Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
DAPHNE
N o matter how long I stare at Monty, I can’t make sense of his words. “Be your muse for what? And what do you mean by disaster at dating ? I…I’m…”
“You can’t finish that sentence without lying, can you? Oh, the woes of being pureblood fae. Such an inconvenience that you must tell the truth all the time, isn’t it?”
I level a hard stare at him. “I know the rules of courtship.”
“Brad Folger would say otherwise.” When I open my mouth to argue, he speaks again. “Do you want my body or not? I won’t give it away for free.”
My gaze sweeps over his form. Even though he’s donned his shirt again, I can’t get the sight of him fighting out of my mind. A dance of muscle and sinew. A portrait of beauty and violence. I heave a resigned sigh. “Yes, but I’m not agreeing until you explain?—”
“There you are.” Araminta’s voice accompanies a rush of sound, courtesy of the now-open door. The roar of shouts and cheers tells me another match has started, and the racket has my hackles raised until Araminta closes the door behind her. I left the rest of my candy floss at my table and its effects have worn off.
Araminta flounces toward us, the black ruffles of her mourning gown bouncing with every step. And she’s not alone. She’s latched onto the arm of a young human male—in his early twenties, perhaps—who greets Monty and me with a bashful smile. Now that I see the pair together, I’m sure they’re the couple I spotted kissing in the shadows before Monty’s match.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Araminta says. Her black bonnet hangs down her back, and loose wisps of her lilac hair have come free of her braid to flutter around her face.
I scoff. “You’re the one who ran off, never to return. I thought you were only getting candy floss.”
Araminta grins. “Well, I did, but I wanted to try ale too. So David helped me out and bought me a glass. Now we’re in love and I’m spending the night with him.”
“You’re in love.” I nearly choke on the words, my eyes volleying between the two figures who stand before us. “With David. A man you just met.”
Araminta beams.
I shift my full attention to her partner. “And what do you have to say about this, David?”
The young man hinges at the waist in an overly formal bow. “I’m fond of your daughter, ma’am. I hereby make a binding vow to take good care of her tonight and treat her with the utmost respect. I’ll have her home first thing in the morning.”
My face flushes with a shock of heat. “Daughter…what? No.”
Monty snorts a laugh, and I cut him a glare.
David pales as I turn my attention back to him, which tells me my expression must be murderous. I can’t believe he thinks I’m Araminta’s mother. In his defense, it is often impossible to determine the ages of pureblood fae, and with over three hundred years of life behind me, I am technically old enough to be her parent. Yet I’m happy to say I’ve not once had a litter of kits, despite the many mating seasons I participated in as a pine marten. I’m about to say as much, but something tells me this is one of those times where I should not admit what’s on my mind.
“I know you were looking forward to spending more of the evening with your best friend,” Araminta says. At first I think she means Monty until I realize she’s referring to herself. For the love of the All of All, this creature is truly delusional. If she can state such falsehoods without a single repercussion from the fae magic that keeps us from lying, she must believe every word she says. “I’ll stay at your place another time.”
“I never once invited you to my place,” I say.
She ignores me and bats her lashes at Monty. “You’ll walk her safely home, won’t you?”
I meet his eyes, finding hesitation in them. In all of him, written in the tight line of his shoulders, his jaw. Then he looses a breath that dissipates every sign of tension, making me wonder if I imagined it. “Of course I’ll walk her home. There’s no way in hell I’m letting her stroll the streets of Jasper alone this late at night.”
“It’s settled then.” Araminta squeals and hugs David’s arm tighter. They’re already halfway out the door when she gives me a parting wave. “See you at work Monday!”
The door slams, and only then do I notice the tightness in my chest. The way my hands ball into fists as I resist the urge to run after them and give David a proper warning. I don’t know why I care. Araminta isn’t a child and can do whatever she pleases. Furthermore, didn’t I consider eating that horrid little sprite this morning? But still. I’ve always had a weakness for worrying over the people who annoy me most.
Case in point being the man beside me.
I glance at him sidelong.
“They grow up so fast, don’t they?” He chuckles. “Come. I’ll walk you home.”
I rise from the settee, arms crossed. “Fine, but you’re telling me all about this muse business.”
“You’re Gladys?” My shocked tone echoes through the silent streets as we make our way from the industrial district toward the heart of the city. I slap my hand over my mouth, glad there aren’t any residences nearby with slumbering souls to wake. I lower my voice. “You’re Gladys? As in Ask Gladys ? As in ‘Fifteen Steps to Fantastic Fellatio’?”
Monty’s lips pull into a smug grin. “You’ve read my column.”
“Let me get this straight. You give love and sex advice to women. As a man.”
He shrugs. “Who better to write about fantastic fellatio than the one receiving it?”
My pulse rackets at the influx of images invading my mind, of Monty sprawled on his back, those gorgeous muscles on full display, his lover between his legs, tongue working over the length of his cock?—
I force the pictures from my mind.
Though I kind of want to draw them when I get home…
“Scum,” I mutter, and I’m not entirely sure which of us I’m speaking to.
