Page 2 of Caging Darling

“I heard it’s fond of busty blondes,” says Peter, eyes fixating on Lady Estrias’s golden hair. She flushes again at his attention, running her open palm not against her hair, but over her rather endowed chest. “I’m not sure how you sleep at night,” says Peter.

“Well.” Lady Estrias’s exhale is sharp, as if her last intention was to draw attention to her own assets. “If that’s all the story said, I’d be frightened indeed.”

“But you believe you’re safe,” I say.

Lady Estrias cuts her black-lined eyes toward me, but it’s her husband who answers. “Of course, she’s safe. The stories are just that—stories. Stories don’t come to life and harm anyone.”

“Of course they don’t,” I say, clutching my napkin in my lap. I find my gaze drifting to the starlit window.

“It’s not only that,” says Lady Estrias. “I must admit, I’m more superstitious than my husband. I believe the stories, but the ghoul won’t come for me.”

Peter cocks his head. “And why is that?”

There’s a hint of amusement in her tone when she says, “I’m afraid I don’t possess the correct occupation.”

“Sasha,” the lord says, clearly embarrassed.

“No,” says Peter, placing his elbows on the table and leaning across it. “I’d like to know.”

Lady Estrias’s eyes sparkle, pinning Peter in place. She rubs the pads of her fingers together, making a grasping motion that causes her rings to scrape against one another. “I’m certain your wife would prefer you not.”

Lord Estrias shifts uncomfortably. “Say, it’s getting late.”

Before he can dismiss us, Peter rises from his seat. “Ah, look at the time. But hey, wouldn’t be the end of the night without a smoke, would it?”

Before Lord Estrias can object, Peter pulls a pair of fine cigars from his coat pocket.

“Krushian cigars?” Lord Estrias whistles. “My, you must introduce me to those foreign connections of yours.”

A sly grin slips across Peter’s face as he hands Lord Estrias the cigar.

“How did you do it?”Lady Estrias whispers once the men have absconded from the room.

I swirl the wine in my cup, letting the scent waft over me. The longing is there, but I refrain. It takes a conscious effort. I suppose it always will.

But there’s so little control I have left.

This—abstaining from wine—this, I still have. This, Peter allows.

“Do what?” I ask pleasantly, as if I don’t know what she’s referring to. As if it’s not the same question I’ve been asked by a dozen bored housewives.

The lady takes a swig from her own goblet, her smile mischievous. “Snag yourself a fae husband. Obviously, you’re gorgeous—I don’t mean to imply otherwise. But where does one even find the fae?”

“I didn’t find him. He found me.”

Her eyes linger on my Mating Mark, the golden brush of starlight against my pale cheek. “Did he feel it?” Wonder almost obscures the envy dripping in her tone. “Did he follow it to you? Come searching for you?”

My throat goes dry, though my smile remains painted. It’s easy enough, thanks to my mother and the bargain I’ve learned to live with as one might a chronic ailment. I’m practically arthritic. “It’s a long story.”

The woman flits her hand. “Oh, please. You must have realized that running off to a coastal village isn’t nearly as romantic as the novels paint it out to be. You’ve only been here a handful of days, but dear, I’ve been isolated from society for two months. It wears on a girl. One’s mind starts to wander.” She claps her hands on the table. “I’m telling you, I’ve read every novel in the library twice. You must put me out of my misery and tell me something new.”

My pulse pounds in my ears. I watch her. Her pretty, heart-shaped face. The way not a single strand of hair falls out of place. The paint that obscures her boredom, her misery.

“Really, darling. I feel as though I’m trapped here,” she says.

“Tell me how you met your Edward.”

She waves the kerchief she just used to dab her lips. “It’s an ordinary tale. I’d rather hear yours.”

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