Chapter 8 #2
A single armoire and a bedside table with a vase of perky chrysanthemums sit against the wall.
An oil lamp is already lit. Its sputtering flame illuminates the room with a soft yellow glow.
The problem is the one narrow bed with a stained, faded quilt that barely reaches the edges. We both look at the bed.
I groan. “You didn’t mention there’s only one.”
“It didn’t seem pertinent unless you can conjure another bed out of thin air,” he retorts.
“But there’s not even a chair!”
There’s an awkward pause.
“I’ll take the floor,” we both say.
“You paid for the bed,” I argue without thinking. Damn it, of course I want the bed. My mouth is just outrunning my mind again.
His cheek twitches, fighting a smile. “I’m shocked you didn’t insist on it. Hedonism is the second heart of your civilization, after your religion.”
“Like fae are any less indulgent. I’ve heard the stories. You gorge yourself on delicacies, and if you’re not feasting, you’re dancing or stealing women away. Not to mention that my entire village could fit inside one of your diamond mines.”
“One of Avedor’s diamond mines. And have you met other fae?
” He waits for me to answer and bitterly huffs a laugh when I can’t.
“Then you don’t know what you’re talking about.
Like you said, you’ve only heard stories.
” He takes off his boots, unfastens his cloak, and drapes it over the bed’s footboard, but doesn’t undress further.
His words stunned me. I don’t know what to say.
Desmond’s severe frown softens. “You wouldn’t sleep a wink on the floor. Take the bed,” he orders.
“I can sleep perfectly well on the floor,” I retort as I take off my dirt-splattered boots. It’s irritating that he thinks he can command me about this.
“Really?” He lies across the floorboards and tucks his hands behind his head. “I can see why you think so. The draft is cozy, and who doesn’t love mouse droppings?”
Oh, gods. I shudder, then crouch beside him. “Where?”
“There aren’t any. Besides the splinters, the floor is clean.” He stretches, and his voice hitches into a breathless groan that makes my thoughts stutter. “You’d better learn how to dissect fae wordplay, or you’re in for a lot of trouble.”
It takes several long seconds to recollect myself and remember what I’m doing. That’s right. We’re fighting over who gets the pleasure of sleeping on the floor. Maybe I should let him win.
But I’m not one to lose.
I stretch out beside him, the floorspace so cramped that our shoulders touch. I shift and swear that he stiffens. “I’ve never known any fae. You really can’t lie?”
“Yes.” He turns toward me. A curl flops in front of his eyes, and when he smooths it away, his hand inadvertently brushes my ear.
I shiver. It’s just the draft. That innkeeper should really fit a new door. The cacophony downstairs echoes through the cold floorboards, but my eyes close as fatigue sinks into my limbs.
“You don’t have to sleep on the floor just to prove a point,” Desmond says.
“Did I prove it?” I mumble.
He sighs. “Yes. You’re not a hedonist. You’re stubborn. That’s an even graver offense.”
I grunt in response.
“Now get on the bed.”
“You could at least buy me dinner first.”
He snorts. I wish I could see the face he’s making, but I feel his astonishment for just a second. That makes me want to see it, and I open my eyes to glimpse him. His teeth are teasing his bottom lip, but the intense heat in his hazel eyes quickly fades. I’m too exhausted to decipher it.
“You’ll thank me in the morning,” he says. Then he stands and lifts me into his arms.
“Could’ve gotten up on my own,” I mumble as he lays me down on the bed. “Join me. The floor is awful.” Even though I try to convince myself that it’s fair to let him toss and turn all night, it isn’t.
Desmond sighs, then climbs over me and shimmies into the space between me and the wall.
There’s not enough room for both of us to sleep on our backs, so he slowly and cautiously tucks me against him, my head nestled into the crook of his warm shoulder.
I wonder if he’s done this before. Of course he has. He’s witty, handsome, and a prince.
Even an outcast prince must have admirers.
He wraps one arm around my waist, hugging me to him. His warmth surrounds me, surprisingly soothing. His chest undulates with steady breaths, and the cadence of his heart underneath my cheek proves just how close we are.
Being held in a tight embrace by a fae who earned the appellation “Prince of Death” should terrify me.
I don’t even know what his Gift is. He could be a siphon, someone able to pull magic out of someone and push it into another.
He could be a shadow-wielder and slice my head off with darkness alone.
Or even worse, maybe he’s a summoner that could fill this room with flesh-hungry beasts from Osian’s planes of hell.
One wrong move, and the prince could end me before I so much as scream.
In the meantime, enjoying this wouldn’t be so bad. Desmond has solid arms, and he doesn’t hog the bed. He even smells nice, a soothing mixture of cedar and sandalwood.
“Happy?” he asks, his voice rumbling against me. “There’s not a lot of room.”
I murmur, “There’s enough.” Then I close my eyes and finally let sleep take me.