Chapter 1
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I don’t know what to make of him.
A gentle breeze teases my hair while I sit on a bench outside the outlet mall Castor brought me to. In one hand, I’m holding my new phone—which I didn’t need to ask for—and in the other, I’m holding his—which I also didn’t need to ask for.
He brought me right to an AT&T, lifted his glamour off me, and told me to pick my phone and whatever cases I wanted before obtaining an unlimited plan. After that was settled, he took me right to an empty bench a few blocks away from the building so I could finish setting up the device.
By downloading Finch.
He made it very clear that getting the Finch app was of utmost importance—for the sake of his Tree Town and my mental health. So I did. And I added him and Whimsy as a friend. And now I’m working my way through copying over his contacts, which he also requested I do, with somewhat less enthusiasm.
Trying not to seem as shaken as I feel about him letting me get a phone without my having to ask for it, I sift through every last one of his contacts. I’m almost positive that Abuse 101 includes cutting off access to the world beyond your abuser.
My mother was very good about keeping tabs on who I could contact and when. She monitored my phone use vigilantly and only let me have one at all because it streamlined the social media pages she insisted I upkeep.
There’s no reason for Castor to let me have a phone.
Unless he overheard Willow telling me to ask for one?
Maybe he’s testing me somehow?
Maybe I’m failing since I’m doing exactly what Willow told me to.
Maybe I should scoot a little closer to him and prove that what she said about him didn’t affect my opinions negatively, just in case he heard a lot more than the phone thing…
Or maybe I should just keep copying contacts, like he told me to, and focus on only doing what I’m told so I can use that as my excuse if I need to.
“Who’s ‘little lamb’?” I ask, calmly, serenely, comfortably.
“Andromeda,” Castor murmurs at the sky, head resting back as he sits beside me.
“She’s Pollux’s amalgamation of a daughter.
They’re dream eaters, fae that walk through the dream plane and craft nightmares in humans.
He figured out a way to push a particularly powerful boogeyman into evolution.
Alongside Xios and…the moth monarchs…they are my fellow unseelie. ”
“Pollux…” I add his daughter’s name to my contacts. “Willow mentioned him, didn’t she?”
“She did.”
It wouldn’t take my years of hyper-vigilance to pick up on the tension between Castor and Pollux right now. Unfortunately, I don’t know Castor well enough to try and navigate this kind of rocky terrain yet, so I sweep mining for information on Pollux under the rug.
Opting to placate instead of press, I rest my head against Castor’s shoulder, release a breath at the right moment to relax my muscles, and make it seem like it’s possible he fuels my calm.
All the while, I continue transferring contacts.
All of them. Because he told me to. And having more people I can reach out to for help seems like a good plan.
Zahra. Willow. Andromeda. Alexios. Someone named Alana.
Five people.
It’s not exactly a lot of options, and given the bird cage and the signal situation in Faerie, accessing them will be limited, but at least it’s something. In some small way, it makes me feel a little more secure, a little more…independent.
“Done,” I say, offering Castor his phone back.
He removes one hand from the sleeve of his robe and takes the device before slipping it into his pocket.
Right now, beneath the protection of his glamour, the world of humans passes us by. No one notices the ethereal man in dark robes swallowing up a bench at this busy outlet mall on a weekend.
No one notices me.
It’s peaceful.
Too peaceful, clearly, because I find myself stealing Castor’s hand before he can tuck it back into his long sleeve.
His fingers splay for me when I drag a touch up his palm, and I find myself mindlessly tracing the place a knife wound should be. I can’t explain the emotions trampling around inside my chest as the truth that he can instantly heal such a deep injury sinks in.
In some ways, I am terrified of the power he holds. In others, his strength presents a twisted comfort.
He won’t let anyone else lay a hand on me. Not even for a moment. He is my only threat now. The only thing I need to worry about. The only person I need to concern myself with.
And he has been more gentle with me than most I’ve met. Even when his fingers have been around my throat, they’ve been cool, careful, intentional. He says he’ll listen to me, be my slave, be my anything.
Something contorted tingles in my belly, and I forget the placating motivation behind why I’m touching him. Instead, I embrace the sensations and replay Willow’s question: Do you feel uncommonly safe with him, in spite of everything?
Right now, I wonder.
“Did I go too far?” Castor murmurs while I examine his perfect flesh.
I blink myself out of my thoughts and the crawling daze consuming me in order to look at his blindfolded face.
Did he go too far when he threatened to stab Willow for a joke?
Um.
Hm.
Another thing to wonder about.
Instead of answering his very stupid question, I say, “Did it not hurt?”
He exhales a breath, the idea of a self-loathing laugh. “It hurt. Of course it hurt, love. I put a knife through my hand.”
