Page 51 of A Lady’s Guide to Fae Kings

“You are not everyone.”

She did not know what to say to that, and he seemed disinclined to elaborate, so she pulled off her cuff. Because he was right. If she wanted any chance of controlling it, she had to start somewhere, and where better than in a pond near a house where ice crawled along the walls? She was as safe as someone like her could be.

“I spent every penny I had on this cuff,” she said. Magic prickled through her, unleashed, a spark waiting for the wind to blow in the wrong direction. But not as rapacious as it would have been had she not depleted so much of it the day before. “You can glare at it all you like, and disdain my reliance on it, but it’s the only reason I am able to be a Librarian at all.” Her smile was wry, wrought with pain. Was able to be a Librarian. “They do rather frown on burning down the building. We are still cross over Alexandria, and that was thousands of years ago.”

“I did not realize Librarians could hold such a grudge.”

“You have no idea.”

“I have some idea. I remember being scolded for bleeding on a book.” He nodded to where her fingers were still clutched around the cuff. It dug into her palm. “Go on.”

She nodded and slipped it into her pocket. It took more courage than she cared to admit.

Lachlan glowered at her. Fiercely.

Fiercely enough that a bolt of unease went through her. She could not allow herself to forget who he really was: a Fae king. A kidnapper of Librarians. She took a cautious step back. “What is it?”

“Your wrist.”

She glanced down and then immediately shoved her arm behind her back. “It’s fine.”

“Don’t hide from me, Pippa.”

She lifted her chin, even if his growled demand made her feel fluttery.

Actually, make that sensibly cautious. Nervous. Apprehensive, even. Not fluttery.

Blast and botheration.

“They’re just scars,” she said. “No need to get missish.”

He stilled.

She was fairly certain she was the first person to ever call him missish. And survive.

Her wrist was a mess of scars and welts seared into her flesh by years of wearing a binding cuff. Magic worked, but it was not always gentle. Rarely gentle, in fact.

The magic on the iron might be strong, but so was her fire. And she had been the battlefield, had been for as long as she could remember. At least now the scars were somewhat controlled. Her fingertips were no longer raw with welts, nor the skin under her eyes, nor the soles of her feet. And her hair had stopped burning. Say what he would about her wrist, it was worth it.

“Why haven’t those healed?” he asked, jaw hard.

“Because magic made them.” He ought to know that.

“Then magic can heal them.”

“Not before another scar is made,” she said. “This kind of spell has a price.”

“The price is too steep.”

She only shrugged one shoulder.

“If someone else had done this to you,” he said, “my punishment would be severe.”

She tilted her head. “Why? I know the Fae are unfairly perfect and dripping glamours, but still. They’re just scars.”

“Why?” he repeated, nonplussed. “What do you mean, why? No one hurts you, Pippa.”

She only raised her eyebrows. What a ridiculous thing for him to say. Her scars might not be pretty, but they were hers. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. The spell is dying.” And she could not afford to replace it. Not yet, at any rate. She tilted her head.