Chapter 4
Chapter four
Evidently, I must have fallen asleep because I stir to the sound of voices speaking in rapid Fey, and for a moment I think I’m still dreaming. Then I realise the voices are coming from right here in the bedroom, and I’m suddenly, horribly awake.
There are fey in our room. Five of them, maybe six, all tall and ethereal and completely ignoring my existence as they surround Dyfri’s side of the bed. They’re speaking in that liquid, musical language that sounds like water over stones, urgent and intense.
Dyfri is sitting up, strands of his long black hair falling around his shoulders like a curtain, the wedding plait still woven through it and catching the early morning light. He’s responding in the same language, his voice calm but with an edge I can’t quite interpret.
I lie frozen for a moment, trying to work out if I should say something, do something, but then one of the fey glances at me with such complete disdain that I feel like an insect that’s crawled into their sacred space.
Right. Message received.
I grab my pyjamas from the chair where I left them last night, and I retreat to the bathroom down the hall, my face burning with embarrassment that they all saw me naked. Through the closed door, I can hear the conversation continuing, voices rising and falling in what sounds like an argument.
I take my time getting dressed, partly because I’m giving them space and partly because I need a moment to pull myself together. Last night was... complicated doesn’t begin to cover it.
Dyfri was very clear about what needed to be done. Adamant. Insistent, even.
But… I groan and clutch my head as if that will stop images from last night replaying in vivid detail.
Now, in the harsh light of morning, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve taken advantage of him.
I know damn well that he only insisted on having sex because he felt he had to, not because he wanted to.
The way he’d lain there at the beginning, all rigid and silent, hadn’t exactly screamed enthusiasm.
And I don’t think him taking control means he changed his mind.
Whereas I quite clearly enjoyed myself, a lot.
God, what if he thinks I’m some sort of predator? What if he’d spent the whole night traumatised or terrified that I’d demand more? What if that’s what the fey visitors are here about, to rescue him from his abusive human husband?
I splash cold water on my face and try to get a grip. I’m pretty sure he knew what he was doing and the reasons why. And I know I didn’t hurt him. But still, the doubt gnaws at me.
The voices have gone quiet. I wait another few minutes, then cautiously pad down the hallway and open the bedroom door.
The bedroom is empty except for Dyfri, who is no longer in the bed, which has been stripped. He’s standing by the window, still in his nightgown, and he looks... different.
Human. Completely, utterly human.
Gone are the elegant cheekbones that could cut glass. Gone are the otherworldly pale skin and the faintly pointed ears. Gone are the dark, curling horns that made him look like some beautiful demon.
He turns when he hears me emerge, and I have to blink several times to reconcile this version of him with the ethereal being I married yesterday.
“They’ve gone,” he says simply, as if random fey materialising in our bedroom is perfectly normal.
“Right,” I manage. “Everything... alright?”
Something flickers across his expression. “Everything is as it should be.”
Which isn’t really an answer, but before I can figure out how to ask for clarification, he’s already moving towards the door of the ensuite.
“I’m going to bathe,” he says. “I assume breakfast is served at a reasonable hour here.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me standing there in rumpled pyjamas wondering what the hell just happened.
I take a shower in what I guess is my bathroom now, get properly dressed, and spend another ten minutes staring at myself in the mirror trying to work up the courage to face my husband.
When I finally make it to the dining room, I find him sitting at the breakfast table, methodically buttering a piece of toast.
He’s wearing jeans. Actual jeans. And a simple black t-shirt that fits him perfectly, showing off a lean but athletic build I hadn’t quite appreciated under all those flowing silks.
His hair is still that impossibly rich black, falling to his waist in a dark cascade, and threaded through it, I can still see the plait I wove during our wedding ceremony.
The white ribbon shot with silver thread catches the morning light streaming through the windows.
Seeing that braid still there does something odd to my chest. I’d assumed it would be gone by now, that whatever strange fey custom it represented would have run its course. But there it is, woven neatly through his hair like some sort of... well, like some sort of bond.
He looks up as I enter, one dark eyebrow arching in a way that manages to convey both amusement and mild irritation in a single gesture.
“Sleep well?” I venture, immediately feeling like an idiot. Of course he didn’t sleep well. I was there. I could tell he was awake and unmoving. Just like I was.
“About as well as one might expect when sharing a bed with a stranger who snores,” he says, taking a precise bite of toast.
“I don’t snore,” I protest automatically.
“You absolutely do.” He doesn’t look up from his breakfast. “Like a congested bear.”
My face heats up. “Sorry. I can sleep in the other room if you’d prefer.”
Something flickers across his expression, too quick for me to interpret. “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure I’ll adjust.”
Right. Adjustment. We’re both going to have to do a lot of that.
I pour myself coffee from the pot on the sideboard and try again. “So... the whole looking human thing. Is that...?”
“Glamour,” he says simply. “It seems prudent to blend in with the local population now that I’m living amongst them.”
