A Dance with the Fae Prince by Elise Kova

Chapter 6

He kicksin the door to the kitchen, where the familiar scents mingle with his own cologne of moss and sage. Safe, I repeat the word in my head, these smells mean I’m safe. I try and imprint the fact on my very soul. My heart is beginning to slow, though his still races against my cheek. I clutch his shirt lightly, though I can’t tell if I’m trying to reassure myself or him.

Back in my room, he lays me down on the bed. I keep my eyes pressed shut. I won’t disrespect his wishes, especially not after he saved me.

“I need to go and see if Oren is all right. But first… How are you?” he whispers.

I can almost feel his hands hovering over me, like he wants to touch me. The phantom sensation of his fingertips on my cheeks races through my mind. I try to stay focused but everything that’s happened has scattered my thoughts to the wind.

“My shoulder hurts some. My head is splitting.” As I say that, I feel two fingertips run lightly over my temple. He gives in, his touch so small and gentle it sends a jolt through me. “I’ll be fine. Don’t leave Oren out there alone with that thing.”

“‘Thing,’ indeed,” he repeats with a snarl and pulls away. I hear him move through the room.

I almost call out to him. I don’t want to be alone. But I keep my silence. Oren needs him more than I do. And based on what the creature said…there must be some kind of ward, or protection around this house. They just need to hold off the beast long enough that they both can get back behind the wall. It must be safe in here.

It must be…

It’s twilight when I open my eyes next. My shoulder is stiff and screams as I try to move it. But I can wriggle all my fingers and bend my elbow. I think it’s just a terrible sprain. My head is splitting but my vision is no longer blurry. I sit up, rubbing lightly where my temple met the rock. My fingers come away bloody. I’ve bled on the pillowcase, too.

I curse under my breath. Fortunately for me, one upside of womanhood is that I’m already well versed in getting blood out of linens. I pull the case off the pillow, swing my legs off the bed, and stand slowly. The world does a little tilt, but nothing too alarming. I’m stable enough to make my way to the washroom. I look a mess, but washing my face is a significant improvement in getting me back to “human” again.

Pillowcase cleaned, I emerge back into the hallway feeling refreshed. I notice a note has been pinned to the door that leads to the main, central tower. I cross over and read the elegant script that I can only presume was made by the strong hand of Lord Fenwood.

K~

There will be an exception to the rules tonight only.

When you wake, if it is before dawn, you may come out and access the dining room and kitchen. Take whatever you need to care for yourself in body and spirit.

My stomach is still toounsettled from the events of the day to be particularly inclined toward food. But my curiosity is far too intense to turn down this opportunity to wander at night. I crack open the door.

The main hall looks…normal.

I don’t know what I was expecting. There’s been such a fuss made about me not emerging at night that perhaps I thought the entire castle somehow changed. That beyond the door was a portal to another land. I laugh softly at myself.

Dishware clinking in the dining room stills me. My heart races as though I am back in the forest. I take a deep breath. I am safe here, I repeat to myself. I’ve lived here now for over a week. For over a week, that monster had been in the woods. It only attacked me when I ventured too far. Within these walls, I have nothing to fear.

The golden glow of candlelight strikes out the frame of the dining room entry on the dark floor. I pause at the side of the door, not looking in. There are two possibilities on who is eating late, and I’d rather be safe than sorry.

“Lord Fenwood?” I say. It’s my turn to have my back against the wall, shoulder barely exposed. “Is that you?”

There’s a long stretch of silence. “Just a moment and I’ll be done.”

“Don’t rush on my account; I’ll come back.”

“No, no. Stay.” Is that longing that I hear in the unfathomable depths of his voice? I don’t move.

“What are you eating?” I ask, before the silence can become awkward.

He chuckles. “Nothing particularly fitting of a lord. A hunk of cheese I cut mold from and a knob of bread that I couldn’t let turn stale.” He hates wasting food. That similarity between us, however slight, softens my stance. “But at least the mead is good.”

“Oren didn’t make you dinner?” Dread fills me at what this might mean.

“He’s had quite the day so I gave him the night off.”

“Is he all right?”

“He is.”

“Thank goodness.” I heave a sigh of relief.

“Though he very well could not have been.” Lord Fenwood’s voice shifts into the realm of disappointment.

