“So dating, to you, is a precursor to . . .”
“Matrimony.”
I sputtered, “It’s not what it is to me, Eli.”
He smiled. “You are bound in promise to the fae, which means fae law applies to you. You’ve even agreed to a date for the end of our courtship.”
I stepped away from him. “This is not how to seduce me, Eli.”
“You have a month to find a way to end our courtship,” he reminded me. “And I have a month to make you accept the inevitable. You said ‘I agree to your terms, Eli. We will date.’ So, I do believe, my Divinity, that you now must either date me or break our bargain.”
“What happens if I break the bargain?”
“The king of Elphame would determine your fate, as he is chief in my familial line.” Eli shrugged again. “So, I ask again, will you date me or do you break our bargain?”
“Fine.” I took his hand.
He lifted me into his arms bridal style. The smile he gave me would probably incinerate knickers in at least a three-mile radius.
My voice was squeakier than it had ever been as I asked, “Eli?”
“You are eternally welcome in my home, Genèvieve Crowe. I offer you my hearth and lintel. May you find shelter.” He stood under the keystone of the doorway. “In this world and my home, you are mine to safeguard.”
I felt magic swirl around us, as if we were in center of a firestorm. Each spark of magic brushed against us with butterfly wings. Whatever vow he’d made was one my body accepted—loudly. Desire surged like lava in my veins, and a moan of need escaped my lips.
I wasn’t sure I could stand if I tried.
Arms around his neck, I pressed my lips to his. I wasn’t sure if it was magic or lust driving us, but I flowed, carrying us both into the house. I’d never moved a second person this way, but I did. In a heartbeat or three, we were inside, upstairs, and somehow entangled on the floor.
“Genèvieve.” Eli pulled back and stared at me. His already bee-stung lips looked thoroughly kissed. “How did you . . .?”
“You’re not the only magic creature here.” I removed my shirt. It was too much of a barrier. “Please?”
He looked at me like he’d never seen my half-naked body. He’d stitched enough of me that I wasn’t sure I had many secrets, but the way his gaze burned me up now, I thought I might be wrong.
Our gaze was only interrupted by the removal of his shirt.
“Rules?” he asked.
“Touch me.”
He laughed, low and full of the same needs I was feeling. “That’s a demand, Genèvieve, not a rule.”
My hands were on his skin already. Muscle under silk. Magic under flesh. I wanted all of it, all of him—but I wasn’t going to end up married.
I kissed his chest, his shoulders, his throat.
“Genèvieve,” he said. “Rules?”
“No intercourse,” I said between kisses. I couldn’t call it fucking because it wouldn’t be, and I couldn’t call it making love because I was afraid to say that. If a faery made love, truly made love, to a person who reciprocated that love, they were wed. It was that simple. “No intercourse. No . . . I want to, but I won’t end up accidentally wed.”
He looked unsurprised by my demand, but disappointed.
I knew damn well that he wasn’t going to remind me of that rule, but I wasn’t going to forget it. There were other options.
“What do you want, Genèvieve?”
“Touch me. Kiss me.” I stepped closer. “Please?”
Maybe it was the please, or maybe he simply understood me better than anyone else ever had. Eli took my hand and led me to a bedroom.
He leaned down and kissed me speechless. Then he ordered, “Stay right here. Strip. No jeans. No shoes. Nothing.”
When he returned, I was naked. I don’t know what I expected. Ravishing? Hurried grasping? I ought to have known better. Eli was fae—which meant he had the patience of nature.
In his hand, he had a bowl. “Turn onto your stomach, love.”
I rolled over, and soon I felt the hot drizzle of oil. The room smelled of the clean nature of Elphame, so whatever oil it was, it was fae in origin.
At a word in his language, the room became completely dark.
I could see nothing. “Eli?”
“You asked for touch,” he said, voice low and rough. “No intercourse. Merely touch.”
I felt him place my hands along my sides, arrange my body as if I was clay in his hands. Then I felt him touch me. Slowly, steadily, hard, teasing, he rubbed and caressed almost everything in some fashion.
