Page 155 of Flirting with Darkness

This sham marriage was supposed to ensure my safety, but it felt suddenly dangerous, and not in the way the werewolf pack had been dangerous.

He was a killer, no stranger to violence. I had to remember that.

Humans and fae. Tragedy. I had to remember that, too.

Andthe fact I was only in Elfhame to save Ari. Even if I was stuck here for a month, I’d get right back on the road after and find her. Maybe there was a way I could get out of here and reach her sooner.

Still, when I reached the bathroom door, I glanced back at him.

More tattoos etched the expanse of his back. An arc of moons marked the phases from new to full and back again across his shoulder blades. The night sky, full of dark clouds and constellations covered his skin, fading towards a horizon formed by the towel around his waist. More scars traced silvery lines through the inkwork, many of them incorporated into the constellations, linking stars.

As he picked up another morsel from the tray, the tattoos shifted, following the flex of his muscles, making my mouth suddenly dry.

Eyes screwed shut, I dragged myself into the bathroom.

Steaming water gushed into a large bath. Large enough for two, my traitorous mind pointed out.

“Nope,” I muttered to myself. “Not happening.”

The bath stood at the centre of the room, clawed brass feet resting on the tiles. Even the taps had matching claws as though a huge bird clutched the bath’s edge. Foam frothed so thick, I couldn’t see the water’s surface.

For me, “a bath” meant a copper tub in front of the fire and waiting my turn after all my brothers and sisters so I could attempt to get clean in murky lukewarm water with a scrap of plain soap. For my birthday one year, Ari had gifted me a tiny round of lilac and honeysuckle soap, with strict instructions that it was only for me to use. I’d treasured it, using a tiny amount each time and hiding it away from the rest of the house. Eventually it had run out.

Now, the scent of lilac and honeysuckle wafted through the room, cut through with something citrus—orange? I let out a soft laugh. Somehow the house knew my favourite combination of scents,andhow to add another to round them out.

“Amazing.” I shook my head and turned off the taps.

“By the way…”

I whirled and found Faolán standing there, still clad in only a towel, filling the doorway.

“I used a bit of that and that”—he pointed at a shelf with two dainty bottles—“for you, together with a dash of orange, but if you want to add anything else, there’s more in the cabinet.”

“You…” I blinked at him, at the little, labelled bottles. “You picked those out?” The idea of this hulk of a man pouring those into my bath was both amusing and… sweet.

With a shrug, he cleared his throat, the sound gravelly. “I caught the scent of lilac and honeysuckle on your hair and cloak—I figured they were ones you liked. Orange works well with them.” His face screwed up. “Call it a peace offering for diving in here first. Also, use that shampoo.” He pointed at another larger bottle on a stand by the bath. “The mint makes your scalp tingle.”

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

My gorgeous fae beast of a husband whose body looked like the model for a statue also knew how to pick out incredible scent combinations.

And I had to share a bed with that.

I was in so much trouble.

12

AT THE FOREST'S EDGE

When I emerged from my bath, Faolán had, mercifully, put on some clothes. A black shirt and trousers, simple but neat and perfectly tailored. He stood at the mirror, fastening a button.

“Not a dirty, stinking dog after all,” he muttered with the bitter edge of a smile.

“I never called you—”

“Not you.” He huffed and shook his head.

Someone else had called him that, and something about who’d said it or how they’d said it had made it stick with him. I gripped the tie of my dressing gown. He’d smelled of the road before his bath, yes, but he didn’tstink.

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