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Chapter 12
Ilurchawake.Everythingspins. A headache pounds behind my eyes as I squint into the blinding light. My gut does somersaults within me, and for a horrible moment, I have no idea where I am.
Faery. I groan and pull the covers over my head. The movement sends my stomach lurching.
I barely process the heavy weight on the bed next to me before I stumble out of the sheets and race for the bathroom, bare feet slapping across the stone. My knees crash to the floor seconds before I hurl my guts out into the fae version of a toilet.
Everything spins. The acrid scent burns my nostrils.
Why oh why did I drink so much? My cheek lands on the toilet seat—it’s pleasantly warm. I’m still not sure how they do that when there’s no electricity. Some fae magic? A blessing for sure.
Another wave hits me, and I barely pull my hair out of the way in time.
It takes almost all my strength and rational thought to find the handle and flush. These toilets work a little differently than human ones. The first time I used one, it took me an embarrassingly long time to find the stone on the wall that releases a stream of water to wash everything away. Thank God for plumbing though. It takes the mess away and somehow leaves a clean and clear scent behind that soothes a little of my headache.
“You sound wretched.” Sigurd leans against the doorframe—the one leading to my borrowed bedroom—in nothing but loose-fitting pants that hang about his waist.
Warmth races across my cheeks and down to my chest. Good God.
How the fu-reak is he so normal? So… sexy. Dang it. I scrub my arm across my mouth and picture myself from his perspective—still in yesterday’s clothes, hair a mess, and vomiting into the toilet. Oh yes, I’m sure I look just peachy.
He, on the other hand, doesn’t seem bothered by the whiskey at all, if his perfectly sleep-tousled hair and easy expression are any indication. Pale scars accent the sculpted, lean muscle of his chest and abs, drawing my attention. My mouth dries.
The scars, yes, that’s all. A particularly wicked-looking one curves down into the waistband of his pants.
“Your fault,” I mumble. How dare he be fine when I’m so not.
Sigurd leans his head back on the doorframe. “Is it?”
I shiver on the floor and glance back at him. “Yes, you— Oh my God.” The doorway he stands in is the same one I fled in here through. “You, you—”
“Yes?”
“You were in my bed.”
He grins. “I was.”
I sputter like a fish. Suddenly, I’m dizzy for a whole new reason. A quick scan confirms all my clothes are in place. Thank everything holy for that.
Sigurd kneels beside me. “What kind of gentlemen would I be if I left you after you passed out on me?”
The closeness is overwhelming. His presence, his scent. I turn back to the bowl and dry heave. Sigurd smooths the hair back from my face, holding it behind my head in a move so tender it would wreck me if I wasn’t already a mess.
“This may be my fault,” he whispers. “I forgot how much stronger our drinks can be than your human ones. Haven’t had much contact with humans lately, except your uncle. Well, when he was human. He’s not much of a drinker though.”
No. He never was.
“You don’t have your own room?” I accuse.
“The king’s suite is through the doors near the dining table.”
“The king’s, not yours?”
He glances away then back. “I don’t prefer those rooms.”
Interesting. There’s more there, but I’m in no shape to ask about it.
Sigurd finally releases my hair. I gasp as a cool rag touches my face.
