Page 31 of A Thief Among Fae

“I carried it up from downstairs.”

“And why?”

His jaw flexes as he closes the book. “The thrashing would’ve woken you.” Then he stands, grunting as the chair rises with him. A knotted leather cord secures his wrist to the arm of the chair.

My stomach drops.

“Pass me a dagger,” he says, nodding at the side table where his blade rests.

I levitate his dagger to him. “And who exactly tied you to a chair?”

He cuts the cord. The chair falls to the ground with a thud. “I did.”

My mouth dries as I struggle to know what to say. “I still don’t understand.”

He flexes his hand and then rubs the angry red line around his wrist, right above the inked crescent. “Just a precaution.”

When Evie and I were little, older village kids would frighten us with made-up stories. Draugr crawling out of tombs to drag meddling younger siblings into their barrows. Trolls who would cut the tongues out of tattletales and eat them. Fae were often the villains, tales of their glamour meant to terrify us.

Evie had fitful nightmares for a week straight after a particularly gruesome one. The fae were said to kidnap lost children and glamour them into obedient servants. More than once, I debated tying her down to the bed.

As I stare at the prince of the Hollowlands, it’s hard to imagine what could haunt him badly enough to make him restrain himself.

I slide out of the bed and reach out to examine his chafed wrist. “We could get some soothing salve from an apothecary before we leave Mythos.”

Then his emotions batter me like a rough wave—sorrow and guilt toward the past, bitterness and regret toward the future he can’t have. None of it shows on his impassive face.

Stunned, I let my hand drop. “You should get some rest. I’ll go downstairs and order us breakfast.”

“I’m fine.” His tone leaves no room for arguing. “I once stayed awake for five days straight when captured. This was nothing.” Then he strides across the room and throws the armoire doors open, revealing a change of clothes. “We need to get going.”

Pulse-quickening panic rises in my chest as he shrugs out of his tunic, the muscles of his abdomen rippling. His skin is nicked with scars; a long one crosses his left pectoral, and another follows the curve of his right arm. When he twists to grab his clean shirt, I catch a glimpse of his back.

I gasp. He tenses, his muscles moving beneath the long, raised scars that crisscross like an erratic lattice from his shoulders to his waist. Those scars aren’t from blades. What happened to him?

He turns back around, his jaw tight. The wisps of dark hair down his lower stomach draw my gaze somewhere it definitely shouldn’t be.

My cheeks flush as I whirl to face the wall.

“I didn’t expect you to be so modest,” he comments, a hint of a taunt in his voice.

I roll my eyes, not that he can see—and I know better than to ask about his back. It’s not my business. “I thought you might want some privacy. Would you prefer if I watch? I didn’t take you for an exhibitionist.”

There’s a clack of a belt buckle. Gods, he’s changing his pants, too. “No, I’ll be done in a moment.”

When he finishes, he moves past me and grabs his cloak. The sleeves of his charcoal-gray tunic are rolled up, hugging his biceps. The front is unbuttoned partway down, revealing a thin silver necklace that contours to the sharp angle of his collarbone. As he heads toward the door, I notice just how tight his black linen pants are around his thighs, hinting at the muscle beneath.

“Cynthia.”

My pulse skips as I look up. A glacial frown twists Desmond’s full lips as he holds my gaze.

Gods, help me. He caught me staring at his thighs.

I clear my throat. “Yes?”

His curls shift as he tilts his head, revealing a ruby cuff that glints on his pointed ear. Then he raises his cloak’s hood, hiding both the cuff and his ears.

“Get changed,” he coolly orders, then hands me the key to the room. He opens the door with his glove on.