Page 30 of A Thief Among Fae

He sighs. “Yes. You’re not a hedonist. You’re stubborn. That’s an even graver offense.”

I grunt in response.

“Now get on the bed.”

“You could at least buy me dinner first.”

He snorts. I wish I could see the face he’s making, but I feel his astonishment for just a second. That makes me want to see it, and I open my eyes to glimpse him. His teeth are teasing his bottom lip, but the intense heat in his hazel eyes quickly fades. I’m too exhausted to decipher it.

“You’ll thank me in the morning,” he says. Then he stands and lifts me into his arms.

“Could’ve gotten up on my own,” I mumble as he lays me down on the bed. “Join me. The floor is awful.” Even though I try to convince myself that it’s fair to let him toss and turn all night, it isn’t.

Desmond sighs, then climbs over me and shimmies into the space between me and the wall. There’s not enough room for both of us to sleep on our backs, so he slowly and cautiously tucks me against him, my head nestled into the crook of his warm shoulder. I wonder if he’s done this before. Of course he has. He’s witty, handsome, and a prince.

Even an outcast prince must have admirers.

He wraps one arm around my waist, hugging me to him. His warmth surrounds me, surprisingly soothing. His chest undulates with steady breaths, and the cadence of his heart underneath my cheek proves just how close we are.

Being held in a tight embrace by a fae who earned the appellation “Prince of Death” should terrify me. I don’t even know what his Gift is. He could be a siphon, someone able to pull magic out of someone and push it into another. He could be a shadow-wielder and slice my head off with darkness alone. Or even worse, maybe he’s a summoner that could fill this room with flesh-hungry beasts from Osian’s planes of hell.

One wrong move, and the prince could end me before I so much as scream.

In the meantime, enjoying this wouldn’t be so bad. Desmond has solid arms, and he doesn’t hog the bed. He even smells nice, a soothing mixture of cedar and sandalwood.

“Happy?” he asks, his voice rumbling against me. “There’s not a lot of room.”

I murmur, “There’s enough.” Then I close my eyes and finally let sleep take me.

Chapter 9

Iwake up sprawled out in a bed I don’t recognize.

My heart jumps into my throat as I sit up, clutching the sheets as if they could protect me.

“Good morning.”

The sudden voice sends a wave of panic through me. I twist, searching the bed, but no one else is in it.

Desmond sits on a stiff wooden chair. His book is nestled in his lap, and he rests his elbow on his thigh, his hand propping up his chin. He tiredly turns the page. Dark circles make his drowsy eyes appear sunken. “Did you sleep well?” he asks.

I release a tense breath. “Better than you,” I reply, lifting a brow. “Did you sleep at all?”

Without looking away from the book, he takes a swig from his flask and winces like it’s as bitter as willow bark. “No.”

“You didn’t have to give me the bed. We fit last night.” I don’t understand why he bothered to lie down if he planned on staying awake.

“How long would you have argued with me if I insisted on taking the floor?” he asks, turning the page.

“I don’t⁠—”

He closes his eyes, his hands clenching like he’s fighting fatigue. Then he sighs. “You needed your rest.”

“Like you don’t?” I gesture at him, even though he’s now looking at his book. “I’ve fought draugr who looked more alert.”

A few seconds of silence pass as he traces a sentence with his thumb. Then he says, “Don’t underestimate me,” without any trace of humor.

“At least explain the chair.”