I pick at a string on my blouse, tugging on it. It’s then I notice that the string comes from a gap at the seam of my shoulder. That monster nearly ripped my sleeve clean off.

An idea strikes me. I tug and pull off the sleeve the rest of the way. I continue ripping at the seam down to the cuff. I’m left with a long, rectangular piece of fabric that I tie firmly over my shut eyes.

Fingertips resting lightly on the doorframe, I step into the dining room. At least, I think I do, it’s impossible to be sure. The heavy cotton of my blouse over my eyes nearly blots out all light.

“What are you—” His chair scrapes over the floor.

“I can’t see anything, I swear it.” I hold up both of my hands, trying to calm him. “I just thought it might be easier to talk this way, rather than around a door.” He says nothing, which sets my nerves ablaze. I know I must look a right mess in my still-soiled clothes, one sleeve missing. “I wish I could look you in the eyes so you could see how sincere I am when I say I’m sorry. But since I can’t do that, I thought this might be the next best thing.”

Unless he has figured out a way to leave the room and pass me completely undetected, I can only assume he’s still standing there, utterly silent. I wonder what expression he has. Is he upset? Or maybe he’s amused, or even impressed that I thought of a blindfold as a solution… A harmless fantasy of him being delighted by me runs away with my thoughts for a second. But the memory of Oren fighting that monster in the woods alone so the lord could save me sobers me right up.

“My Lord, I never meant… I didn’t intend to go beyond the edge of the wall.” I stare in what I hope is his direction. For some reason I imagine him sitting in the same chair as me, at the head of that long table. Made small by this empty room.

“You swore to me you would not. I should have known better than to trust you.” Frustration seeps into his voice, bleeding from a wound I never intended to make.

“Please hear me out. I never meant to betray your trust,” I say quickly. “I saw a crying girl among the trees. I was afraid that someone had brought her into the forest and something wicked befell that person. She had blood on her. She looked… The girl looked like one of my sisters when she was no older than seven. I was trying to help her and before I knew it she had become that thing.”

“A fae.”

Those two words shake me to my core. I realize I never really believed in the fae until now. I spoke about them. I warned my sisters of them. I think I even tried to look for them during those dusky morning rides. But in my heart of hearts, I never believed the old folktales, that the woods were filled with them—the wandering folk of a long-ago war between humans and magical creatures.

“They’re real,” I whisper, and stagger forward. I hold out my hands, searching for the chair at the opposite end of the table. I hear his footsteps as he rushes to me. My hands don’t meet the wood of a chair back. They close around his soft, warm fingers. The lord is before me in an instant, stealing my breath with his presence and preventing me from awkwardly bumping into something. “Are the fae truly real?”

“You doubt your own eyes?”

I shake my head. My knees feel weak. He must sense it because I hear him pull out a chair and he eases me into it. Lord Fenwood sits next to me.

“Yes, that thing you saw in the woods today was a fae.” He scoops up both of my hands. There’s not a tinge of smoke in my nostrils. He’s telling the truth. Or at least he believes it’s the truth. But after what I saw and heard… There’s no other explanation.

“They are as monstrous as the stories say.”

“Fae can be,” he agrees. “That’s why I told you to never go in the woods behind the manor.”

I shake my head as a chill rips through my body. “Fae can shape-shift?”

“Not quite. All fae are born with innate abilities. Most have wings or claws they can summon on command, along with various other inherited traits from the beasts of the forests. But one ability all fae share is the gift of glamour—fae can make themselves appear as anything they like. Mind you, it’s just an illusion, a magic trick of the senses, and very hard to continue once they are touched.”

I clutch his hands tighter on the word touch. They’re soft, callus free. The hands of the lord who spends his days in a tower. Not like my hands, rough and scarred. Or like the clawed fingers of that monster.

“Is there any other way to tell a glamour from real? Other than touch?”

“Pure water will wash away the glamour of a fae.”

Right as rain. I wonder if the expression is a holdover of some ancient advice for dealing with the fae.

“The creature wanted you.” My voice cracks a little as I think of what the woman had initially asked of me.

“I bet it did.” He chuckles darkly. “In the end, it got me. It just didn’t live to tell the tale.”

