Page 9 of His Summer Prince

But every year, their inevitable separation became harder. They couldn’t go on like this. As his mother had said, Wren had become a man. It was time he cut his own path.

The following months dragged on as if they were years, and Wren hoped that at least for Elior, time was passing swiftly. The equinox came and went, and with every day, his return to the Somer Valley drew nearer. On warm days, Wren walked with a spring in his step, and the smile on his face reached his eyes.

When the spring festival arrived, Wren could’ve cried with joy. Nature was in full bloom—time to take the sheep to their summer pastures. That night, the herders drove their livestock between sacred bonfires to obtain the Lady’s blessing. Bakers and butchers sold food and drink to lubricate the festivities, and young couples headed into the forest to consummate their love.

Late in the evening, Wren spotted two figures returning from the woods. A shock went through him when he realized who—Lord James Aranin and his personal guard, an elf knight. Wren blinked. He had to be seeing things. Elves were known for their lack of desire and were forbidden from engaging in sexual relationships as they had to keep themselves pure for the Lady.

But then again, was it surprising that Lord Aranin hadcaptured the attention of an elf? No. The lord was revered for his beauty, and Wren could see why even a creature sworn to chastity would climb into his bed. Wren, with his ordinary looks, would never attract the interest of an elf. Or a fae. No, such gorgeous creatures found humans plain and boring.

Before Wren could avert his gaze, Lord Aranin saw him, his intelligent eyes sparking with recognition. Oh God, Wren would’ve been better off not seeing them. Hastily, he busied himself, determined to forget what he’d glimpsed and never speak a word of it. The last thing he wanted was trouble with his lord.

The next morning, Wren harnessed his horses and hitched them to his shepherd’s hut. He climbed into the box seat, commanding Toby to round up the sheep. Wren spurred the horses, and they fell into a slow walk, pulling the wagon up the hill. Looking over his shoulder, Wren made sure the sheep were following, an exercise they’d practiced over the past week. Toby, leaping through the fields, kept the flock close, exhilarated to be driving it over the hills. Once they were well on their way, Wren focused on driving the horses, only occasionally throwing a glance back to ensure the herd was with him.

He would’ve preferred to have another person watch the rear, but Carlisle had departed for Ellesmere two weeks earlier. The town lay closer to the Great River where the weather was warmer, and the season started earlier.

Wren couldn’t get to the Somer Valley fast enough. It took all his restraint not to spur the horses into a canter. He’d checked all four wheels of his shepherd’s hut before departure, but crossing the hills made for a bumpy ride, and he’d be in trouble if he drove too fast and broke an axle.

When they crested the final hill, the Somer Valley unfurled below. Young wheat, short and green, swayed in the breeze, the ears interspersed with cornflowers and bright pink knapweeds.Further down the slope, where the land flattened, lush pastures sprawled to both sides of the River Somer.

Wren steered the wagon down the hill, continuously checking that Toby and the sheep were still behind him. He continued toward the river, stopping once he spotted the shores of Lake Ardeg. It was here, in the shade of a small oak grove, six or seven trees clustered together, where he and Elior met every year. It was a good spot—the trees offered protection from the elements but were far enough from the lake to prevent sheep droppings from polluting the water.

Wren brought the horses to a halt and jumped out of the box seat. A sense of peace overcame him. Elior would’ve been monitoring the weather, watching the position of the sun to determine when it was time for the spring festival and Wren’s return.

Whistling, he unhitched the horses and tied them to an oak tree, giving them plenty of rope. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as he opened his shepherd’s hut and pulled out the fence partitions that he used as a pen to hold the sheep overnight.

Toby controlled the flock while Wren worked, softly barking here and there to discourage the sheep from departing the immediate area. He was a big help, but things would be a hundred times easier once Elior was there.

If he didn’t show by late afternoon, Wren would sneak into the faerie realm. It was dangerous, but Wren had visited enough times to detect the veil and know his way around the Summer Court. A few years ago, Elior had finally managed to smuggle him into the royal palace after years of trying unsuccessfully—neither of them had wanted to be caught by the guards, and thus, their cautious attempts had been thwarted until one evening when all the stars aligned. Wren had marveled at the sprawling, gilded stucco that ran riot across furniture, walls, and ceilings. Everything was made of gold, silk or marble, every room deckedout in more wealth than all of Castlehill combined. Surely, not even the king of Vale lived in such luxury.

Lost in thought, the baaing of the sheep covering all noise, Wren didn’t hear the footsteps approaching through the tall grass. But then the wind picked up, carrying the scent of summer rain and flowers, and Wren knew.

His lips pulled into a grin, tingles racing over his skin. He spun around, and the breath caught in his throat.

Elior.

His head shone golden in the sun, the wind playing with his luminous hair. It’d grown longer over the winter, his elegant mane more beautiful than ever. A golden circlet crowned his head, and a long-sleeved tunic with a subtle, forest green pattern enwrapped his body in the most enticing way, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders, the lure of his narrow hips. But nothing was more gorgeous than his blinding smile.

Wren didn’t know who moved first. One moment, they were yards apart, and the next, they collided. A gasp of pleasured shock tore from Wren’s lips as Elior’s firm body slammed into his. They sank into each other’s arms, Wren’s fingers curling in the raw silk of Elior’s clothing. He pressed his nose into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. Forest and roses. Endless evenings and secrets whispered after dark.

Elior’s hand laced into Wren’s short locks, holding him close. “I was worried the orcs might’ve…”

He hugged Wren tightly, who was drunk on Elior’s scent and the softness of his voice intertwining with that clipped accent.

“They couldn’t have kept me from returning to you,” Wren said, his lips brushing the satiny skin of Elior’s neck as he spoke.

“They could’ve advanced north… they could’ve taken you…”

Elior’s hold turned brutal, his supernatural strength showing. Wren growled in pleasure, hands clutching Elior with all his might. Nothing was going to come between them. Nothing.Wren would kill anyone who tried.

He longed to connect with Elior in the deepest way, to hold him forever. With Elior in his arms, that raw urge to climb inside him and become one flared. Nobody else mattered.

“I missed you,” Elior whispered.

“Missed you too. God, I missed you so much.” The last word came out as a sob, Wren clinging to him with everything he had.

They stood like this for a long moment, wrapped up in each other. The outside world had faded, and nothing existed but their love. A low whimper and snuffle brought them back to the present, Toby circling their legs, tail wagging.

“I think Toby wants a hug too,” Wren said, his words muffled against Elior’s neck. He didn’t loosen his grip.

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