr because he’d come to represent everything that felt wrong about my life, when for so long he’d been the best thing about it.
I let my bitterness at the rest of the world turn me against him. And it poisoned everything.
Finally, Emyr adds, “I just worry if you’re in love with her that you’ll be—”
“Dude, I’m gay. Okay?”
He raises his eyebrows.
I shake my head. “Very, very gay. I love Briar. I would die for her. I would definitely kill you if she needed me to. And, like, sure, a long time ago I might’ve grabbed her ass a little, but—no. Okay? She’s not my type. Not anymore.”
“Oh.”
Silence settles over us again.
I close my eyes and press my head into the pillows. I need to get some sleep. The drain of the last day is really, really starting to get to me. My head is pounding. Although, again, I could blame that on the guaro.
But before I can turn my brain off, Emyr speaks again.
“So, what is your type?”
I groan, rucking up the neck of his shirt to put the cotton over my eyes. I do not want to look at him. “Wingless human boys who are a good few inches shorter than me.”
“I imagine it would be very hard to find that many boys shorter than you.”
“Hey now, wait just a damn minute—” I tug the shirt from my eyes to scold him, but find Emyr isn’t looking at my face. He’s staring at my stomach, at the line of skin exposed between the hem of his shirt and the elastic waistband of my boxers.
