Page 70 of Feed Your Fiends

“I still walked.”

There it is again, that lip tremble she tries to hide with a bite.

“The Parrish estate is along the countryside. It’d take us an hour to get there on foot—”

“I’d never let you walk even if you could,” I cut her off.

Her shoulders deflate, then rise again as she rushes to the corner. “How about this?”

It’s my mother’s old bike. I sat on the handlebars as a kid.

“You wouldn’t mind if we biked there?” I ask slowly.

She looks genuinely perplexed. “Why would I?”

No one at Beaulieu would be caught dead riding a bike through the city. At their million-dollar beach houses for aesthetics, sure. My mother loved it, though, and I did too.

“My feet are still too delicate to ride for that long,” she frowns, peering at the other bikes propped in the corner.

“Sit on the handlebars. I want you in front of me, where I can see you at all times.”

“Do you think I’d jump off to escape?” she snorts. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to without damaging my feet even more.”

“I went nearly a week without seeing or touching you, except for a few stolen moments. Now, I’m not wasting a single chance.”

And again, that little lip tremble.

The bright sunshine as I pedal us out of the garage, past the skyscrapers of the inner city, and onto the country lanes is cathartic. So are Elle’s long red strands tickling my cheek and her melodic giggles as she takes in the wildlife.

This feeling, these gifts of sunshine, nature, and Elle, they’re all…happiness.They’re all free.

But they still come at a cost.

Gant

“It’s not too late for me to stay outside with the bike,” Elle says as I squeeze her fingers so tight, the tips turn as plum as her outfit as we climb the infinite pathway to the front double doors.

The Parrish estate is like a modernised castle for Fae. It’s in the details, like the black and white rosebuds, the thin, pointed, gothic-style windows, and the weather-stained natural stone walls. It’s stunning, a place where fairytales happen and that’s exactly what we need because I don’t give a damn about Sylo’s family. I only care about what they know.

“Why are you so scared?”

“I’m not.” She huffs, fluffing her hair with her free hand and adjusting her skirt. “Is the back wrinkled?”

Hopelessly, even though her ass is stretching the fabric beautifully.

Before I can answer, she mutters, “Do you think I should’ve worn stockings?”

“I have a love-hate relationship with stockings.”

She pauses. “Why?”

“It’s another layer that stops me from accessing your pussy. Then again, watching it glisten through the sheer fabric is a sight to behold, especially when those orangey hairs poke through. It’s like my personal porcupine to pet. My porcupine princess.”

She tries to wrench her fingers away again, but my grip is relentless. “Don’t say shit like that when we’re inside.”

“I love your needles. They’re like little defence mechanisms that can’t deter me.”

“Gant!”

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