“What’s that?” Monty leans close, bumping his shoulder into mine, expression taunting. “I believe the word you meant was genius . Or maybe generous . I seem to recall you needing a favor from me, after all. Shouldn’t you be kinder?”
“I seem to recall you proposing an equal exchange, so I’d hardly call that a favor. Now explain what this is all about.”
He straightens and takes a step away from me, returning to a proper distance. It’s times like these I remember Monty is highborn. His parents are two of the most respected humans on the isle. His father is Lord Phillips, the Human Representative of the Earthen Court, and his mother is Lady Phillips. I don’t know much about Lady Phillips, but Lord Phillips is rather famous, considering he’s one of the eleven Human Representatives—the only governing position a human can have in Faerwyvae. It’s strange to think of Monty as his son, yet every now and then I glimpse the part of him that was raised in refinement. This is a man who knows what society expects of him. When he breaks the rules, it’s deliberate.
When I do, it’s an accidental bloodbath.
“Now that you know I’m Gladys,” Monty says, “you may have surmised I’m writing a book.”
“Yes, you wrote the address to the club on the back of your title page.”
“Are you impressed?”
“That you own a fountain pen? Or that you know how to use it? Believe it or not, I always knew you were literate.”
He gives a good-humored roll of his eyes. “No, that I’ve written an entire book. Well, to be more precise, it’s a compilation of my best courtship advice I’ve written for the Ask Gladys column, bound in a single volume. I’ve added anecdotes regarding how to apply said advice to similar scenarios my readers might be experiencing. It’s brilliant as it stands, truly, but Mr. Fletcher insists I need a case study.”
“Which is what you want me to be? What would I have to do?” We reach the heart of the business district on Verbena Street, just a few blocks from Fletcher-Wilson. My apartment isn’t too far from there.
“You would let me coach you through a myriad of the scenarios I’ve written about,” Monty says. “Then you’ll act out my advice in applicable situations. If you make a promising match, you’ll prove my advice works, which will in turn give my book credibility.”
My heart climbs into my throat. “You mean…I’ll have to go on dates? With strangers? That sounds humiliating.”
“It won’t be.”
“You don’t understand. I’m not good in those situations. Without clear rules?—”
“That’s what you have me for. I wrote the rules. Remember?”
“So, what, you’re going to teach me the rules and send me out on my own?” I twist my fingers at my waist, my hands trembling at the mere thought of what he wants me to do.
He slows his pace and stares down at my twining fingers. His voice softens. “If you’re anxious about being alone, we can do it together. I can construct scenarios where it’s appropriate that I accompany you. That way I can coach you in real time. It will be like having my book in your purse, something all the single ladies on the isle will someday do. But in your case, I’ll be beside you. Furthermore, we can alternate who gets to choose which piece of advice to act out. That way you get plenty of say in what you participate in.”
The thought of him being with me eases some of my anxiety. Still, I hate the thought of interacting with strangers. I pull my lips into a grimace. “Couldn’t we…you know…act out your advice together?”
“No.” He utters the word so fast I almost miss the way my heart sinks.
Then I realize the implications of what I just suggested and pull up short. “I didn’t mean together together, because…ew.”
“Ew? That’s your opinion of me?”
I shrug. He’s the one who flirts like it’s the official sport of Faerwyvae and who propositioned Edwina for casual sex. Not to mention all his bawdy jokes about having sex with pirates and breasts that look like whipped cream, or whatever it was he teased William about on tour. And then there’s his broody anecdotes about how he’s not a hero and will never settle down. Does he think I’ve forgotten? Ew indeed.
“When I said together, I meant as pretend,” I say. “And I didn’t mean we’d act out things like the ‘Fifteen Steps to Fantastic Fellatio’—wait.” The blood leaves my face as my terror dawns. “That’s not the kind of advice I’m supposed to demonstrate, is it? Not that I mind doing that or consider myself unskilled, but I’d rather you weren’t watching?—”
“Of fucking course it’s not,” he says, and I’m surprised at the sharpness of his tone. His jaw is tense, a flush of pink creeping up his neck—something I probably wouldn’t be able to see beneath the dim glow of the streetlamps were it not for my excellent nocturnal eyesight. My current senses may not be as keen as they are in my unseelie form, but I retain some of those advantages in this body. He clears his throat, though it seems to take him considerable effort to gather his composure. “You’re not…I’m not…”
He runs a hand over his face, wincing like he did earlier once he reaches his jaw, as if he keeps forgetting about his injury and the ever-growing bruise there.
“You are not fellating anyone in front of me, all right?” he manages to say through clenched teeth. “That’s not going to fucking happen. This is about courtship for the modern working-class woman, and I promised Mr. Fletcher this case study would be real and appropriate. Moreover, it needs a happy ending.”
Relief settles over me, and we proceed walking. “Then why can’t you be the test subject?”
“Me?”
“Yes. If the case study needs to be real, then why not chronicle your own courtships and how others have won your heart?”
Some strained emotion crosses his face that almost looks like grief. Then, with a shake of his head, it’s gone, replaced with a smirk and a self-deprecating tone. “I will not marry, and my case study needs a dazzling conclusion. A happy ending. What kind of happy ending can I provide, when I’m not marriage material? I’m hardly even courtship material, and I know you’ll agree, based on your ew assessment of me.”
