His Snow Pixie

Chapter One

It was going to be a long and lonely midwinter night for Brandon.

Heavy snow fell from the overcast sky, but at least his hut was warm from the fire blazing in the hearth.

He’d stripped off his shirt, and what a relief—years of chopping wood in the forest had made his shoulders broader, his chest wider, stretching his garments uncomfortably.

Muscles flexed as he drove a nail into the wall, fixing an evergreen festoon to the space above the door.

It was his second winter solstice after the death of his wife, and he’d made a point of decorating the house, lest the neighbors pity him.

The previous year, his adult children had celebrated the longest night with him, but since then, his daughters had been ordered south to fight the invading orcs, and his son, with his young family, had fled into the White Mountains.

To prevent the neighbors from feeling obligated to invite him, Brandon had told them he was spending the winter solstice with a friend.

He tossed the hammer back into his toolbox and stalked over to the hearth where he was making caudle, the traditional midwinter drink consisting of milk, eggs, honey and spices. His wife had loved it, and he’d made it for her when she’d fallen ill two years ago. She’d died a couple of weeks later.

Brandon stirred the pot, watching as the drink boiled.

When it was finished, he took it off the hearth and ladled some into a dented tin mug, which he took to his rocking chair in front of the fire.

The caudle’s sweet and spicy aroma filled his nostrils, and tasting it took him back to the first winter solstice he’d spent with his wife, her smile bright as she gifted him a woolen jacket.

The year after, they celebrated holding their newborn son in their arms, followed by three beautiful daughters as time went on.

None of them were with him, forced to fight in a war their kingdom was slowly but surely losing.

Anger seized Brandon, and he tossed his mug into the fire. It bounced off the hearth’s back wall, dousing the flames. The fire didn’t go out, but it diminished in size. Disgruntled, he got to his feet. He’d have to get more wood.

As he put on his shoes, he spotted a peach-sized ball of blue light dancing outside his window.

Brandon groaned. The will-o’-wisp. It had been hovering near his house in recent days.

During autumn, when he’d been working in the forest east of Winterbourne, he’d sometimes spotted it floating nearby.

He couldn’t tell whether this was the same will-o’-wisp or not, but he suspected so.

Everyone had warned him not to fell trees in that forest, for it was the gate to the Winter Court of the faerie realm.

Other lumbermen had been too afraid to work there, but Brandon needed the money.

It had been fine; nothing had happened to him, save for the will-o’-wisp that was now stalking him.

He wasn’t worried. Will-o’-wisps were harmless, friendly creatures that lived in nature.

They could shift into human-like pixies, of which various types existed—flower pixies, forest pixies, snow pixies and so on.

Sometimes they visited settlements, and then things got interesting.

Pixies were pleasure creatures that loved nothing more than showering humans in ecstasy.

In moments of intense connection and otherworldly rapture, delicate, almost translucent wings burst from their backs.

Or so the stories said. Brandon had never encountered a pixie, but tales of them taking humans to lustful euphoria were abundant.

Brandon grumbled as he wrapped himself in his wool jacket. Perhaps going outside would frighten off his visitor, and then he could suffer through the winter solstice in peace.

And indeed, the will-o’-wisp drifted away as he marched onto his porch, the heavy wooden door falling shut behind him with an angry bang.

The snowfall thickened in the fading light, darkness closing around Silverlight Castle on the hill in the distance.

King William had recently married the fae king of the Winter Court, forming an alliance against the orcs.

Brandon didn’t quite understand why the king would marry a dark fae—they were dangerous—but he prayed the alliance would help get his daughters back home safely.

The will-o’-wisp floated to a neighbor’s house, where it hovered. Brandon sighed. It wasn’t going to go away, was it?

The neighbors had put a lot more effort into decorating their huts than he had.

Festive wreaths hung on every door, and candles upon candles sat in windows, behind which richly decorated trees stood.

Nobody had much money, but the winter solstice was one of the most important holidays in Vale, and people celebrated it with as much splendor as they could afford.

The sounds of family dinners—cutlery clinking, children laughing, dishes clattering and the hum of conversation—drifted through the neighborhood.

