Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DAPHNE
I ’m glad to see Monty is doing much better. I didn’t consider his earlier condition when I asked him to climb the tree in my living room so we could make our way to the roof. But he didn’t even argue. In fact, he seemed rather energetic as he followed me up the notches in the tree trunk and then obeyed my instructions to gently stroke the bases of the lowest branches. That’s all it takes to convince my tree to spread its tangled limbs and allow the small opening that serves as my way out to the open sky.
Now we recline on a blanket, porcelain cups in hand, a teapot between us.
The rain has stopped and the air is refreshing without being cold. Just the right temperature to keep me comfortable in my silk robe. I donned the garment after Monty left my washroom and informed me I was still in my undergarments. He’d already gotten dressed in his shirt and trousers, and I scurried to my bedroom to wrap myself in my favorite teal robe.
The city is quiet around us, barely a sound to be heard. A rustle of my tree’s leaves. The hoot of an owl here. The pitter-patter of a raccoon there. According to the clock in my kitchen, we slept until three in the morning, so there are very few people awake in this part of town.
As silence stretches between us, I realize I’m not entirely sure why I invited him out here. Aside from how hot I was starting to feel in my apartment, of course. My whole body warmed when I touched his hair. It was an innocent gesture on my part, as I wanted to ensure he was dry and wouldn’t suffer whatever ailed him during the rainstorm.
Then came a moment when his lashes fluttered shut and he leaned slightly into my touch. I was struck with the most overwhelming heat between my legs, one so strong I was tempted to claw my fingers tighter into his hair, maybe tug his head back and lower my lips to his. For the second time in a span of hours, I realized the truth.
I’m attracted to him.
To Monty.
Not just aesthetically, but sexually. I’ve never experienced sexual desire for a specific person before. I’ve felt aroused. I’ve enjoyed pleasure. I’ve even taken pleasure with other people, but I’ve never experienced desire so deeply entwined with another person.
After that, my body flooded with warmth. I could only think to get some air.
Why I asked Monty to join me, I don’t know. He could have left. Could have gone home.
Yet here we are, sipping tea in silence under the starlight.
I refill my empty teacup, my gaze snagging on Monty as I set the pot back down between us. He’s hardly more than a silhouette of shadows with how dark the early morning is, but I find it hard to look away. My eyes trace the curve of his throat, the arch of his Adam’s apple, the shape of his lips wrapped around the cigarillo he’s smoking. He’s fixed his hair, and by that I mean he’s mussed it in the way it normally is, not the comical nest of curls it only halfway dried in while we were sleeping.
My chest tightens.
Was he always this damn beautiful?
I’m not sure whether to be startled or elated at my newfound awareness of him.
On one hand, it’s good, isn’t it? If I can feel desire for Monty, something that’s only grown as I’ve become more comfortable with him and gotten to know him better, surely I can hope the same might happen between me and my future husband.
On the other hand…this is bad. Because the desire I feel is for Monty, and he’s made it clear he doesn’t see me that way. Made it clear he is not interested in settling down or getting married. And I need someone who will settle down, and quickly at that. If I don’t marry by Lughnasadh, I risk being stuck in Cypress Hollow with Clyde the honey badger as my mate. I risk giving up my dream to be an illustrator. I suppose both options include marrying without love, but only one will allow me to follow my artistic dream. That is what matters the most.
I force the worries from my head. Desire is just desire, even if it’s attached to a specific person. If I can feel it for Monty, I can feel it for someone else. I’ll take this as a good sign and enjoy all the strange flutters in my chest and between my legs. I can use it as fuel for my art.
For the love of the All of All, I might truly understand what it feels like to be close to someone, to touch them and feel them touching me, to look at them and be filled with an ache so strong I yearn to sate it with the object of my attraction. For the first time, I understand my art on an emotional level, not just the intellectual level I understood it before.
As for a physical level…
I pull my gaze from Monty’s profile and heave a sigh. I’m starting to regret inviting Monty out here, for if I was alone, I could satisfy this heat right here and now. Tug open my robe and slip my hand beneath my undershorts and coax myself to climax, with only the moon and stars as my witness.
Good grief, what is happening in my mind? I’ve never been so preoccupied with sex.