Time seemed to freeze. I could see nothing. The world was reduced to touch, scent, and sound. His murmured words, sighed, groaned as he explored my body. It didn’t matter whether he was caressing sensitive spots or mundane. Under Eli’s touch, everything was erotic. My feet, my calves, my hips. He was leaning his weight onto me, his forearms and muscular chest brushed my body as his rubbed along my spine.
And I realized he was atop me.
Straddling me.
Naked.
Eli was naked.
I felt the hard length of him nestled between my thighs. Unconsciously, I parted my legs further, and he leaned down so his chest was flat against my back and his lips were by my ear. “No intercourse, Genèvieve,” he taunted.
Goddess help me, I whimpered. “We can’t, but this is . . . nice.”
“Nice?” he echoed. He was a voice and pleasure in the dark, and I was certain that no one had ever made me so desperate so quickly.
He thrust his hips against me, groaning. Not entering me, merely taunting me with what I was refusing.
“Still just nice?” he asked.
I moaned and admitted, “More than nice.”
By the time he had me roll over, exposing my naked chest and hips to his touch, I was wishing I could find a loophole in the no intercourse clause.
He parted my legs further. “Shall I be thorough, Genèvieve?”
“Please. Please.”
His hands danced between my legs, but only for a moment, sliding along my most delicate skin, and then they were gone. In the dark, he plucked my nipples, massaging my thighs, my belly.
I could only feel and beg. “More, Eli. Please. More.”
In that moment if he’d asked me again, I’m not sure I’d have refused intercourse. Damn the consequences, I was shaking in need. Maybe he knew that, and it was why he didn’t ask.
Instead he asked, “Is it so horrible to date me, bonbon?”
“No.” I took several breaths. “Not horrible.”
He was quiet, breathing as needy as mine. I heard the strain in his voice as he asked, “Would you still only like touch or would you like a kiss? Or more?”
I knew what would happen if I agreed to more, and as much as I wanted his mouth on my body, I wanted to see him when we burned that bridge. So, I reached out into the darkness and trailed my hand over his hip. The oil from where his naked body had been against mine made my hand glide over skin and muscle.
“Touch,” I asked, demanded, begged.
“Yes.”
So, I stroked him as he touched me. We were nothing but hands and skin and moans in the darkness. I wanted more, but I wasn’t sure I could endure it.
~ 6 ~
I’d slipped out of Eli’s house in the night. I slid away from his embrace and fled. He said I was to be myself, and well, my self wasn’t great at the softer side of dating. My world was tilted by the intimacy we’d shared—and in my usual way, I ran from emotions.
Honestly, sometimes I felt sorry for anyone who tried to date me.
I liked Eli more than I’d cared for anyone, and I suspected most of our conflicts boiled down to my innate panic at feeling tender things in his direction. Some girls had pretend-weddings as children, fantasies of gowns as teens, and thought about the future as young women. Me? I thought about monsters. I dreamed of swords or trips. I fantasized about the sort of sex that made grown men blush.
The odds of finding anyone who found my messed-up brain and monster-tainted body appealing were so thin that I never really expected to deal with it. I’d always been the person that nice boys and girls took for a spin before settling down. I was the mid-life crisis car, the thrill-ride, and not the sort anyone wanted to marry. I chose that. I highlighted my traits that kept me firmly in the “makes a great mistress, not a wife” box.
So, I was not prepared to wake up the next evening to a gift-wrapped faery-wrought dagger and antique bottle of the same oil Eli had rubbed all over me. I sniffed the bottle and couldn’t help but smile.
The post also delivered a piece of parchment with elegantly written instructions for a “celebratory holiday gathering” hosted by the dead-chick-in-charge of the draugr. The dinner at Beatrice’s castle was later that week.
No rest for the dead, or half-dead, I supposed.
