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“I think you have me confused with someone else.”
“Someone who knows what a hug is? Maybe.” His grip tightened, his face buried in her hair. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Despite her better judgement, she found her hands relaxing against his chest.
“Seriously, why are you doing this?”Why am I letting him?
“Maybe I’m just drunk and it seems like a good idea.”
“Maybe you’re avoiding the question.”
Hawthorn sighed, still not loosening his hold. “Are you not enjoying it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Nowwho’s avoiding the question?“ Finally, he released her, just enough for her to lift her face, for his eyes to catch on hers. “Do you want me to let go?”
Stupidly, ridiculously, she did not. She liked the feel of his warm body beneath hers, the rustle of the silk sheets, the closeness of his skin. His eyelashes were dusted with gold, his aegean gaze brimming in the low light, like the sea at sunset. He smelled of plum wine, sweet and rich, and his mouth looked softer than it had ever done before.
But what she wanted didn’t matter.
“I should go to bed,” she said, her voice strangely whispery.
His mouth twitched. “There’s plenty of space here.”
“I—no.”
“We’ve shared before. Rather nice nights, all of them. I can promise to keep my hands to myself…”
And if I don’t want you to?
Juliana scooted off the bed, forcing a smile. “Tempting as that is, Prince, I think it’s best we keep to our own chambers.”
Hawthorn shrugged, as if it were neither here nor there. “What’s mine is yours,” he said.
A foolish, dangerous thing for a faerie to offer.
He must be more drunk than she thought.
“Goodnight,” she said, moving towards the door.
“Goodnight, cherished punishment,” he replied, and rolled over in bed. If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it.
Juliana closed the door to her bedroom, her chest tight, collar hot. She removed her outer layers and lay down on the bed in nothing but her shirt, fingers tightly coiled in the sheets.
She fought the urge not to go back there, and later, as she drifted off to sleep, she fought the urge not to dream about him.
Themorningafterthefailed assassination attempt, Hawthorn woke at first light. Juliana was already packed, having found a couple of bags for a few provisions and packed as well as she could. She yanked the blanket off the bed, rolled it tightly, and shoved it into the one she’d prepared for him.
She barely spoke. They guzzled water from the stream, filled their solitary flask, and headed off.
As soon as they found some mushrooms to eat, they stopped to make a fire. Apparently Juliana wasn’t too worried about smoke during the day, or perhaps hunger had finally overtaken her. Mushrooms were a staple in the capital, but Hawthorn was used to them being served with butter and herbs, or sliced in a pie. Dry roasted mushrooms were far from appetising.
“Don’t pull a face,” Juliana hissed at him.
“I was not doing it on purpose.” He swallowed another mouthful. “You ate like this for three years?”
“We had a herb garden. Spices, sometimes. It wasn’t too bad.”
“Juliana, you made food a requirement of your service to me. I am not convinced.”