“Are you a fae hunter?” I dare to ask. A man, alone in the woods, holed up in a house warded from those magic beasts. A man who doesn’t let others see him, perhaps out of fear that they could use the information against him. Because if I saw him, I could identify him. I would have knowledge the fae would want and would clearly kill for.

“I do hunt some, from time to time,” he finally admits.

I inhale sharply. My fingers tighten around his. I am married to a man who hunts the most dangerous game in this world.

“Do you hunt at night? Is that why I hear the noises?”

“It’s better if you don’t worry about the noises.” He begins to pull his hands from mine. “The less you know, the safer you are. That creature already tried to use you once to get to me.”

The idea that I could be used to get anyone continues to startle me. I’m not accustomed to meaning that much to anyone or anything. My feelings are becoming murkier by the minute, clouded with emotions that I’ve never felt and am ill-equipped to understand. His fingers slip from mine and I’m filled with the insatiable urge to snatch back his hands.

Before I can, he runs a knuckle over my cheek. I feel him tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. My breath catches. How close is he? I imagine his face mere inches from mine, staring at me with all the desire I’ve hardly ever dared dream someone would look at me with.

“What else should I know about the fae?” I whisper. I only know the warnings my father would give me in the folk stories he told me when I was a girl.

“You don’t need to know anything else. With any luck, you will not be cursed with fae in your life for very long.” He pulls his hand away.

I try to catch it and grasp nothing but air. No doubt looking a fool in the process. “But the more I know, the more likely I am to be of help to you while they pursue you.”

“You’ve already been help enough. More than you know, really.” No smoke, no lies. “Now, you should get some rest. Eat what you can and go back to bed.”

He stands and I bite my lip. There’s more to be said. I can feel how tired and worried he is. I’m filled with the urge to say something as comforting or as beautiful as the old songs my mother would sing when I was fussy. But I’m not a poet; I can only repeat the words I’m taught. My whole life I’ve been a vessel, allowing others to fill me with their wants, needs, thoughts… There is so much of everyone else that there is no room left for me. And now, when I need something of my own creation to offer, I come up short.

I hear him leave and can’t even muster the words to tell him good night. I realize even later that I never properly thanked him for saving me.

* * *

To my surprise,Lord Fenwood gives me a second chance to find my voice the next night.

As I return to my wing from dinner I find the door to the study open, fire lit, chairs at the ready position. I take my seat, eager to speak with him again. I’ve had a day to recover now. My head is clearer. And my guilt has been lessened some with the opportunity to apologize to Oren over dinner as well.

I hear Lord Fenwood’s footsteps the moment he enters the room. Warm heat rushes over me at the sound, pooling in my stomach. My throat is already gummy. Just as I try to squeak out a greeting, a cloth is dropped over my eyes from above. I reach up, my hands grabbing his in surprise.

“What are you—”

“You gave me an idea the other night,” he murmurs as he continues tying the blindfold. The silk is cool against my flushing face. “I wanted to try it again, if you don’t mind?” His voice comes from above and behind me. He must be kneeling on his chair and reaching over. The sounds of him—his words, his breathing, his movement—fill my ears and are accented by the ghost of his warm breath on the nape of my neck. I try to suppress a shiver and lose.

“It’s fine with me,” I manage to say.

There’s a bunch of movement behind me, the scraping of the chair, the clinking of ice in his glass. I feel the air move as he comes to stand before me, and my nose picks up keenly on the crisp and earthy aroma that follows him. I imagine him looking down at me. There’s something vulnerable, in an exciting way, about knowing he can see me when I can’t see him. In my mind’s eye, he’s a mere silhouette, picked out from the darkness by the firelight. His features are hazy voids, waiting to be filled.

“Stand,” he commands. I oblige. He takes both my hands in his and guides me a step over. I listen as he moves the chair I was just sitting in, presumably to face his seat. “There, now sit.” He guides me back to the chair.

“It’s not fair,” I blurt, catching his hand as he goes to pull away. “You can see me, but I can’t see you.”

“The rule—”

“I know the rule; I’m not trying to change the rule.” I want to touch his face, to feel the bridge of his nose, to run my fingertips down to his lips and outline them. Are they full or thin? What is the cut of his jaw like? Or the angle of his brow? “May I ask you questions about what you look like? That way I have something to imagine about the man I’m speaking with. All I know right now is that you have very nice shoulders.” I grin.

