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“It’s not your fault.” I shook my head straight away, wiping my nose. “You protected me for years.” Somehow, I managed to give him a watery smile. “Thank you, Nua. I don’t think I’ve ever thanked you for everything you’ve done.”
He gave me a sad smile. “You don’t need to.”
“Yes, I do.” I pulled him into a tight hug, his long green hair tickling my cheek as I squeezed my eyes shut. “You kept me safe for years. You let me have a wonderful childhood with my parents. You… I owe you so much,” I croaked, mouth trembling.
“You don’t, Ash.” Nua squeezed me back. “You owe me nothing. You’re my brother. I love you.” When we pulled apart, he gave me a wobbly smile. “And you have kept me safe too. What you did, killing the Brid—”
“I’d do anything to keep you safe.” I sniffed wetly, reaching up to scrub at my eyes. “You and Gillie and Lonan.”
“I know,” Nua said softly. “But it is not your job to keep us safe, Ash.” He swallowed, sounding hesitant as he added, “I worry that you are putting too much pressure on yourself with Lonan. He can look after himself, Ash.”
“I know he can,” I said quickly. “But it must be weird for him, being on seelie. I just… I want him to be comfortable.”
I didn’t want him to regret staying there with me. To resent me for it.
Nua didn’t answer. He’d gone very still, and his big green eyes had shifted, looking at something over my shoulder. Before I could glance back, he murmured, “He can See us.”
“Who?” I peered back quickly, stilling when I saw a man standing at the end of the drive.
It was a postman. The bright red satchel was slung over his shoulder, his tanned, tattooed calves bare under his navy shorts. And his wide eyes were fixed squarely on us, lips parted slightly in shock, the two piercings in the lower one winking in the rising sun.
“Shit,” I muttered, “my glamour—”
“He has the Sight.” Nua’s mouth was barely moving, his lean body tight with tension beside me. “It wouldn’t matter anyway.”
“How do you know?” I hissed, turning to face the man so my back wasn’t to him, my branch fingers twitching anxiously. That drew the man’s gaze down, and his eyes grew even wider as he took in my living arm.
“The way he is looking at us,” Nua murmured.
Even though I should have been worried, the fact that a mortal—someone in this world—could actually see me was making my chest get tight with desperation. Making me feel less alone.
But another part of me, the calculating part that was decidedly fae, was already focusing on the ways this mortal could benefit me.
“Will you come over here?” I heard myself call. Nua grew even stiffer beside me.
“Ash, what are you doing?” he hissed.
I didn’t answer as the man blinked before slowly crunching down the drive, arms hanging limp by his sides, shock still painting his narrow features. There were more tattoos on the sides of his neck, a bar in his eyebrow and a ring through his septum.
When he reached us, he let out a shuddering breath. His eyes were focused more on Nua than me, seeing as Nua was the more inhuman of the two of us. But when I smiled at him, his gaze snapped back to my face.
“Will you do something for me?” I asked, something deep and dark layering my voice. Some instinct I hadn’t known I possessed drawing the words out.
“I…” His eyes grew hazy, unfocused. At first he didn’t answer, but then he desperately blurted out, “Yes.”
Nua’s breath caught beside me, but I didn’t look at him. Instead, I half turned and pointed at the door.
“Will you go in there and get something for me?”
The man’s chest was rising and falling quickly, like he was on the verge of a panic attack, but his soft gaze stayed fixed on my face. Fearful still, but almost adoring.
“Yes,” he said again, nodding.
I grinned at him, sharp fae satisfaction stabbing through me when his brown eyes dipped to my mouth. I didn’t feel like myself, I didn’t feel like I was the one doing this, saying these things, but I heard myself purr, “You’ll have to break in.”
“That’s fine.” He shrugged his satchel off, dumping it on the grass before striding to the front door. “What do you need from in there?”
I frantically ran through a list of things I could get him to take. My dad’s favourite mug. One of his old jumpers. Mags’ recipe book filled with her neat, tiny handwriting.