I squeeze my thighs together and down a heavy gulp of tea. Part of me wishes it was liquor but that might make things worse.
“So…how did I do today?” I ask, breaking the silence just to give me something rational to focus on. I keep my voice low so as not to carry beyond the rooftop. “For our courtship lesson?”
Monty takes a long drag of his cigarillo, then removes it from between his lips. A breath of floral smoke fills the air. “You did well. You had fun, which was our primary lesson. Furthermore, you didn’t overexert yourself to gain your romantic subject’s interest, which was Lesson Two.”
“I think I failed at Lesson Three,” I say with a grimace. “You told me to act with curiosity, but I wasn’t at all curious about him.”
“He wasn’t your type?”
I ponder that for a moment. “I think I have to get to know someone well to understand if they’re my type. So maybe I didn’t give him enough of a chance.”
“No,” he says with a decisive shake of his head, “you made the right judgment. He was a fucking idiot.”
I snort a laugh. “I suppose that’s what I get for interfering with your lesson and conspiring with Araminta. I was under the impression there’d be more than one romantic subject to choose from.”
“You’re telling me you were going to subject me to the company of multiple Conrads?”
“That sounds like a nightmare,” I say, wrinkling my nose.
Monty takes another drag from his cigarillo while I sip my tea. He speaks again. “If it takes time and familiarity for you to determine if you’re attracted to someone, how are you going to find the right partner by Lughnasadh?”
I shrug. “I wasn’t planning on a love match. Only someone who will serve my purposes.”
He shifts on the blanket until he’s facing me on his side, propped up on one elbow, his cigarillo in his free hand. “You made that clear when I first asked you what you wanted in a husband. All your answers revolved around your modeling needs and getting out of your handfasting.”
“I suppose I’ve always viewed relationships from a rational perspective,” I say. “Pine martens mate out of instinct and they don’t stay with their partners or their children after their kits reach maturity. I was raised that way. It wasn’t until after the war, when the territory lines of all the courts changed and the Earthen Court was relocated in the south, that I witnessed a different perspective. When I migrated south, I got my first glimpses of human cities on the way. I saw communal lifestyles. By the time I settled in the court’s new unseelie forest, I was too curious about all I’d seen to return to solitude. Too entranced by the art I’d glimpsed. Instead of settling in a quiet tree burrow, I took up residence in Cypress Hollow. It’s an unseelie village that caters to fae creatures while giving them a taste of society. They live in houses, cook, work, and marry. It was quite strange to get used to.”
Monty nods his understanding. “I imagine so, after three centuries on your own.”
“It was even stranger when I took the next step and debuted in human society. Now there were rules about what I could and couldn’t do, and my every aim was to secure a husband. There were numerous qualifications for who my partner should be and none of them included love, sex, or attraction.”
Monty’s posture visibly perks. “Back up a moment. How did you go from living in an unseelie village to debuting in high society?”
Of course he wants the full story. He was intrigued the minute I briefly mentioned it when we arrived at the carnival. It isn’t my favorite story, but I suppose I can oblige his curiosity.
I lie back on the blanket and fold my hands over my belly. The sight of the stars and the crescent moon peeking behind the swaying branches of my rooftop tree sets my nerves at ease, even as I summon the words to explain one of my least favorite memories.
“One of the most respected figures in Cypress Hollow decided to take seelie form one year. She left for the nearest human city and came back not only a married woman but a pillar of high society. She wanted to give a selection of us the same chance she’d had and sponsor our debuts in society. I’d recently learned to shift into my seelie form by then, and I was still haunted by the memory of all the art I’d glimpsed when I snuck into the human cities during migration. I craved another look at the paintings I saw, another chance to study the impossibly intricate sculptures I’d seen. When I discovered a societal debut would include art lessons, I was sold. Obsessed, more like. It was the perfect opportunity, and I took it. I had to learn etiquette too, of course, and the steps to a few dances that I was too afraid to perform. But above all else, I learned to draw.”
“So that’s how you honed your craft,” Monty says with a warm smile. “It all makes sense now. Though I don’t suppose you were drawing scantily clad ladies back then.”
A blush heats my cheeks. “Oh, I was, and I was scolded for it, especially since mine were self-studies and not recreations of the acceptable classics. So I learned landscapes and portraits too.”
