Ash opens his eyes, frowning softly. “What happened?”
“I can’t control it.” I shrug, avoiding his eyes. “It comes and goes at will.”
He studies me for a few seconds and then changes seats, choosing the chair right next to me. “How do I make it come back?”
It builds again, startlingly responsive to this man. And it’s not just the sparkles that tinge the air around me when I’m feeling butterflies, but the warmth that is the core of my season—the ethereal, intangible, cloud of joy that surrounds me when I’m happy.
Warmthandsparkles—that’s what he’s drawing from me.
But why?
Why does my magic respond to Ash like it does? I’ve never felt anything like it. But I’ve rarely been around high fae. And never a winter high fae.
A satisfied smile lights Ash’s face. Thankfully, it’s not a smug smile, nor a patronizing one.
But suddenly, his amusement vanishes, and his brow wrinkles as though worried. “This is why mages kidnapped your kind. I never understood it, but now I see. Your magic is addictive.”
Several hundred years ago, a rogue group of mages in Pennsylvania began abducting pixies, hoping to sell them on the human black market. But who could be happy in captivity? They only summoned storms.
We become worthless the moment someone traps us.
Unfortunately, the mages found a way around that. Instead of kidnapping the pixies to sell, they started siphoning their magic and sold that instead. They drained the pixies, pulling raw magic from them like a nurse drawing blood.
Not wanting to think about it, and trying to lighten the mood, I attempt a smile and joke, “Am I in danger?”
“I’m not going to kidnap you.” Ash smiles reassuringly, his expression warm. Then his eyes move to my mouth. Slowly.Curiously. After several long heartbeats, he murmurs, “I am tempted to keep you though.”
I draw in a soft breath, butterflies rioting in my stomach. As the rain patters against the windows, serenading us with its rhythmic melody, Ash leans in.
My eyes fall to his lips before fluttering shut. I feel his breath, smell his crisp, cool magic…
And then the tea timer goes off.
We pull back abruptly, both of us avoiding each other’s eyes like we were doing something we shouldn’t have been.
Only when I’m hurrying over to the tea do I remember that Rowan is upstairs, probably spying on us like the little fowl mage he is.
“Do you like cream, milk, honey, or sugar in your tea?” I ask Ash.
“I drink it plain.”
I wrinkle my nose at the thought and bring Ash’s tea to the table. “Here you go—one depressingly unsweetened and decaffeinated cup of English breakfast.”
“You might want to work on your marketing.” He chuckles softly. “You aren’t going to have a cup?”
“You will not believe the amount of tea I’ve ingested today.”
“Rough job.”
I grin. “The worst.”
We sit together as he drinks his tea. This time, we ignore my wayward magic and talk about the town and his work.
When it’s time to leave, I almost forget my owl.
“Just a minute,” I say as Ash is headed for the door. “I need to run upstairs real quick.”
It’s dark now, the clouds masking the evening light and making it look later than it is.