“Very well. I shall grant you this.” He chuckles, pulls away, and takes his own seat. I amuse him. I’m shocked to find how much I like that.

Suddenly, the new seating arrangement feels like an interrogation. It’s rather thrilling. I’ve gone from being vulnerable due to my lack of knowledge to having the power. He’s going to answer my questions. “Your hair, is it long? Or short?”

“Somewhere in the middle,” he answers.

“To your shoulders?”

“Just beyond, only slightly.”

I purse my lips to stop myself from grinning like a fool as I begin to paint my mind’s portrait of him. “I should warn you up-front, it’s impossible to lie to me. So don’t even try.”

“I wouldn’t even dream of attempting it.”

“Good.” I lean back into my chair. “Is your hair curly? Wavy? Straight?”

“Mostly straight. It does often have a mind of its own, however. Oren is always telling me to cut it shorter as it gets in my eyes constantly.”

“Do you pull it away from your face when it gets in your eyes?” I can sympathize with the frustrations of longer hair.

“I’ve been known to weave in a braid or two from time to time.” I can hear the smirk in his voice.

“What color?”

“Dark brown, a bit darker than yours.” That gives me a near-exact shade.

“What color are your eyes?”

“Green.”

“Like the pine trees?”

“No, more like a lime,” he says. I burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?”

“Green like a lime?” I shake my head. Who would describe their eyes like that? “That’s such a bright color.”

“I have been told I have piercing eyes.”

I scrunch my brow slightly, trying to picture the exact shade. Is it truly as vibrant as he says? Dark brown hair, bright green eyes… It makes for a beautiful combination. “What about your jaw?”

“What about it?” He seems amused I would ask.

“Is it wider? More narrow? Stubbled?”

“I try and keep myself clean-shaven. I admit my success with it can be varied.”

“Are you successful right now?”

“No.” I can almost hear the smirk in his voice. A light stubble, then.

“And the shape of your jaw?”

“I admit I’ve never analyzed it.” A pause. I imagine him running those smooth fingers of his over the roughness of his stubble. Pausing as he says, “More square? I suppose?”

I let out a low humming.

“You don’t seem satisfied with that answer.”

“I’m just…”

“Say it,” he demands. I think it would be impossible not to heed that firm tone.

“I’m trying to figure out what’s wrong with you,” I admit and immediately busy my mouth with my glass of mead.

“What’s wrong with me?” I hear him take a sip as well.

“You sound…stunning,” I admit as little more than a whisper. “I thought you might have not wanted me to see you because you were hideous.”

His glass clanks softly on the table. I hear him stand. I’ve offended him. Before I can apologize he’s there again in front of me. He hooks my chin with the knuckle of his pointer finger and his thumb. He guides my face up toward where I imagine his to be. I know he’s just a breath away. I feel every little bit of aching distance between us, paired with a surprising need to cross it. I’m hot all over, but I can’t move to alleviate the tension. He’s trapped me with two fingers.

“Maybe,” he whispers, “I’m trying to protect you because I’m stunning. Because if you were to look at me with those eyes that Oren tells me are like a tempest sea, I could never let you go.”

I can smell the sweet liquor on his breath. I wish I could taste it on his mouth. That want is so all-consuming it startles me. My mind pushes away instantly. No, whatever is happening between us is the last thing I would want. This is the start of the same road that leads to how my father ended up so entangled with Joyce.

Romance starts well and ends badly. That’s how it fools people into attempting the futile effort. Joyce was Father’s “light,” pulling him out of the despair of my mother’s death. And then, once she had him, she showed her true colors.

I won’t let Lord Fenwood or anyone else ever ensnare me.

He releases me, as if sensing my hesitation. As if realizing that I’ve finally reached the same conclusion that he has. The best thing for us to do is avoid each other at all costs. If we can’t see each other, then we can’t lust after each other, and this heat will ultimately fade.

“Good night, Katria.”

Yet even as I make those realizations and vows, just the sound of my name on his lips has my breath catching. He leaves me with the remnants of the fire smoldering in the hearth—smoldering within me. I sit alone in the darkening room, still blindfolded, slowly tweaking the delicious mental portrait of him I’ve begun to construct.