By the time the gala rolled around, I’d procured a total of three dresses, contacted my mother to tell her that I’d be bringing an extra guest the next week for our holiday dinner, and managed to not feel completely overwhelmed by my fiancé.
The latter took a lot of effort. Eli sent gifts each day: a brooch, a poison ring and pendant set, a scarf with a beautiful wire embroidery that was perfect to garrote someone. When he saw me—a brief moment here or there—he bent me into a dip and kissed me, or he pulled me into a hallway and pulled me tightly to his always aroused body.
Every embrace he whispered, “No intercourse?”
My resolve was not . . . weakening. I would not be married because my needs were spiking so intensely. I was stronger than that.
By the time the night of the gala was upon us, I was ready to torment him until he was as maddened with need as I had become. I chose not one of the reasonable holiday dresses I’d planned, but an ivy column gown. My throat was covered by a high collar, and my arms were bare. The back had a teardrop cut-out, the bottom of which was scandalously low. The left slit exposed a long thin dagger—Eli’s gift—strapped onto my thigh.
If I stood perfectly still, I was as covered as a matron. Only my arms were bared. If I walked or turned my back to him, bare flesh and weapons glinted at him. And if the light was bright, most of the dress was nearly translucent.
Eli met me at my home—and the light was, indeed, bright enough that his eyes dilated in desire. “You are radiant, Ms. Crowe.”
I twirled, and yes, I’d practiced to get that twirl just right. My leg with the dagger practically winked at him, and the hair pins that he’d gifted me that day were holding my tumble of blue hair in place. Tiny little sheathed throwing knives with jewels at the top held my masses of hair in an elegant up-do that had taken Sera and I an hour to create. The effect was, mostly, to expose my back, but it also let me wear his gifts.
“Winter at her finest looks less lovely than you,” Eli said, voice nearing reverence.
In fairness, my escort was gorgeous. Eli had elected to dress to his heritage. No glamour. No mortal attire. He was wearing leggings that made clear that his legs were all muscle, tunic, vest, and a circlet crown. The most unusual item was a codpiece that matched the crown. Although the codpiece was barely visible under the tunic, the glint of jewels made it challenging not to look.
“You test my resolve,” I admitted.
“I do try, Geneviève.” He looked me over. “Your loveliness and strength would shame the queens that came before you.”
There was no reply that seemed suitable, so I brushed my lips over his gently and prompted, “Shall we?”
Arriving at the castle again was different. Everything felt different, tonight. This would be our first official outing as an engaged couple. A couple. The mere thought made my stomach twist in anxiety.
“You have been busy,” I said as we parked.
Eli met my gaze. “I wanted to show you that I have no need to take up all of your time, peach pie.” He offered me his arm, and we approached the massive doors. “Being with me will not consume your freedom.”
I nodded.
“It’s not you,” I reminded him. “Any woman would be lucky to be chosen by you.”
He stilled briefly, not quite bringing us to a stumbling halt, but slowing us. “I would remind you that we have a bargain, Geneviève Crowe.”
I winced.
“You are not to be thinking of the future.” He began to walk, and I stayed in step—even when he added, “If I have not satisfied you with my touch or my gifts, you will tell me, so I might correct my errors.”
I blushed despite myself. “You have not failed to satisfy me.”
“You left without word. One might find that worrisome,” he said lightly.
I laughed. “It was that or fear that I’d fail in my own resolve. You are a very thorough lover. Already. Even with . . . not . . .”
The look he gave me was enough to make me well aware of my lack of knickers.
“You are remarkable as well, Geneviève.”
Then we reached the door and followed Eleanor to a ballroom, where we were swept into Beatrice’s soiree. Her attention was drawn to us as if she could sense our arrival. Perhaps, however, that was the ripple of whispers that carried through the ballroom.
I let Eli handle the speaking and mingling. I followed his lead as we danced. I meekly stayed at his side to enjoy hors d’oeuvres—and I slid in and out of the minds of the well-dressed corpses walking around the ballroom. Only about fifty people were present, so the search and scan wasn’t terrible. I was as uncomfortable as a lamb invited to the side door of a restaurant.