I give him an apologetic wince.
“You, on the other hand…”
“You think I’m marriage material?” Maybe I can forgive him for calling me a disaster at dating.
He gives me a pointed look as if to tell me not to get ahead of myself. “With my aid, yes. I’ll help you find the right partner to demonstrate my advice with. You know I have no patience for assholes. I’ll ensure you only interact with the most respectable of specimens. Besides, I’m something of a matchmaker, remember? If we do this well, you’ll be the one who gets a happy ending. You’ll have a partner who can serve as your model long-term. Not just a temporary fix like me.”
It never occurred to me that Monty would only model for me temporarily, though I never considered him a permanent solution either. I was only thinking of now . Of how desperate I am to successfully complete my commission. He has a point, though, doesn’t he? What better way to secure a model—a valuable resource for my art—than from the safety of a committed relationship?
And that’s not the only benefit I’m positioned to reap. As I’ve already determined, marriage will solve my most dire problem. The one that will force me to stay in Cypress Hollow if I can’t prove I’ve set down deep and indisputable roots here in Jasper. Lughnasadh is only three months away, which means I need tangible proof by then. My short-term cover commission isn’t enough to constitute strong roots . Only a promotion to full-time illustrator will. But if I don’t get the promotion, marriage is the surest bet.
“You think you can help me find a husband?” I say, a tremor in my voice.
He raises his brows. “Is that what you want?”
“It’s what I need. For…reasons.” Stupid drunken magical ritual reasons that I’d rather not tell him about yet.
A grin spreads his lips, though I can’t help but think it looks a little forced. “If that’s what you want, I can make it happen. I’ll arm you with the skills to find the perfect match. A man with marriage in mind.”
“A quick marriage,” I add. “It has to take place before Lughnasadh.”
He cocks his head. Even though my glare warns him not to ask, he opens his mouth anyway.
Thankfully, I’m given the perfect distraction.
“Oh, look, we’re here,” I rush to say. We’ve reached the corner opposite a street lined with brick row houses. “My apartment is just across the way, so you’ve done your duty as my escort. Thank you for walking me home. I should really get to bed?—”
“Not so fast.” Monty’s words halt me in place just as I’m about to take a step. “What about our arrangement? Shall we seal our bargain?”
“A bargain?” My breath catches. Fae bargains are not something to enter lightly and breaking them leads to serious consequences for both parties, often death. I’m already suffering the ramifications of the last binding ritual I participated in. Do I dare partake in another? Consequently, as the fae party between us, our bargain will be fueled by my magic. That’s a big responsibility, if only mentally. “You want our arrangement to be magically binding?”
“Of course. This is a matter of both our careers. Without stakes, why put in effort?” He says this with an easy wink, yet there’s a hint of desperation at the corners of his eyes. Or perhaps it’s my inner hunter alerting me of prey. Whatever the case, Monty needs this for reasons that might be deeper than he’s stated aloud.
Yet the same goes for me, doesn’t it?
I need a model, and I could benefit from his courtship lessons, particularly if they work.
If they can land me a husband.
If they can help me sever my permanent ties to my home village.
“Here are my proposed terms,” Monty says. “For every courtship lesson you successfully complete using my advice, I will pose as your model for one session. Each lesson or session will last for up to a full day. Our bargain will be deemed fulfilled upon whichever of the following conditions is first met: we exchange a total of four courtship lessons for four painting sessions; we conclude my case study with you demonstrating all of my most important principles; you enter a committed partnership; we reach the thirty-first of July.”
I assess each of his conditions, surprised by how thorough he’s being. And that our arrangement will only last for three months—until the end of July. That works perfectly with my need for a husband by Lughnasadh on August 1 st .
My shoulders tense as I stare down at his hand. I’m still wary about making a formal bargain. But as my gaze wanders up the length of his forearm, taking in its chiseled shape, the veins that rope it, I’m reminded all over again how badly I need to draw this man. Steeling my resolve, I take a deep breath and place my palm fully in his. Just before he can shake my hand, I pull mine back and say, “Only if we reverse the order. For every session you model for me , I’ll perform one of your courtship principles. And we’ll start this weekend.”
“I didn’t know you were such a fierce negotiator.”
He also doesn’t know I was only granted an extension on my sketch until Monday. I need him to model for me as soon as possible.
“Fine then,” he says with a shrug. “I agree to your terms and enter this bargain. And you?”
I take a deep breath and place my palm fully against his. “I agree to it as well.”
He squeezes my hand in a firm shake. Just like that, it’s done. There’s no spark of magic. No rush of awe. I sealed a binding bargain without any effort but a few words. It was as easy as buying meat from the butcher.
As we separate our hands, I notice a surprising warmth in my palm, tingling from where our skin touched. It has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the fact that I touch very few people. And yet, where I normally recoil at unwarranted touch, I don’t find Monty’s at all unpleasant.
His lips pull into a sly smirk. “Tell me, Daffy Dear, where would you like to paint my half-naked body this weekend?”