Page 30 of Beyond the Faerie Gate

Jaromir

My wolf was restless from the second I opened the door to our room and found Rose buried under a pile of quilts and towels on her bed, blanketed in the scent of her own misery. That alone would’ve been enough to set him off, but when the scent of fear flooded the room at my entrance, he actually whined.

She couldn’t have gutted us better if she’d held a sword to our belly.

If Drystan found issue with my decision to guard her room from outside the door, he didn’t say anything. Perhaps he, like me, can’t bear to be far from her. The Call—the magical pull of a Nicnevin that allows her Guard to find her and protect her—is so strong that being unable to see her is a kind of silent torture. Ramping up my instincts until I growl at every quiet noise.

Most of the time, a mate-bonded Nicnevin and her Guards will only feel the Call if she’s in danger. As long as Rose isn’t bonded to us, the Call will linger in our blood and become unbearable like this when she’s distressed or afraid.

I hope the other three—wherever they are—are suffering just as much as I am right now.

Drystan disappears until midnight, then returns and silently hands me a key to the ogre room before taking up my position slouched against the door.

My first night in a proper bed in almost a quarter of a century is strange. It takes a lot not to shift just for comfort, but Drystan has already paid for two rooms, and Goddess knows what they’d charge for getting fur out of the sheets.

My sleep is full of disturbing dreams where Rose flickers between her mortal glamour and her true self, sobbing her eyes out the entire time.

Yet, in the morning, the Rose who greets me at her door is calm and subdued. Not a tear in sight. Her eyes aren’t even red.

She’s wearing the dress that Drystan bought her, and it clings to her soft curves perfectly. The fabric is rumpled, like she slept in it, but she looks every inch a high fae.

Just with none of the confidence. Her shoulders are curled in on themselves, as if she’s trying to shrink her breasts with her posture alone and she’s constantly tugging the fabric downward, trying to cover more skin.

“I brought up breakfast,” I murmur. “You look beautiful in that dress.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. She shrinks further into herself.

Way to go, Jare.

“She looks passable, and we need to get moving,” Drystan grumbles, stomping past both of us lingering in the doorway and into the room. “So, Your Majesty, tell us, where are the rest of your Guards?”

Rose blinks at him, stepping back to allow me into the room. “How… how should I know?”

I roll my eyes at Drystan as I step into the room, closing the door behind me. It doesn’t take much effort to usher Rose to the small table in the corner and set the plate of fluffy orange eggs and toast in front of her.

Now that she’s not in the provincial mortal village, we can finally feed her properly. Fae aren’t meant to survive on a diet of oats, scavenged fruits and vegetables. She needs proper food—especially protein—to flourish.

That she’s been denied it most of her life probably contributed to her iron sickness.

For a heavy moment, she just stares at it like she doesn’t know what to do with it before picking up the cutlery and digging in. She’s clunky with them, and I grimace.

If she eats like that in front of her court, she’ll be mocked.

“May I?” I ask, gently.

She looks at me questioningly, and I step forward to adjust her hands on the knife before moving onto the fork. Touching her eases the Call, making it recede, and it takes an enormous amount of effort to release her again.

“Like this, or you’ll stand out,” I murmur. “It feels funny at first, but it works better, I promise.”

She doesn’t say anything, but digs back into the food slower, gripping the utensils with white knuckles.

“More important than her appalling human table manners,” Drystan growls, “is the fact that the púca and the redcap are missing.”

He doesn’t mention the Fomorian, and I’m grateful. We still haven’t explained the war to Rose, and I’m not sure we’d do a good job if we tried.

“But there are five of you,” she whispers.

Both of us turn to her, jaws slack. “How do you know that?” Drystan demands.

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