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All of that alone is enough to take my breath away. But it’s the ancient, primordial feel of this place that stipples my skin and settles in my gut. The promise of monsters and magic and a beautiful, lethal world beyond my comprehension.
I’m not sure what makes me turn around. A sound, perhaps. A feeling. When I do, my breath catches in my chest and I retreat a step, back pressed into the hard railing.
“You’re not going to jump, are you?” a Fae male says.
He stands a few feet from me. He’s tall, imposing, power coming off him in waves. And sweet Baby Jesus he’s gorgeous. The kind of beautiful you feel in your belly. Maybe it’s the way the silvery light falls over his features. Or the confidence exuding from his every pore. Or just the fact that his mouth is bowed at the top and full at the bottom.
But I suddenly can’t breathe.
“No, of course not,” I gasp, trying to mask the effect he has on me.
By the glimmer in his eyes, I’m pretty sure that he’s aware. Since he seems to already read me like an open book, and since I’m terrible at hiding my feelings, I don’t even bother masking my curiosity as I study him.
Despite the cold, he wears black jogger pants and a soft white T-shirt, both impeccably made and undoubtedly expensive. My gaze falls to his arms.
I never thought I would find this part of someone beautiful, but his arms seem carved from marble. Sinewy muscle curves and twists, trapping shadows. His flesh is smooth and pale and seemingly impervious to the bone-aching chill.
Winter Court Fae. Has to be. That also explains his icy demeanor.
I move my assessment to his face, taking in his features carefully. The way you savor a bite of rich cheesecake or swirl wine around your mouth first before swallowing it. Piercing silver-blue eyes glow softly, rimmed by dark blue lashes. Jagged cheekbones form deep hollows that end at a jaw you could slice apples on. His nose is straight, almost severe, but it somehow makes his inhumanly large eyes and soft, swollen lips work.
“How many Fae have you seen up close before?”
I startle at his voice. A deep, elegant voice tinged with an accent I can’t place and a whole lot of amusement.
“You’re my third—no, fourth.”
“You can stare. All humans do.” His lips curl up into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Your bodies naturally react to our strangeness. You’ll get used to it.”
Heat flares across my frozen cheeks, but I accept his invitation . . . even if I feel like a total creeper.
I move my focus to his hair. It’s cropped shorter on the sides and a little longer on top, showcasing wavy, tousled locks. They’re a shade darker than his eyelashes, a startling midnight blue. I once saw a show about ice caves in Iceland and his hair is the exact color of the darkest part of the ice.
I shiver before remembering that I’ve just been standing here ogling him like a statue. But he’s not a statue, because statues don’t usually have lips that twitch at the corners or eyes that pierce your soul.
Is he about to smile or about to frown? I feel like that’s important to my survival.
He crosses to the railing and peers at something in the distance. I watch him, stunned by how smooth and graceful his movements are. Every muscle, every tendon working in concert to make something as simple as walking seem like a dance.
Maybe it is. Maybe this is how the Fae mesmerize you into their power, like some magical, sexy voodoo. Maybe I should leave and go back to my pathetic little room.
But I don’t want to.
“What are you doing out here?” he drawls, turning to face me. His gaze goes to the army of goosebumps amassed over my skin. His voice is syrupy and slow, but there’s a demand there.
I tug my sleeves down to cover my mark. “I needed air.”
“It’s below freezing,” he points out.
“I’m aware. But fresh air is better than the broom closet they put me in, even if it’s cold as balls.”
His expression shifts, moving in the same fluid way his body does, but I can’t quite read it.
Amusement? Puzzlement? Annoyance? A lovely mix of all three?
“What are you doing on the roof?” I ask like the nosy girl I am.
He half turns to regard me. “It’s quiet here.” He seems to think about his answer for a moment before adding, “No one knows about this place.”
