My Feral Romance (Fae Flings and Corset Strings #2)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

DAPHNE

F lippant. Brash. Arrogant. Reckless. I have several choice words to describe Monty Phillips, and none of them are flattering.

My opinion was set the day I began my internship at Fletcher-Wilson Publishing. The first thing Monty said to me was not Hello , how do you do , or Nice to meet you . It was, “I must inform you my personality is twisted. Don’t take me too seriously.” All the while he had a crooked, dimpled grin on his too-handsome face. I simply stared at him, canines bared in disgust. Because, unlike him, I was taking my new job very seriously. As the only four-legged fae employee at Fletcher-Wilson, and perhaps the first pine marten any of my coworkers had seen in person, I needed to make a good impression. Do the right things. Say the right words. I’d failed at integrating into seelie society once before. I wouldn’t fail again.

And there Monty Phillips was, joking around with ease, flipping a cigarillo between his fingers as if work was just a brief interlude between smoke breaks.

“We’re going to have a lot of fun working together, Daffy Dear,” he said, then sauntered off to do who knows what. I didn’t take him for someone who got any work done.

I was stunned. While all the other coworkers I’d been introduced to stammered over having to address me by first name instead of a proper surname like humans have, he didn’t bother to use my name at all. He called me Daffy , not Daphne. The nerve!

My assessment of his work ethic hasn’t improved over the last year we’ve been colleagues. He’s still the same flippant rake he was the day we met. But I’ve gotten to know him a little better. We even managed a book tour together, with him as the publicist and me as his assistant.

Now I catch sight of him in Fletcher-Wilson’s lobby for the first time in what feels like ages, and there isn’t an ounce of annoyance in my heart at seeing him again.

Only joy.

For all my talk about Monty Phillips’ flaws, I’ve come to consider him one of my favorite people. Odd how the most annoying personalities can wriggle their way into your heart. Like a parasitic bug.

Yes, that sums up Monty nicely.

A heartworm.

One that’s slithering away from me.

My joy shifts, tightening my lungs, as I watch the space growing between us. I’ve just stepped into our workplace’s lobby from upstairs, while he’s making a beeline for the front door. Sunlight streams through the large windows, which display a view of horse-drawn carriages and suit-clad pedestrians. My eyes, however, are locked only on Monty. His retreating back reminds me how long it’s been since we’ve had a full conversation. Since we chatted and laughed like friends.

At least…I thought we were friends.

Can two people still be friends even if they rarely see one another?

It’s been a year since we managed The Heartbeats Tour together, a wildly successful event for two of Fletcher-Wilson’s most popular authors, Edwina Danforth and William Haywood—both of whom became our dear friends by the end. That was the last time Monty and I worked so closely together. I was still an intern then, but now that I’ve been promoted to an editorial assistant, I spend most of my time working on the editorial floor. I haven’t assisted on a single book tour since, while Monty has done nothing but manage one after another.

The thought that I might not see him again for months on end has his name leaping from my lips, twisted into a question.

“Monty?”

He pauses before turning around, and when he does, another spark of joy warms my chest. He looks the same as ever. Same charming grin, same pair of dimples in his cheeks, same pale blond hair falling in loose curls that makes him look every inch the devilish rake I know him to be. Same haphazard state of dress with his loose cravat, open collar, and a waistcoat without a jacket. Same casual grace, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets and an unlit cigarillo perched over the rounded shell of his ear.

His eyes sweep over me, and I’m reminded that he may look the same as ever, but I don’t.

The last time he saw me, I was a pine marten. A small creature with a fluffy tail that frolicked on four paws.

Now I look like a woman.

As a fae, I have the ability to shift between two physical manifestations. Unseelie form is a fae’s natural manifestation—a pine marten, in my case—while seelie form is a body modeled after human likeness, save for the telltale angled tip of our ears. Monty has only seen me in my seelie form once. He doesn’t know I’ve recently adopted this body full-time.

I shift from foot to foot, my stomach clenching as I await his reaction. Is it strange for him, seeing me this way? Does he think my clothing suits me? I’m dressed in flowing slacks, a blouse, and a waistcoat. It’s a far cry from the yellow dress I wore the last time he saw me in this body. An even farther cry from my fluffy gray-brown fur and mustelid figure. Then again, I’m not sure why I should care what he thinks. I may no longer despise the man, but he’s still the same ridiculous rake he always was. He’s still just my friend. And yet I can’t help hoping he’ll…I don’t know. Say something nice? Compliment me?

Then the most mortifying realization dawns. What if he doesn’t even recognize?—

“Hey, Daffy.” There’s no hesitation in his voice. No uncertainty.

He recognizes me after all.

I blow out a relieved breath, though I’m still apprehensive as I make my way toward him. I’m too aware of the way I walk, the careful steps I take that are so unlike the way I used to scamper about. I don’t recall ever being this self-conscious around him before. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” I say.