He shifts slightly at my mention of self-studies, but his expression soon turns serious. “You said at the carnival that your debut season didn’t end well. What happened?”
“I did all the right things. At least I tried to. But there were certain aspects I never understood. There were rules to polite conversation, which I memorized and thought I excelled at until I noticed some of the girls would say things that defied my comprehension. They would state the most mundane of phrases and then laugh as if they’d told some joke. I’d always laugh along with them, but later—often weeks after the fact—something would click into place and I’d realize I’d been made fun of, right to my face.”
Monty’s eyes turn down at the corners. “The elite have a way with words, don’t they?”
“It was humiliating. There was one fellow debutante who was particularly cruel yet so clever and loved by everyone around her. She took a strong dislike to me, which she masked as friendship. When I realized what she was doing—that everything she said in front of me, to me, and to others in my presence was meant to cut me down—I lost it. I lost my patience for the entire charade, for her, for society, for those who laughed at me, and my inner hunter took over. We got into a very public confrontation, which ended when I…”
I purse my lips, realizing what I was about to admit. I’ve never told anyone what happened next.
“What did you do, Daph?” There’s no disapproval in his tone, no wariness. Only genuine curiosity.
I cover my mouth with my hands and mutter the truth beneath my palm.
Monty chuckles and leans across the blanket. With his cigarillo perched between his lips, he pries my hand off my mouth. “I didn’t hear that, dear. What did you do to that wretched harpy?”
I meet his eyes with a guilty look. “I bit off the top of her ear.” A beat of silence. Then my next confession. “And I ate it.”
He throws his head back with a hoot of laughter. When his eyes return to mine, his are glittering with mirth. “That’s my fucking girl.”
My heart flutters at those words, doubly so when I realize he’s still holding my hand. To my disappointment, he releases my palm and settles back on the other side of the teapot, still chuckling to himself.
I clear my throat and push myself up to sitting. “Now you know why I’m anxious around strangers,” I say as I pour a fresh cup of tea. My hand still tingles from where he touched it. “That’s enough about my humiliating past. You asked about my type, and now you know why I don’t have one. So, what about you? What’s your type?”
He furrows his brow. “My type?”
“Yes, your type.” I cut him a good-humored glare. “I know it isn’t four legs and furry.”
As his face falls, I realize I’ve said the wrong thing.
I flap my hand at him. “I’m not mad?—”
“I’m so sorry.” The emotion strangling his voice silences me. “I never should have said that to you that morning on tour. I didn’t mean it.”
A lump rises in my throat. The last thing I was seeking was an apology. I was more trying to lighten the mood. I force a smile and try a different angle. “Oh, so you are into bestiality. Noted.”
The soft smile that breaks through his somber look tells me he has at least somewhat taken my bait. “No, I am not sexually attracted to fae creatures in their animal forms,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “But…you know what I mean. I’m sorry.”
I sip my tea. “I know. I’m not mad about it, honestly. I’ve learned a lot these last couple of years.”
Monty sits up and props his arm on one knee. He finishes his cigarillo only to extract a new one, which he flips over his fingers, unlit. “You say you’re not mad, but you had every right to be. To still be. I know how I am with people. How I…push them away. It’s what I’ve always done. There are reasons I can’t get too close to another person, so when I’m afraid that’s happening, I act cold.”
My breaths go shallow. I’m too afraid to move. Too afraid to make a single sound, for fear that he’ll end this unexpected candor.
“When I’m not pushing others away on purpose, I’m hurting them unwittingly because I’m a fucking asshole, born and raised.”
“Why would you say that?” It’s not the first time he’s been so self-deprecating. During the tour, he’d remind Edwina how he’s a heartless rake and not a hero, always with the kind of smile that made me wonder if he was being serious. The way he says it now, there’s no doubt. He truly doesn’t hold himself in high regard.
Several long beats of silence pass.
“I had a furry little friend once,” he finally says. “A fox. I was quite young and spent much of my time playing outdoors on our country estate. Every time I went outside, my fox would come to visit. She was a curious creature. A fennec, more often found in courts with warmer climates like Fire, Summer, or Solar. I’d drag her around like a house cat, climb trees with her, dress her in my sister’s baby clothes. Then one day, my fox spoke. What a magical moment, to discover one’s animal companion can talk. A dream come true, for most children.”
