Page 88 of Caging Darling

“Because I’m beneath you?” I ask.

The Nomad laughs. “No, Darling. Because I owe you an explanation as much as you owe me one.”

The slightest of aches tugs on my heart, and I wince.

“What is it?” asks the Nomad. “Has no one ever told you that you’re not constantly indebted to fulfill the wishes of others?”

I don’t answer. As the music changes, the Nomad glides seamlessly into the next song. Others join us on the dance floor, a swirl of elegant dresses spinning in the low light. As he twirls me, I get glimpses of them—Peter in one corner, my captor, never letting me out of his sight, Astor in the other, watching me half-heartedly as another woman tries to get his attention.

I’m not sure if it’s the spinning or the scent of faerie wine or them that’s making my stomach turn.

“Can I ask a favor of you?” I whisper to the Nomad.

He twirls me again. Peter. Astor. Peter. Astor. They cut back and forth across my vision, reminding me of a toy John and I used to play with as children, in which a set of still pictures would spin, creating the illusion they were moving.

“You can ask,” the Nomad says, curiosity imbuing his tone, if not hesitation.

When he catches me in his arms, I examine him. He’s fae, meaning attractive comes with the territory. There’s a carelessness about his features that could easily draw one in,along with a depth in his eyes that he’s witnessed worlds beyond your imagination.

There’s adventure and daring and danger in the Nomad’s face.

It’s not like looking at Astor, the breathlessness that overcomes me or the way my knees wobble in his presence. It’s more that I can look at the Nomad and see how others might perceive him as desirable.

I think that will be enough.

There’s no desperation in my tone, no wanting, when I ask, “Would you kiss me?”

CHAPTER 32

The Nomad scrunches his brows tighter, clearly amused at my strange request. “Dear, do you think you could manage to sound slightly more bored with the idea?”

I smile, and it’s genuine—the laugh that escapes from my mouth. “I could attempt it, but I must admit, it would be difficult.”

The Nomad’s smile grows conspiratorial as he glances behind us, watching Peter and Astor as we dance. “Which of them are you hoping to wound?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does when determining the best angle.”

I bite my lip. “What if I said both?”

The Nomad laughs. “Then I’d tell you I can manage that.”

He makes me wait, informing me that the current song isn’t romantic enough. “If I’m to do this, I will be believable.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go into acting,” I say.

He furrows his brow, feigning offense. “I’m a crime lord, my dear. It requires a similar skill set, I assure you. And it’s more fun this way. The stakes are much higher. If you’re a stage actor and the audience doesn’t believe you, you get pelted withtomatoes. If you’re not convincing at what I do, well, the stain on your shirt is from something else entirely.”

“So you enjoy it, then?” I ask. “Profiting off the pain and misery of others?”

The Nomad blinks at me curiously. “Do you want me to kiss you or not?”

I don’t smile, but the corner of my mouth flicks. “I wouldn’t go as far to say want.”

“You wound me,” he says, though there’s no desire for me in his gaze. I’ve come to notice the difference.

He waits for the song to build, until the swelling crescendo fills the entire room, then twirls me around, catching me in his arms. He’s positioned me so that Peter is in the corner to our right, Astor to the left. I shouldn’t look, should sell the kiss better, but I can’t help myself.

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