Page 32 of Destined for the Fae King

“Patience.” He tsks, slipping back into the calm and easy demeanor he presented earlier. “I promise you’ll know in time.”

I scowl at him. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re absolutely infuriating?”

A small huff of laughter slips through his lips as Lysandir moves over to the table and sets down the book with a soft thump. Finally, he looks back at me over one shoulder. “Only you. Care to join me?”

There’s a challenge in his raised brow and the mirth sparkling in his eyes, and damn it if that just makes me want to accept it all the more. Whatever secret he’s keeping, he was right on one score: His brother listens to him. I need the prince as an ally, notan enemy, and if starting over really means that much to him, then I have to try, for my benefit if nothing else.

I don’t really think before popping open my notebook to the same page I took notes on during the meeting and jotting down a few of the tidbits Lysandir points out.

To be honest, analyzing the book and discussing it with him for the next hour or so is easier than I expect, almost comfortable. Almost. And when I shove away the embarrassment that was my first night in Faery, I can forget that I dislike him and swore to loathe his presence. I can even forget that he’s a prince and is probably only being nice to me to make up for being an ass and to report on my worthiness to his brother. It’s a lot to not think about, but at the same time, it’s easy. He makes it that way, stripping away all pretense and treating me like a person, like a friend.

“So, the Unseelie King’s sword can repel magic and shatter wards with a single slice, in addition to being a formidable tangible weapon all on its own,” I speak aloud as I write, finishing the line with a quick little sketch of a sword. “Anything else?”

When I glance back at Lysandir, he’s looking past me, straight at my notebook and the lines of shimmering blue ink. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and in the silence, I consider the hundred horrible things he might say mocking my hobby. My neck burns with imagined indignation. Retorts rise to the tip of my tongue, ready to be hurled back at him.

“That’s lovely.” He looks up, meeting my sharp gaze.

With that one honest look, he knocks the breath from my lungs. My shoulders slump, and my arm relaxes—I don’t even remember tensing up. It’s only then that I notice our arms are almost touching where they lay on the table near one another, and actually, that might be his leg I feel under the table and not a chair leg.

“Umm…” I make to brush my hair behind my ears, though it hasn’t fallen loose from my pony tail, and scoot a little to the side in my chair. “Thank you. I like to use color. It just brightens things up and makes them a little happier. Why use black ink when you can have all sorts of colors, right?”

A tiny laugh slips out, and I slam my lips shut to stop my rambling.

My habit of journaling started after my father died, when I needed all the little escapes that I could find. Selena got me a pack of glittery gel pens, and suddenly everything I wrote literally sparkled with bits of joy. But my notebooks have always been just for me, my secret little treasure.

His grin only widens. “Agreed. And it’s nice to see you taking this seriously and keeping notes. Many of your fellow competitors didn’t today.”

“Their mistake,” I reply.

“Exactly. It’s not something everyone would notice, but I did. It’s nice to find others who are serious about their studies. May I?” He tips his head toward the book.

Despite the compliment, my gut reaction is to snatch my book away and tell him not only no but hell no. God, if he saw my notes about his brother? Or him? I might just die of embarrassment.

Lysandir gives a small chuckle. “Never mind. I know a rejection when I see one.”

I wince. “It’s just…personal, you know?”

He points to the little floral divider I’d sketched during the meeting. “I was mostly interested in the colors and designs like that one you have there at the top.”

Pulling it between my teeth, I bite my bottom lip. “Okay, a quick peek.”

I hold the notebook up and make a show of quickly flipping from one page to the next and maybe skipping a few pages around where some of my more sensitive notes are. When I reach the end, I snap the notebook shut with a little too much force and wait, holding my breath for whatever reaction comes next.

Lysandir leans back in his chair. “Quite the rainbow of colors. I especially like the one that seemed to change color as the page moved. You did that with a pen? Not magic?”

“Just a good ole prismatic.” I set the notebook back on the desk. “Did humans even have magic like that once? If we did, we certainly don’t anymore.”

There are some older coven members who can do little things, charms and whatnot, with limited effect. My generation can do even less, barely enough to know that magic still exists in our world. It worries the elders more than anyone cares to talk about, at least openly. Magic started to fade first, then the gift, showing up less and less in our family lines. The faeshouldbe worried about it, though with the gift popping up outside the covens, maybe it’s just some weird changing of the guard.

“A pity about human magic,” he replies. “Some fae can make letters shimmer like that though.”

“Oh yes, my attendant Fia does something similar with cosmetics. She infuses them with her power to add extra sparkle and shimmer. I have a little bit on my eyelids right now actually.” I close my eyes and tilt my head to make sure he can get a good look in the dim light of the library. Though with his fae eyesight he can probably see just fine.

When I open them again, he’s angled his body more fully toward me, his hand on the arm of the chair. He lifts that hand, as if reaching for me but quickly drops it back into his lap.

“I noticed” is all he says.

A fluttering starts in my chest, completely unexpected and igniting a soft burn over my heart. Was he just going to…

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