“You are a wolf,” Beatrice said, her voice a reminder that she could read me, too.
I didn’t flip her off, but I thought the visual at her and felt her answering laughter.
“Hunt our enemies for me, wolf.”
I hated to admit it, but I was mollified by her faith.
As I let my magic roll out, sliding in and over the cacophony of voices, I thought that this was not that dissimilar to reading the dead in the graveyard. I’d expected minds like the draugr I usually encountered. They were nothing but feral needs.
Unlike the disjointed minds of the newly walking, however, these were orderly minds. Pretentious. Bored. Judgmental. There were thoughts of hunger, but it was more often hunger for power. These were not the draugr who would be found on the streets of the city. They struck me as the sort who had chefs or delivery or whatever service posh dead folk used for their food.
“I would drink her dry.”
“Why do we need to allow his sort here?”
“Vintage fae juice. What a lovely pet he’d make.”
“Stupid bitch.”
“When Guarin was in charge, we weren’t so burdened by rules.”
The last one was the first that felt angry in ways that were alarming. I reached out with my magic until I found the speaker. He was tall, and from the look of him, he’d died before reaching full maturity. His face was soft, and he lacked the tell-tale texture of facial hair. He was trying to compensate for his physical appearance of youth with austere dress. His only concession to holiday frivolity was an ostentatious medallion-broach-thingy. A ruby as big as my thumb-nail was surrounded by emeralds.
“Thou shalt not suffer a witch.” He glanced at Beatrice, at me, and then he started toward me.
“Harold,” Beatrice said, flowing to my side as if she had intended to be there all along. She stood in front of me. Her assistant, servant, whatever-she-was Eleanor arrived with two more women.
The room felt charged, and the thoughts were weirdly gleeful.
“How charming!”
“Entertainment!”
“Is it vulgar to accidentally cut the faery for a sip of blood?”
I glared at that one, a rather regal looking woman who had been grandmotherly upon death, and growled. “Mine.”
“Witch.” Harold tried to push passed Beatrice. “We have no use for witches.”
Simultaneously, Beatrice said, “Back up.”
Harold drew a respectable-sized blade and tried for Beatrice’s throat. Her guards were there, but I was literally inches from her, so I pulled her backward to safety.
Harold’s knife sliced my arm from shoulder to near my elbow.
“Witches have no right—”
“Duck fucking weasel.” I kicked Harold and snatched his machete. “I’m getting sick of hearing that nonsense.”
It was too much of a coincidence to ignore. Harold was somehow tied to Weasel Nuts shooting at me. I pushed that thought at Beatrice, who transformed from elegant to feral in less time that it took to blink.
“Take her out of here,” Beatrice said.
Eli had my hand, but we were jerked apart as Eleanor moved me further away from Harold. Then in a little more than a heartbeat, Eli and I were both outside.
“You are a gift,” Eleanor said. “Her Majesty will dispatch with the vermin.”
Then she was gone, and I was swaying precariously over ground that was filled with bodies, outside a castle where there were ancient draugr I very much didn’t want to adopt.
~ 7 ~
If I wasn’t mistaken, there was a poinsettia petal in my cleavage. It was hard to tell because I was losing blood faster than the average tourist losing their dinner after midnight. It could have been blood, but I thought it was a petal.
Admittedly, it was a toss-up between bleeding and vomiting on my “things I dislike” list, but in this particular moment, I was thinking I’d have preferred puking.
“Are you well enough to stand?” Eli was at my side, looking more warrior than prince. He looked fierce, even as he stepped over the already-rotting corpse.
“I’m good.” I nodded. I was standing. Well, I was leaning on a cooperative oak tree outside Beatrice’s castle, but that was like standing.
“How bad?”
“I’m upright.” I shrugged, clutching my new blade as if I’d be any use against the sort of draugr inside the castle.
“I want you to get me inside the car before my blood spills onto the ground.”
Under a Winter Sky Page 21
