“We’ll work on it. I know a PT who can give you some exercises.”
“Are you mental? Physical therapy for a Faerie tynged?”
David gave Mal his best stink-eye stare, improved by observation of Alun’s world-class glower. “Has anyone tried it before?”
Mal scoffed. “Of course not.”
“Then how do you know it won’t work?”
“Because it doesn’t make sense.”
David propped his fists on his hips. “In case you haven’t noticed, Mr. Skeptic, you don’t make sense. Faerie doesn’t make sense. Druids in twenty-first century Portland don’t make sense. Don’t be such a big baby. Just because it’ll be hard—”
“I’m not afraid of work.” He crossed his arms, tucking his unresponsive hand on the inside as if he were afraid David would snatch it and have his wicked achubydd way with it. “Or of pain.”
“Then what have you got to lose? Honestly.”
He rounded on Alun, who stumbled back a few steps. “And you, Dr. You-Don’t-Have-a-Choice, what exactly would I gain from being your consort that I don’t already have?”
“Nothing, I suppose.” From the sorrow in his eyes, he’d already given up. Jeez, these Sidhe dudes are so fatalistic. “Only me.”
“In that case,” David stalked forward and wrapped his arms around Alun’s waist, “I accept.”
Alun pulled back, a bewildered frown puckering his forehead. “But . . . you . . . I thought—”
“When will you guys learn to ask? I love you, but I want the choice. And you deserve choice too. How twisted is it to be forced to marry because some asshole fairy tried to kill me and random supes are too fricking entitled to ask instead of take?”
Alun smiled, and in his too-handsome-for-his-shirt mode, David’s knees turned to water. “You love me?”
David smacked him in the biceps to cover up his extremely unmanly urge to fling himself onto that delectable chest and cling like a bad suit. “I told you that, doofus. For a psychologist, you totally suck at listening.” He captured Alun’s perfect cheekbones between his hands. “Alun Kendrick, Lord of the Sidhe and Shrink to the Supes, will you marry me?”
“Goddess, yes. Dafydd—”
David put his hand on Alun’s chest to ward off a hug. “I have conditions, though.”
“I almost dare not ask.”
“You planning on calling me ‘the Consort’? Because I gotta tell you, I’m not signing up for that.”
Alun’s smile widened. “I think we can work around it.”
“Good.” He stroked Alun’s cheek. “Is it weird that I miss your old face?”
“As to that . . .” Suddenly, the brow ridges were back, Alun’s skull once more oversized, the nose, the cheekbones—everything but the scar. Because he’s not gutted anymore. He has me.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about.”
Mal snorted. “Glamourie to make yourself ugly? That may be a first.”
“Oh shut up, Mal.” David caught Alun’s hand and drew him out of the kitchen and into the darkened hallway. He nuzzled Alun’s jaw and was rewarded with a familiar growl. Alun kissed him, hot and possessive and his.
When they broke apart to breathe, Alun leaned his misshapen forehead against David’s. “I love you, Dafydd.”
Finally. “Excellent. Then let’s do the wild thing, Dr. Beast. I’m in a healing mood.”
Explore more of the Fae Out of Water series: riptidepublishing.com/titles/series/fae-out-water
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E.J. Russell holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant. Several years ago, she realized Darling Sons A and B would be heading off to college soon and she’d no longer need to spend half her waking hours ferrying them to dance class.
What to do with all that free time?
A lucky encounter with Jim Butcher’s craft blog posts caused her to revisit her childhood dream of writing fiction, and now she wonders why she ever thought an empty nest meant leisure.
Her daily commute consists of walking from one side of her office to the other, from left-brain day job to right-brain writer’s cave, where she’s learned to type with a dog attached to her hip and a cat draped across her wrists.
E.J. is married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, C.H. also loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).
E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.
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