Despite his hopeful words, his voice holds no joy.
“Then she said, ‘Monty, I’m sorry but I can’t be your pet anymore. I’m leaving.’ That’s all she had to say before she ran into the forest, never to return.” He shakes his head, his eyes brimming with remorse. “I made a friend of a fae creature and I treated her like a pet.”
My heart aches at the pain in his expression. “You didn’t know she was fae.”
He gives me a sad smile. “Should I have been so unruly with a wild creature, even if she wasn’t fae? Should I have dressed her in bonnets and carried her in a basket?”
“You were just a child.”
“Yet I didn’t learn, did I? You said yourself that I treated you like a pet.” His voice holds no criticism for my accusation, only regret and self-loathing for himself. Twice I’ve insinuated that he treated me like a pet. First, after I woke up on his chest during the tour. Next, when we parted the day he got fired.
I shake my head. “I don’t feel like you were treating me that way. Not anymore.”
His still-sad grin turns wry. “Don’t make excuses for me. You’re not the only one I’ve hurt. Not the only woman I’ve treated like shit.”
I want to reiterate that he didn’t treat me as badly as he’s determined to believe, but I’m curious what he means regarding other women.
“I was particularly cruel to my first love.”
My heart slams against my ribs. He’s never mentioned any former lovers. I swallow hard. “What did you do?”
“We were together since we were young. We planned on getting married. Then, as we grew older, things…happened. I was dealing with anger and personal issues. I couldn’t be honest with her, and she could tell I was hiding something. She left me for someone else. When that relationship didn’t work, she returned, begged me to take her back. I hated her for having left me and that made me unfeeling toward her. I…did things I’m not proud of. Used her obsession with me for my own selfish pleasure without ever fulfilling her hopes that we’d get back together. We carried on a sexual relationship for years without forming a true connection. It was a terrible thing to do with an aristocratic woman whose virtue is everything. She treated me like something disposable one time, yet I treated her like rubbish for years.”
Despite his self-condemnation, the spike of anger that pierces my chest isn’t directed at him but this first love of his. She’s the one who left him, and during what sounds like a difficult time in his past. Then again…
“What were you hiding from her? What couldn’t you be honest about?”
“There are things I simply can’t share about myself. Family issues that aren’t mine to admit. Secrets I literally can’t speak of.” He rubs his fingers over his lips in an anxious gesture as if he regrets having said what he did. His eyes meet mine, and there’s a haunted look in them. “I will not say more than that. I know that means I can never truly be a worthy friend, but I hope you can accept the pieces of me I can give.”
My heart cracks for whatever pain he’s hiding. “You don’t have to tell someone everything to be a worthy friend. At least not for me.”
His expression unravels, smoothing with relief. “You think so?”
“I do. There are plenty of things I don’t admit to you, Edwina, or Araminta.”
Like the urges I’ve started to feel for a certain someone. I plan on keeping that to myself.
He holds my gaze for a few more beats, then gives me a dimpled grin. “That means a lot. That I can still be your friend, regardless of secrets.”
I finish my tea and lean back on my forearms. The faintest blush of sunrise begins to peek over the mountains in the distance. “Are you ever going to answer my question about your type?”
He lights the cigarillo he’d been playing with, takes a drag, and heaves a smoke-filled sigh. “I don’t have a type anymore, and I don’t take lovers. It’s better to be alone than to hurt someone like I always do.”
He doesn’t take lovers? He isn’t a womanizer after all?
“That leads us to Lesson Four,” he says. “A man’s actions must align with his words and vice versa. If he says one thing but does another, don’t waste your time, even if he makes you feel like he has the potential to give you exactly what you want. For example, if a potential partner states he is not seeking marriage, only sex, but you feel like he’s falling for you, do not give him your heart. Do not try to fix him. You’ll both only get hurt in the end.”
The edge in his tone makes it clear he has personal experience with this lesson. After what he said about his past, it makes me wonder…who exactly is this first love he hurt? What’s the full story? Was he truly so cruel to her? And who else did he hurt?
But as I recall the haunted look I glimpsed in his eyes, I think the real question is who hurt him ?