“Well, this is hello and goodbye,” he says, tone dry. “I got fired.”

Disappointment sinks my gut. My eyes fall to the broadsheets folded under his arm, which gives me some clue as to why he may have lost his job as a publicist at Fletcher-Wilson. I read his interview in the Cedar Hills Gazette this morning, so I’m sure our boss did too. Monty was an idiot to agree to the interview in the first place, and an even bigger one for the things he admitted to in it. The interview revolved around The Heartbeats Tour, specifically the whirlwind romance that developed between its headlining authors. Monty claims he played matchmaker for Edwina and William during said tour…and detailed every one of his outrageous actions during his so-called matchmaking.

My lips peel into a grimace. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“You did warn me,” he says with a chuckle, though his mirth seems forced. I suppose losing his job isn’t a laughing matter.

He’s right, though; I did warn him. I warned him every step of the way not to do anything he could get in trouble for. Don’t get involved in a seduction bet between Edwina and William. Don’t flirt with Edwina. Don’t take your authors to bawdy parties. Don’t sneak off at every chance you get for a smoke break. Don’t spend the company budget on stupid things. Don’t treat your job like a playground . Did he listen to me? No, of course he didn’t.

I want to say it serves him right, but before I can speak again, he takes a step away. “Well, I’m off.”

“Wait, that’s all?” He pauses at my panicked tone. If I wasn’t so shocked at his attempt at a swift exit, I might be more embarrassed.

And yet…

There’s so much I’ve wanted to say to him. So many things I want to catch up on. I want to tell him why I’ve taken on seelie form full-time. That I’ve started painting. That I’ve found a passion for a career I want, if only I can grow my confidence to become an illustrator. That I’ve been drawing in secret all this time. That Edwina recently found one of my sketches…and liked it.

He shifts back to face me, and the wildest idea of all comes to mind.

What if I invite him to come with me when I make my annual visit back home? Every year I attend the Lughnasadh celebration in Cypress Hollow, my former hometown in the Earthen Court’s unseelie forest. This year’s festival is just a few weeks away, and I’ve been meaning to invite a friend. I’ve never taken a friend back home, but this year is different. This year I want a tether to my new life. Someone to remind me that even though Cypress Hollow is comfortable and peaceful and I fit in so well, there’s a reason I chose my new life. There’s a reason I strive to belong in seelie society, even when I make mistakes. Even when I embarrass myself. Even when I get things wrong. And that reason is the friends I’ve made, the life I’m starting to build for myself, and my renewed passion for painting.

The trip could benefit him too. My village specializes in a Lughnasadh matchmaking ritual he’d find quite amusing. Perhaps he’d even play guest matchmaker since he’s so obsessed with bringing couples together.

“Do you maybe want to…” The invitation is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t summon the courage to voice it. Perhaps that’s too much to ask of someone I haven’t seen in so long. So I try something easier. Less daunting. “Share a meal? Catch up?”

Monty’s expression shifts, an unreadable emotion crossing his face. Is he surprised? Offended? This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve misunderstood a social cue. However, I’m not convinced that’s what this is. Because there’s a vicious little beast who’s always awake inside me, no matter what I look like on the outside. She’s a hunter. A killer. She can always recognize easy prey.

And she’s sensing fear.

Fear .

But why? Monty has never been afraid of anything. He’s reckless, bold, and unapologetic. He’s annoying and hilarious and surprisingly caring at times. But I’ve never sensed fear in him.

Before I can assess it further, it’s gone, making me wonder if it was ever there to begin with. Monty’s expression turns smug as he saunters up to me. I freeze at his sudden proximity, my breath catching as he lifts his hand…

And pats me on the top of the head.

Like an animal.

A creature.

My heart collapses in my chest. I meet his eyes and the condescending look he stares down at me with. It’s the last thing I expected from him.

Or maybe it’s the last thing I hoped for.

I thought he’d look at me differently now that I’m in seelie form. I’m not sure how exactly I wanted him to look at me, but maybe I expected something more like the wide-eyed awe he held when he first saw me in this body during The Heartbeats Tour. At the gala, when I wore a yellow dress and he shared a dance with me. A clumsy one, but a dance nonetheless. The way he looked at me then made me feel like maybe I was worth looking at.

But this isn’t anything like that. This is patronizing.

I pull my head from under his hand, baring my teeth. “You really do think of me as a pet, don’t you? Even when I look like this?”

There’s no warmth in his eyes as he gives me a wink. “A really cute pet.”

My heart crumples tighter. “You’re an asshole.”

“And here I thought we were friends,” he says with a mocking pout. “See you around.”

I don’t try to stop him as he turns away with a halfhearted wave.

I only try to stop myself from crying.

Because Monty Phillips doesn’t deserve my tears. Or my friendship.

I swipe roughly at my cheeks and the traitorous moisture there. Then I storm in the opposite direction without giving that asshole a second glance.