Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
My ears pop, and a flash of light blots my surroundings. I shield my eyes, and when I uncover them, I am not at all where I should be: in the corridor outside the grand ballroom of Stillwater Hall.
I am in a tomb.
Two large statues stand behind me, both crowned. A man and a woman, if I’m not mistaken.
The ring sears the flesh above my palm, and I hiss out a curse as I try to pry the damned thing off. It’s stuck.
In my struggle, my back slams into a wooden door and I fall ass-backwards into a forest of colossal oaks. Their twisted roots, trunks and branches are coated with luminescent moss, and a wending trail of golden light clings to the ground like sparkling fog.
I have no earthly idea where I am. Am I still on earth?
Clomping footsteps echo through the fog, and I lurch for a thicket. Again, I attempt to slip the ring from my finger; it has cooled somewhat since I exited the tomb. I tug and tug, growing increasingly desperate while hooves crunch toward me.
Oh god, what if it’s some kind of devil or demon? This place seems far too gilded to be hell, but it’s never wise to make assumptions.
I give up on the ring, then poke my head from behind the tree as a massive creature materializes from the golden mist. It’s huge. At least twice my height and, oh hell, it’s walking on all fours, and—
It’s just a knight on a horse.
On second thought, is that any less odd? He’s appeared out of thin air.
The knight dismounts, then runs a hand down the horse’s nose, its ears flicking as it nickers softly. The beast is not small—at least eighteen hands high, if I were to guess—and the knight’s shoulders are level with the saddle. He leads it to a patch of grass, then turns toward me.
Goodness.
Handsome is far too delicate a word to describe him. Striking might work. Wild. Majestic, even.
Eyes the deep blue of midnight seas peer out beneath two dark slashes of brow.
His nose is long and straight, his lips broad and plush—crafted for bedrooms, not battlefields.
There’s a tiny silver hoop pierced through his right brow, and another nestled at the corner of his mouth.
Auburn hair threaded with glistening amber falls nearly to his armpits, the upper half braided away from his face.
God, that face. It’s at once beautiful and terrifying. And that’s before I notice his ears.
Lined with more silver hoops, the tips extend far longer than a human’s, ending in sharp points that poke a word into my spongy brain.
Faerie.
When I was little, Granny Maggie read to me from two very different books of faerie tales.
The first contained gentle stories of handsome knights storming castles, slaying dragons, and waking drowsy princesses with kisses of true love.
The second—the one I preferred—held stories of immortal monsters from another world tucked right beside our own but always out of sight.
Stories of teeth and claws and blood and darkness.
Stories of pretty youths lured into mist-veiled woods, lost forever after.
Stories of beauty so violently addictive, it drove mortals to madness.
This man—this faerie knight, I should say—belongs to the second book.
Clarity jolts me from my reverie. What’s happening is so obvious, I almost laugh at myself.
When I step out from behind the tree, the knight halts.
His eyes flare, flicking down to my bare legs for an instant before returning to my face. He looks surprised. And disappointed. “You’re the Favourite?”
His voice is deep and lush, soft and chilling. Far too alluring to be anything other than a ruse to lower my guard.
And his question was very rude. Though I suppose his incredulity is not entirely unfounded.
I hold up a hand. “You can drop the pretense. I know I’m dreaming.”
The barest hint of amusement curves his mouth. “Are you?”
I nod. “You, dear figment of my overactive imagination, have been crafted from scotch whiskey, heartbreak, and faerie stories. Though I must say, I’m impressed by the vivid detail.”
There’s a swirling gold pattern embossed on the white armour that clings to his muscular form. His thick biceps are wrapped in pale gold chain mail, and a large sword with a seven-pointed star on the pommel crests his shoulder.
He tilts his head, moonlight glinting off his piercings, and crosses his arms. “Vivid detail?”
I step toward him, then reach up to drag my thumbs across the soft, pliable flesh of his mouth, pulling top and bottom in opposite directions. Look at that—he’s got fangs. “Your lips are outrageous.”
His gentle laugh tickles my fingertips.
I press onward. “You’re the most stunning, fearsome man I’ve ever seen.
I must have conjured you from the darkest depths of my subconscious.
Those primal corners where fear and attraction mingle.
” I tap a knuckle on his breastplate. Solid.
“I’m not sure why I’ve dressed you as a knight.
The painting in the south gallery, perhaps?
Though you don’t look particularly chivalrous. ”
Curiosity dances through his eyes, and the V between his brows asks the question for him.
I gesture toward … all of him. “The sharp fangs, the wild hair, the piercings. If I have a shred of virtue left—which is debatable—I’m not entirely sure it would be safe around you.”
He dips his eyes to the ground and bites his lip ring.
“I can assure you of two things,” he says, leaving me wondering how many impressionable humans could be lured to their demise by that heady timbre.
Hundreds. Thousands, perhaps. “First, you’ll be entirely safe around me because you are now very much off-limits.
” His soft hair brushes my throat as he leans down to whisper, “And second … this isn’t a dream. ”
I pull back, contemplating the captivating symmetry of his face.
The artist in me wants to run greedy fingertips over every chiseled plane, memorize the structure so I can draw him the moment I wake up.
His is not a face I want to forget. “I am quite certain that’s exactly what my devious, dreaming mind would want me to believe. ”
He grunts out a sound that may or may not be another laugh. “If His Grace arrives at breakfast and you aren’t there to join him, things could get very unpleasant. For me, not you. So, beautiful dreamer, for the sake of my head, will you please come with me?”
His Grace? Who is he talking about? I cross my arms and plant my feet, tipping my head up to meet his pleading gaze. “I will come with you.”
“Praise Danu,” he breathes out, swiveling toward his horse.
“If you can prove I’m not dreaming.”
He groans, a deeply masculine sound, thrilling despite its frustrated undertones, and turns back to me. “How?”
I offer up my wrist. “Bite me. Please.”
This time his laughter bursts forth, and it’s just as rich and supple as his voice. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and a dimple pops in his left cheek.
A dimple.
My subconscious is trying to annihilate me.
I shake my upturned wrist at him. “Just a little nibble will do.”
His tongue pokes out to tap the tip of a fang. “My nibbles are not little.”
I swallow. “Sir, I—”
“Sir Lachlan Cathal.” He sketches a polite bow. “Upon your duty, my lady.”
I swat at the air. “Introductions are irrelevant. The moment I wake up, this entire exchange will no longer exist. I daresay you will no longer exist.”
Another ghost of a smile. “More’s the pity for me.”
His eyes search my face, as if trying to decide whether my request was serious. He must decide it is, because he grasps my wrist between callused fingers, his grip delicate despite his obvious strength. My heart kicks into a mad rhythm as he lifts my wrist to his mouth and bites down.
Hard.
“Ouch!” I yank my arm away, skin throbbing. “That hurt.”
He has the audacity to shrug, but does not apologize. “You said you wanted to be woken up.”
I cradle my wrist in my other hand, spying two deep red circles near my tendon where a tiny bead of blood bubbles. I rub my thumb across it to ease the sting.
Which is no longer my primary dilemma.
He bit me. And I am … still here.
Heat builds in my cheeks, and my too-shallow breathing accelerates at an alarming pace. But Sir Cathal is the picture of focused calm as he says again, very softly, “You are not dreaming.”
The tightness in my chest is real. The pain in my wrist is real.
This is real.
My head fuzzes and I sway on my feet. He darts forward to catch me.
As my consciousness fades, my vision narrows to sapphire eyes awash in concern. For me?
Before woolly darkness erases this strange new world, I manage to choke out a retort.
“You didn’t bite hard enough.”