I tense. “Right. Sorry. It was a stupid question.” I do not suggest that it now makes us even as far as stupid questions in the past two minutes are concerned.
He closes his fingers to hide his palm. “I’m sorry.
I…didn’t mean for that to come off so harsh.
It wasn’t a stupid question. Humans don’t have the luxury of playing so deeply with pain.
They’re more fragile. There are more consequences for those who find themselves enticed by their physical limitations. ”
“Playing with pain,” I echo. “You…play with it?”
“Sometimes. Physical pain is a decent enough distraction from whatever hurts inside, isn’t it?”
“I’ve never considered that pain could be a luxury before.”
He frees a breath. “Controlling it is a luxury. With your history and the consequences for having any blemishes in your line of work, I’m sure you’ve never had the opportunity to control any part of what hurts you.
There is something freeing about inflicting one’s own wounds… even if it’s not entirely healthy.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think that this powerful faerie man is telling me he’s dabbled in the realm of self-harm. At a depressive level. I don’t know what to make of that, so I just say, “I’ve never been in control of anything I do.”
“That is tragic, my love.”
It…really is. Swallowing nerves, I broach, “Castor?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know how to explain this.” But something, right now, makes me feel like I’m safe enough to try. “I wanted to come shopping today because my birth control is about to run out.”
His lips mouth the words birth control, then his face twists. “Why do you need birth control?”
My heart rate kicks up, and the nerves return, sharp.
He straightens, angles his body toward me, and takes my hand in both of his.
“Shh, love. I’m sorry. I don’t mean… My tone must be wrong.
It’s just that…” Progressively, his tone darkens again.
“If anyone has touched you against your will, prompting the need for birth control, I will castrate them. If…anyone has touched you…with your permission…” Silence grows taut between us for many long moments, then he shakes his head.
“I will still castrate them.” He clears his throat.
“But that isn’t the point right now. The point is: why would we need birth control?
I, personally, am not ready for…anything, and I wouldn’t think that you… would be either?”
Red soars into my cheeks, heating my face to a boil. My mouth gapes, for several long moments as what he’s just said hits me in my frontal lobe.
If a person touches me? He’ll castrate them in cold blood. All the while he’s—oh so shyly—not ready to touch me himself.
On some level, I know he’s expressed these kinds of sentiments before, but hearing them consistently and plainly brings me closer to believing that they’re true.
This man—this faerie—who has kidnapped me genuinely believes in consent and wants to protect my autonomy.
Heart stumbling over that, I say, “Um. Th-that stuff isn’t why… I’ve never… And I don’t… I’m not…” It hurts when I force a massive breath into my lungs and blurt, “There are other reasons for someone to be on birth control.”
He squeezes my hand, worry creasing lines around his mouth.
“You’re taking it for a medical reason?” Anxiety spikes in his cadence.
“Don’t worry. I’ll… I’ll talk to Pollux…
He’ll know what to do. He always knows what to do with medical things.
I just need to figure out how to talk to him.
” Breath rakes through Castor’s chest, sincere apprehension rattling him to his core as he suggests correspondence with someone I’ve already deduced he has bad history with.
“It will be okay. Polly can help. I’m certain of it.
I’ll figure out how to get him to help. If the only solution you’ve been given for whatever human condition you have involves tampering with your natural cycle, I know he’ll find a better one, or else.
Or else I’ll…I’ll kidnap his kid again, maybe. ”
I’m sorry.
Again?
Shaking that little bit of Castor lore off, I stammer, “Castor, no. It’s not a medical condition. My mother made me take the shot so I wouldn’t bleed and risk any accidents on jobs. I don’t want to be on birth control anymore, but I need supplies for— ”
His hands crush mine. “She…what?”
I have never heard someone’s voice go so black after being filled with so many nerves.
Wholly severe, Castor removes one hand from mine, lifts it to my throat, and frames my jaw. “My feather…your mother made you insert hormones into your body so she could continue selling it to strangers without risking any inconveniences?”
I tremble. “Yes?”
His hand constricts, dragging me in. He presses a hard kiss to my forehead—and for reasons unknown, I draw comfort from it. Voice raw, he asks, “Do you know what to expect from no longer being subjected to this abuse?”
Breath leaves me. “I…think so? It might be painful. I don’t really know exactly. I’ve been taking the shot since my period started.”
His nails nip into me. “How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
He swears.
People blur around us, their noise drowning out the rush of thoughts in my head.
I use the prick of Castor’s nails to ground myself, focusing on what he said about playing with pain.
He was right, I think. There really is an allure to the idea of controlling what hurts—or, at least, dwelling on the pains that can be more easily understood hurts less.
While I’m focusing on the sensations, he softens his voice. “We will deal with her later. For now, let’s get you what you need.”