falling freshly washed and still damp past her shoulders. She seemed completely at ease dressed this way and a bit younger.
Without the armor she wore around the court, she was even more gorgeous.
He cleared his throat and looked away, clamping down on his impulse to go to her. He knew that if he pulled her against him, kissed her, and stroked her soft skin, she would eventually relent. She might fight him at first, but he knew with the dark and erotic certainty of the incubus blood in his veins that he could push her past that stage, make her give in to him. It would be so sweet. He could draw her back to her bedroom, spread her out on her mattress, and strip those clothes off her. He could draw his lips and hands over her body, kissing, sucking, and petting her until she was incoherent with want—until the only sounds she could make were moans and entreaties for more.
His body clenched at the fantasy unfurling in his mind.
“It smells great and I’m famished.”
Gabriel had to force his vocal cords into action. “Bath all right?” He wasn’t going to think about her bare body slick with water and droplets of moisture. He was already having trouble controlling his erection—a thing that rarely happened.
“Wonderful.” She settled herself at her plate and he served her some of the pasta from a pretty blue and yellow ceramic bowl. Aislinn was one of the highest born of the Seelie fae and she had the best of everything. When he took her to the Unseelie Court with him, she’d be giving all that up, though considering her blood ties and previous social rank, Gabriel was sure that the Shadow King would clothe and house her appropriately.
Probably. His conscience flickered again.
He sat down beside her and served himself as she tasted his meal. She closed her eyes and sighed. “This is great, Gabriel. I can’t believe you just whipped this up in the twenty minutes I took to take a bath.”
“At three hundred and sixty-five years old, I’ve had lots of practice.”
“The Summer Queen mentioned you were a child during the Great Sweep and that you were only seven when the humans and the Phaendir created Piefferburg.” She took a sip of wine. “She even said that you suffered from Watt syndrome as a boy and still had it when you were first imprisoned here.”
“Yes. My mother had it, too. I was very sick and almost died, but managed to fight through. Now I’m immune. Unfortunately my mother wasn’t. She died from it during the first year of Piefferburg’s creation.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, but it was a long time ago.”
“Still, it’s never easy to lose a parent. It doesn’t matter how long ago it was.”
“True.”
“What was Piefferburg like back then?”
Gabriel took a steadying sip of wine as memory he ordinarily tried to avoid swelled. He remembered hastily constructed wooden shanties that leaked when it rained. Remembered how cold it was at night and how dangerously freezing the winters were. Remembered moldy potatoes and dirty, parasite-ridden water. Remembered his mother lying on a narrow mattress with no one to take care of her but a scrawny seven-year-old boy who was also wasting away from the disease. He remembered his mother dying alone one afternoon while he’d gone out to scavenge for food. When he’d returned empty-handed, her eyes had been open, dull, and sunken into a gray face.
He remembered the years after his mother died, when he’d been left alone with all the other captured fae who were struggling to find a foothold in their new reality. In those early years, after his mother died, he’d been forced to do so many unsavory things to survive. Things in back alleys for fae with bad breath, greasy hair, and grasping hands. He’d been forced to use his magick in ways he didn’t want to think of now, yet the memories dwelt like tiny demons in the corners of his mind, taking small, bloody bites.
He took another long drink of his wine. “It was a living hell for
Without the armor she wore around the court, she was even more gorgeous.
He cleared his throat and looked away, clamping down on his impulse to go to her. He knew that if he pulled her against him, kissed her, and stroked her soft skin, she would eventually relent. She might fight him at first, but he knew with the dark and erotic certainty of the incubus blood in his veins that he could push her past that stage, make her give in to him. It would be so sweet. He could draw her back to her bedroom, spread her out on her mattress, and strip those clothes off her. He could draw his lips and hands over her body, kissing, sucking, and petting her until she was incoherent with want—until the only sounds she could make were moans and entreaties for more.
His body clenched at the fantasy unfurling in his mind.
“It smells great and I’m famished.”
Gabriel had to force his vocal cords into action. “Bath all right?” He wasn’t going to think about her bare body slick with water and droplets of moisture. He was already having trouble controlling his erection—a thing that rarely happened.
“Wonderful.” She settled herself at her plate and he served her some of the pasta from a pretty blue and yellow ceramic bowl. Aislinn was one of the highest born of the Seelie fae and she had the best of everything. When he took her to the Unseelie Court with him, she’d be giving all that up, though considering her blood ties and previous social rank, Gabriel was sure that the Shadow King would clothe and house her appropriately.
Probably. His conscience flickered again.
He sat down beside her and served himself as she tasted his meal. She closed her eyes and sighed. “This is great, Gabriel. I can’t believe you just whipped this up in the twenty minutes I took to take a bath.”
“At three hundred and sixty-five years old, I’ve had lots of practice.”
“The Summer Queen mentioned you were a child during the Great Sweep and that you were only seven when the humans and the Phaendir created Piefferburg.” She took a sip of wine. “She even said that you suffered from Watt syndrome as a boy and still had it when you were first imprisoned here.”
“Yes. My mother had it, too. I was very sick and almost died, but managed to fight through. Now I’m immune. Unfortunately my mother wasn’t. She died from it during the first year of Piefferburg’s creation.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, but it was a long time ago.”
“Still, it’s never easy to lose a parent. It doesn’t matter how long ago it was.”
“True.”
“What was Piefferburg like back then?”
Gabriel took a steadying sip of wine as memory he ordinarily tried to avoid swelled. He remembered hastily constructed wooden shanties that leaked when it rained. Remembered how cold it was at night and how dangerously freezing the winters were. Remembered moldy potatoes and dirty, parasite-ridden water. Remembered his mother lying on a narrow mattress with no one to take care of her but a scrawny seven-year-old boy who was also wasting away from the disease. He remembered his mother dying alone one afternoon while he’d gone out to scavenge for food. When he’d returned empty-handed, her eyes had been open, dull, and sunken into a gray face.
He remembered the years after his mother died, when he’d been left alone with all the other captured fae who were struggling to find a foothold in their new reality. In those early years, after his mother died, he’d been forced to do so many unsavory things to survive. Things in back alleys for fae with bad breath, greasy hair, and grasping hands. He’d been forced to use his magick in ways he didn’t want to think of now, yet the memories dwelt like tiny demons in the corners of his mind, taking small, bloody bites.
He took another long drink of his wine. “It was a living hell for
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
