I’m sure this will pass. At most, it’s myprickthat’s developing feelings for her.
Yet, I saved her life from that leech back at the tavern, and the memory of his smug face still sets my blood ablaze. I’ll char the face of any bastard who lays their hands on her porcelain skin. Ivy is my ward, and I will continue to do everything in my power to protect her.
Now, I make a silent vow to never take things further—no matter how tempting it may be to run back up the tunnel and plant my own kiss between her legs.
We made a contract the day she handed over her necklace, and I won’t break its terms. I may be wicked, but I won’t take further advantage of that naïve girl.
I guess there’s nothing more to do than to stew in my own self-loathing. It’s going to be a long, lonely night.
With my righthand…and Rosemary’s judgmental tone.
Pine needles crunch underfoot—needles coated with a thick layer of hoarfrost—as winter fast approaches. The forest is eerily quiet this morning, heavy boughs dusted with a smattering of snow as I trek my usual hunting grounds, embracing the newfound chill. The chill helps clear the mind and the irksome headache that pulses between my eyes. I wish I hadn’t got so inebriated last night. The cold grounds me, reminding me that I have endless responsibilities. Winter is coming, and it’s time to stock up on meat.
It’s funny how accustomed I have grown to the seasons. After all, there is no changing of the seasons back at the faerielands. At the Seelie Court, it is eternal summer, and the Unseelie experiences apermanent winter. There is no spring or autumn, because such change only occurs in the human realm.
The Fae are practically frozen in time.
My breath plumes like a cloud as I search the ground for one of my traps.
I’ve trained my stomach to go without food for weeks. One of the many advantages of being Fae, but now that I have Ivy, I’m hunting for two.
I just hope she likes rabbit.
My pantry is running short. Ivy has already depleted two bags of oats, and it looks like I’m going to have to teach her a thing or two about rationing.
I just don’t know how I’ll face her again after last night. A ghost of her warm breath still lingers, and I reach up, brushing my finger over my lips. If only I hadn’t been such a coward, I could have…
A shuffling sound alerts my attention to a nearby thicket. That’s where I laid one of my traps.
Creeping closer, I pry the thorny branches apart. A rabbit hangs from a wire snare, its soft toes grazing the snow-covered ground, and a lump sticks in my throat.
It’s always the same; I always get choked up whenever I take one of their lives.
Yet I need to eat. Maghelena will forgive me.
Its body is still warm when I cut it loose from the snare, and then I lift it by the scruff, gazing into its jewel-black eye. I hope it died quickly. I set the trap in a way that made death quick and painless.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, tying the deceased cottontail to my belt.
I still have another twenty snares to go.
I don’t return until dusk.
In the end, I only found five rabbits, but their meat should suffice for several weeks if I apply salt.
I’m greeted by a sickly-sweet stench as I march up the tunnel, covering my nose. When I stop at the kitchen, I find her standing over the hearth, waving at a cloud of smoke with an old rag. Something burns in the pot, and whatever it is, it needs to be condemned into the nearest pit.
My heart thuds as a fleeting memory of our almost kiss returns, but I push it away, addressing her clearly, “What are you doing?”
She gasps, yet doesn’t meet my eyes. Her cheeks redden, and it looks like she’s remembering last night, too.
Will either of us forget?
“I…I’m making porridge.”
I hike a brow, stepping closer to inspect the contents of the pot. She moves aside quickly, crossing her arms as she looks the other way.
Normally, she makes delicious porridge, yet today the oats are stuck to the pot. Maybe she was distracted?
