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“Why are you really here, Gold Weaver?” His mood has shifted as fast as the parting clouds, the tone of his words now carrying a warning—but not of violence, I don’t think. More like the promise of my dream from last night becoming reality.
“I told you—” I start, but he’s up beside me before I can blink, leaning over me in that way he likes to use when he’s trying to intimidate me. I’m starting to recognize his tricks. What I’m not ready for is the hand that flies out and presses against my lips, stopping me before I can finish.
His touch is hot against my skin, and when I fall quiet, he lifts his hand, allowing his index finger to linger, dragging across my bottom lip. I find I’m not worried about the claws, his control of them is so absolute that they seem to whisper across my skin as lightly as gossamer.
“Don’t lie to me. How tired I get of your kind’s lies.” He’s still touching my face and when I jerk my chin away, he catches it—firmly but not roughly—turning my head so that I’m facing him straight on. “Why seek me out, Gold Weaver? Why come here when I know you hate me?”
He’s too smart to buy whatever story I’d try to spin, so I give him a version of the truth, trying to ignore the parts of me that come alive under his touch, an ache beginning to form at my core.
“I wanted answers.”
His expression hardens and his hand drops to my wrist. I’m surprised to find I miss it. But I can’t dwell on that because he’s tugging me back towards the entrance—or at least the solid wall where the entrance lies hidden.
“You shouldn’t be here. It was a mistake to let you past the protections.” His voice is so low it’s almost a growl, and I see the flash of those sharp teeth.
“You invited me!” I snap back, wrenching my hand from his grip. “Don’t accuse me of lies, Ruskin. You’re the one who handed me a way to always find you. Don’t pretend like you don’t want me here,” I say, tugging angrily at the translucent fabric of my gown, “Playing dress up.”
Maybe the moon is affecting me too, because I feel angrier—and, crucially, more fearless—than I ever have in his presence. My blood runs hot under my skin.
“You like to accuse us humans of lying, and yet you contradict yourself with every action you take and every word you speak. I don’t know why I’d be surprised—I know you have a black heart to go with that black coat of yours. Maybe it’s just that I didn’t expect so much hypocrisy from a fae prince.”
On another night he might just laugh at my accusations, but now, pulled taut by whatever power the harvest moon has over him, he snarls, driving me back against the stone wall. My heart thuds in my chest, but not from fear.
Okay, maybe there’s a bit of fear there, but it’s mostly something else. I enjoy riling him, I realize, my body inviting this physicality like it’s the only balm which will ease the ache at its center.
“Do not pretend to know why I make the choices I do, Eleanor Thorn. You have no idea what my world really looks like.” It’s rare for him to actually use my name, and it catches me off guard, as do his words. I burn to know exactly what he means, to see this world he speaks of.
We’re so close, him leaning over me, and as I pull my chin up in defiance, his eyes fall to my lips. The thought seems to enter my head at the same time as his. I close the gap between us as his mouth descends to mine.
The kiss is searing, igniting whatever has been smoldering beneath the surface since I entered the garden. Or maybe for longer. I let out a groan of satisfaction at the ferocious heat of his lips, the plundering force of his tongue as it explores me. I hear a scraping noise beside my head and realize that he’s digging his claws into the surface of the stone wall, the unbridled strength of his desire turning me on even more.
We pull apart, but my breathless high is spiked with irritation at the smug look on his face. I don’t want him to feel like he’s winning here.
“This doesn’t mean you own me,” I say, my voice coming out rough and intense. “You need me.”
His smirk broadens, eyes bright.
“Oh, Gold Weaver, more than you can imagine.” So many meanings in one phrase, layers upon layers. I can hear it in the mix of emotions in his voice—I think there’s a hint of sadness there, and also amusement, but above all, lust.
He presses a leg between my thighs. It forces a little gasp from me, but I let them fall apart. I want this. And not just as a means to an end. I want to be touched there, the desire erasing all other thoughts from my brain. I let out a ragged breath when I feel the hardness of him against the inside of my leg. Thin films of fabric are all that separate our bodies, making us feel so close and so aggravatingly far apart at the same time.
The slit in my skirts has fallen open to reveal my leg, bare flesh raised as the warm breeze of the Seelie court kisses its way across my skin. I stifle a whimper when he encircles my knee with strong, expert fingers, sliding his hand up my thigh. He grazes his claws lightly across my skin, and I want to ask for more pressure, more of him.
I’m aware I’m pinned against the wall, legs spread open. I must look utterly wanton, but I don’t care. We’re shrouded from the rest of the garden by a bower of roses, and I feel unexpectedly protected by them. Still, it’s wonderfully new, this level of desire that washes away almost all my inhibitions. I arch my hips so that I press against the stiff length of him, producing a growl from his lips.
“You better put those claws away before you get any higher,” I warn, my eyes boring into his. His hand is skirting dangerously close to the place I so desperately want him to stroke with those clever fingers, but I know if he gets even an inch closer, we’ll be crossing a line I might not be able to come back from.
Do I even want to come back? I came to him tonight to try to get inside his world. I suspected all along that that would require some…intimacy. But am I doing this just for my freedom? Or am I doing it because it’s what I truly want? How can I tell, when every touch has me too muddled to think straight?
He dips his head again, teasing my bottom lip with his teeth, and he draws a moan from me as he hooks my knee up over his hip, putting lovely friction on the sensitive spot between my thighs.
“Will you beg for me, Eleanor?” he asks, my name sounding perfect in his mouth.
“On my knees?” I ask, struggling to include a scornful note to my voice. I can’t let him feel that he has the upper hand. He already has too much power over me; I need to snatch some back.
“What a wonderful image,” he says and chuckles.
“A shame it only exists in your imagination,” I say, trying to ignore the telltale catch in my voice that betrays how easily that image could become reality.