“Right. Of course.” I pause. “Does it... I mean, is it difficult? Maintaining it?”
This time he does look up, and there’s something almost surprised in his expression. As if he hadn’t expected me to ask.
“No more difficult than breathing,” he says after a moment. “Less exhausting than maintaining a court appearance, certainly.”
There’s something in the way he says ‘court appearance’ that makes me think there’s a story there, but before I can work up the nerve to ask, he’s already moved on.
“I assume you’ll be wanting to show me around today,” he continues. “Introduce me to the important people, and explain how things work here.”
It’s not really a question, more of a statement of fact delivered with the kind of resigned efficiency of someone who’s spent their life being shuffled from one obligation to another.
“Well, yes, if you’d like,” I say. “Though it’s not exactly exciting. Mostly it’s just offices and meeting rooms and people in suits looking permanently stressed.”
“Riveting,” Dyfri says dryly. “I can hardly contain my enthusiasm.”
Despite everything, I find myself smiling. There’s something oddly comforting about his sarcasm. It’s honest, at least. No pretending this is anything other than what it is.
“There’s a decent coffee machine in Dad’s private office,” I offer. “And the view from the first floor isn’t terrible.”
“The heights of luxury,” he murmurs, but I catch what might be the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
We fall back into silence, but it feels slightly less oppressive now. I watch him finish his toast with the same methodical precision he’s applied to everything else, and I wonder what he’s actually thinking behind that carefully controlled expression.
“Can I ask you something?” I say suddenly.
His dark eyes fix on me with laser-like intensity. “You may ask. I make no promises about answering.”
Fair enough. “This morning, when those fey turned up...”
“No.” The word is sharp, final, cutting through the air like a blade. “We will not be discussing that.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop about ten degrees. Dyfri’s expression has gone completely blank, not even politely distant anymore. Just... nothing.
“Right,” I say quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Yes, you did.” He stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “It’s what humans do. Pry, probe, collect information. It’s in your nature.”
There’s something bitter in his voice that makes my chest tight. “That’s not... I wasn’t trying to interrogate you. I was just...”
“Curious,” he finishes. “Yes, I’m sure you were.”
He moves towards the door with that same fluid grace, even in jeans and a t-shirt, and I have the sudden, panicked feeling that if I let him walk out of here like this, we’ll never recover from it.
“Dyfri, wait.”
He pauses, his hand on the door handle, but doesn’t turn around.
“I know this is weird,” I say, the words tumbling out in a rush.
“I know neither of us chose this, and I know you probably think I’m some sort of.
.. I don’t know, bumbling idiot who’s going to make your life miserable.
Maybe you’re right. But I’m not trying to spy on you or collect intelligence or whatever.
I just... I don’t know how to talk to you.
I don’t know what you need or want or how to make this less awful for both of us. ”
The silence stretches so long I start to wonder if he’s just going to leave anyway. Then, slowly, he turns around.
“You think this is awful?” he asks, and there’s something almost curious in his tone.
“Don’t you?”
For a moment, something real flickers across his face. Something vulnerable and tired and maybe a little lost. Then the mask slides back into place.
“I think,” he says carefully, “that awful is a relative term.”
Which is possibly the saddest thing anyone has ever said to me.
“Right,” I say quietly. “Well. The offer stands. Tour of the building, introduction to the important people, terrible coffee, mediocre views. No pressure.”
He studies me for a long moment, those dark eyes searching my face for something I’m not sure I can give him.
“Very well,” he says finally. “But I want to see the kitchens first.”
“The kitchens?”
“I’m going to be living here, so I need to know if the food is going to be as disappointing as everything else.”
Despite everything, I laugh. I can’t help it. “You know we have professional chefs, right? Proper ones.”
“I like to see how my food is prepared,” he says simply. “Trust issues.”
And just like that, we’re back to the careful distance. But at least he’s still here. At least he’s willing to let me show him around.
“Kitchen tour it is,” I say, standing up. “Fair warning though, the head chef is protective of his territory. He might try to stab you with a wooden spoon if you criticise his technique.”
“I look forward to it,” Dyfri says dryly. “It will be just like home.”
The way he says ‘home’ makes it sound like the most unpleasant place on earth. Which, given what I witnessed at the wedding reception, might not be far from the truth.
As we head towards the door, I catch myself stealing glances at him. The glamour really is incredible. If I hadn’t seen him yesterday, I’d never guess he wasn’t human. He moves differently though. More carefully. Like he’s conscious of taking up space in a way he wasn’t before.
“Does it feel strange?” I ask as we walk down the corridor. “Looking human, I mean.”
“Everything feels strange,” he says quietly. Then, after a pause he adds, “But some kinds of strange are better than others.”
I want to ask what he means by that, but something in his expression warns me off. Instead, I just nod and lead him towards the kitchens, wondering how long it’s going to take before we stop feeling like strangers.
Wondering if we ever will.