Page 29 of A Thief Among Fae

Desmond watches me like I’m a rather interesting page in his book. “You shouldn’t have to.”

I don’t know how to feel about a fae prince protecting me from perverts. Flattered?

I walk around the drunkard, but Desmond steps on the man’s hand as he passes—the same hand that groped me. I hear cracks. Maybe I’ve pegged him wrong. Maybe there’s a touch of chivalry in him after all.

We walk up the creaking spiral stairs to a hall of bedrooms. Desmond dons a glove, unlocks his door, and gestures for me to enter first. “Iron door handle?” I ask him.

“You’re out of questions,” he says with a pointed raise of his brow.

“Gods,” I mutter. He’s insufferable. Yet if he can’t touch iron, it must mean that the rumor that it burns fae is true.

I enter and pause in shock. The room he’s renting is cozy but devoid of frivolities, a budget room. Why didn’t he choose a better one? He can clearly afford to.

A single armoire and a bedside table with a vase of perky chrysanthemums sit against the wall. An oil lamp is already lit. Its sputtering flame illuminates the room with a soft yellow glow. The problem is the one narrow bed with a stained, faded quilt that barely reaches the edges. We both look at the bed.

I groan. “You didn’t mention there’s only one.”

“It didn’t seem pertinent unless you can conjure another bed out of thin air,” he retorts.

“But there’s not even a chair!”

There’s an awkward pause.

“I’ll take the floor,” we both say.

“You paid for the bed,” I argue without thinking. Damn it, of course I want the bed. My mouth is just outrunning my mind again.

His cheek twitches, fighting a smile. “I’m shocked you didn’t insist on it. Hedonism is the second heart of your civilization, after your religion.”

“Like fae are any less indulgent. I’ve heard the stories. You gorge yourself on delicacies, and if you’re not feasting, you’re dancing or stealing women away. Not to mention that my entire village could fit inside one of your diamond mines.”

“One of Avedor’s diamond mines. And have you met other fae?” He waits for me to answer and bitterly huffs a laugh when I can’t. “Then you don’t know what you’re talking about. Like you said, you’ve only heard stories.” He takes off his boots, unfastens his cloak, and drapes it over the bed’s footboard, but doesn’t undress further.

His words stunned me. I don’t know what to say.

Desmond’s severe frown softens. “You wouldn’t sleep a wink on the floor. Take the bed,” he orders.

“I can sleep perfectly well on the floor,” I retort as I take off my dirt-splattered boots. It’s irritating that he thinks he can command me about this.

“Really?” He lies across the floorboards and tucks his hands behind his head. “I can see why you think so. The draft is cozy, and who doesn’t love mouse droppings?”

Oh, gods. I shudder, then crouch beside him. “Where?”

“There aren’t any. Besides the splinters, the floor is clean.” He stretches, and his voice hitches into a breathless groan that makes my thoughts stutter. “You’d better learn how to dissect fae wordplay, or you’re in for a lot of trouble.”

It takes several long seconds to recollect myself and remember what I’m doing. That’s right. We’re fighting over who gets the pleasure of sleeping on the floor. Maybe I should let him win.

But I’m not one to lose.

I stretch out beside him, the floorspace so cramped that our shoulders touch. I shift and swear that he stiffens. “I’ve never known any fae. You really can’t lie?”

“Yes.” He turns toward me. A curl flops in front of his eyes, and when he smooths it away, his hand inadvertently brushes my ear.

I shiver. It’s just the draft. That innkeeper should really fit a new door. The cacophony downstairs echoes through the cold floorboards, but my eyes close as fatigue sinks into my limbs.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor just to prove a point,” Desmond says.

“Did I prove it?” I mumble.