From the house across the street came the bright sound of children singing midwinter carols.

Noise traveled between the wooden huts, and never had it annoyed Brandon more.

Among the happy families of the neighborhood, his loneliness was tangible.

The firewood sat in a tidy stack under the eaves. Out of the corner of his eye, Brandon saw the will-o’-wisp approach. He piled enough billets into a woven basket to get him through the night. If that damn pixie was going to be a nuisance, he didn’t want to have to get more later.

Frustrated, Brandon went around the house, closing the shutters. That way, he could brood through the night alone. He came back around the house and lifted the chock-full basket, hoping the stakes wouldn’t break under the weight.

Struggling through the front door, he let it slam shut behind him and dropped the basket by the fire. He stripped off his jacket and shoes, and as he put them away, his gaze landed on the door.

The damn will-o’-wisp had followed him inside and levitated by the entrance.

He was about to chase it out when its light faded.

Brandon stopped in his tracks. A bright blue flare blinded him, and when his sight returned, a young man, no older than twenty, stood in his hut.

He was half-naked, wearing nothing but a flimsy loincloth shaped like the head of a snowdrop.

His pale skin and lightly muscled physique caught the glow of the hearth fire, his torso tapering to slim hips.

He was petite, at least half a foot shorter than Brandon, and looking up at him with gorgeous aquamarine eyes from underneath a soft fringe.

He was so pretty he’d fetch a cartload of gold at a brothel in Winterbourne.

Brandon flushed as the thought entered his mind, and even more so when he realized what this beautiful creature saw: a man in his late forties with wild, unkempt hair, barefoot and dressed in nothing but a worn pair of trousers.

His hut was small and crammed, a bed shoved into one corner, a small kitchen, battered cabinets and a roughly crafted table into the others.

The winter solstice decorations were lackluster, the carpet in front of the fireplace frayed.

The pixie, in contrast, was stunning. Brandon had always liked both men and women, but he’d been happily married for most of his adult life and had spent the last couple of years grieving. His misery had waned in recent months—until the winter solstice had brought it back.

The pixie picked his way across the wooden floor, closing the distance between them.

“Who are you?” Brandon asked, his voice rough. “What are you doing here?” He ought to throw him out.

“I’m Pax,” the pixie said softly. “I saw you when you visited the forest. You looked so lonely and sad. When the first snow fell, you didn’t return, and I grew worried. Which is why I went looking for you.”

So Brandon had been right, it was the same pixie. “You need to leave.” He stepped up to him, hoping to drive Pax back, but the pixie didn’t move.

Pax’s brows drew together. “But you’re full of sorrow.” He cupped Brandon’s cheek, the gesture so tender and unselfconscious, Brandon couldn’t fend it off. Pax’s skin was cool, but not unpleasantly so—Brandon was always running hot. “Let me sweeten your winter solstice,” Pax said.

Brandon sighed. He knew why Pax was here, having heard enough folk tales of pixies pleasuring humans for a short time before moving on to the next person or returning to the forest. Legend said pixies were born from flowers in the faerie realm and nature’s gift to humankind. He doubted the latter was true.

And yet… Those large, blue eyes and that trim body and flawless skin did things to him.

He hadn’t been with anyone in two years.

He hadn’t been with another man since a short-lived romance the year before he’d met his wife.

The memories of flaming desire and indescribable pleasure were burned into his mind.

Brandon was only a man. He was lonely on this winter solstice. It wasn’t his fault that his heart and body reacted to Pax.

“You don’t need to be alone,” Pax said, his words a sweet promise. He pressed against Brandon, bringing bare chest to bare chest. His skin was pure silk. He looked like a treat ready to be devoured. “I can make you happy.”

For one night, Brandon thought. Pixies didn’t stick around once they’d given pleasure, but Pax would allow him to forget his misery and loneliness temporarily.

In recent years, he’d only experienced pleasure by his own hand.

The more he thought about it, the more indulging in Pax sounded like a pleasant alternative to sulking the evening away.

“Can you?” Brandon asked.

Pax’s eyes brightened. “Oh yes.”