Heart of the Fae (The Otherworld #1)(47)

The strawberry burst in her mouth. Sweet flavor coated her tongue, filling her senses with the taste of sunshine and summers spent hunting in the fields. For hundreds of years, Sorcha’s family had foraged the land for survival. Her mother had whispered the tales in her ear as they sucked the juice from these red bellied fruits.

Some of the ichor within the strawberry overflowed her lips, dripping syrup down her chin.

Sorcha didn’t see him move, but she felt the touch of his hand as though he branded her. His calloused thumb traced the line of liquid from chin to mouth. It rasped over her sensitive lip, catching every last drop of sticky juice.

One of the crystals on his palm scraped her jaw. Cold to the touch, it was a lightning bolt of sensation against the sudden, flaming heat of her cheeks.

She parted her lips in a silent gasp. The smooth texture of his nail touched her top lip, dipping into the warm breath she expelled before withdrawing.

She was undone, unmade, reborn as something else entirely. Her hands clenched in her lap as she stared in shock at the Fae who dared to touch her without asking, to slice through her stalwart resolve, and stitch the beginnings of attraction into the fiber of her being.

They stared at each other, frozen in time. Moonlight speared through her window and pierced the lining of shadow covering his face. It danced along the deep gashes of crystal, like a stone she had once cracked open to reveal the geode inside.

His eyes held a wicked intent that stole the breath from her lungs. Vivid blue, like a crystal clear sky, like the azure waves of the ocean, they saw straight through her.

He wanted her, she realized. He wasn’t playing a game; his emotion was too raw and hungry. She had seen the expression upon men at the brothel before, even sometimes cast in her direction, but never had she felt the emotions reflected in herself.

Her stomach clenched. She dug her fingernails into her palms and forced herself to swallow the remaining strawberry.

Sorcha’s eyes followed his hand as he lifted it towards his mouth.

The chair screeched as she shoved to her feet. “Boggart, have you finished?”

A squeak from the corner suggested the little faerie still had a long way to go, but Sorcha was quite done with tonight. She looked back towards the massive shadow seated at her table.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave, sir. As you can imagine, my journey has been trying and I’m finding myself faint.”

“From your journey,” he repeated as he stood.

She was once again overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Her head barely reached the center of his chest. She knew his hands were massive, and that she might wrap her arms around his shoulders if she tried very hard.

Sorcha blew out a breath. “Indeed. It was a grueling week-long sail, and then I swam the rest of the way here. Merrow men are not kind while chasing their prey, so if you would please,” she gestured at the door, unable to finish the sentence when the weight of his gaze pressed upon her shoulders.

“I have been scolded once tonight on respecting a woman’s wishes, I should not like to experience it again.” He swept into a low bow, his cloak spreading across his shoulders like wings.

“Yes, a shrew is not likely to keep her mouth shut.”

He chuckled. “The only shrew in this house is the boggart.”

Sorcha listened for the angry shriek, but Boggart had nothing to say to the comment. Perhaps she agreed.

Still, it made her cheeks flame all the hotter. She rushed to the door and held it open. “Thank you for the interesting conversation.”

He moved like a shadow, silent and smooth, hesitating only briefly in front of her. She inhaled the scent of mint and beeswax.

“It has been an enlightening, albeit short, evening.” He said before leaving the hut.

Sorcha sagged against the doorframe. All the energy he carried swept out with him and emptied her body of the adrenaline rush she rode. It had been a brief conversation, but her legs shook and her hands trembled.

A zing of awareness jolted up her spine. Spinning, she leaned out the door and shouted, “Stone!”

He paused, one foot on the dock to her hut and the other on his cursed isle. “Pardon?”

“You said some call you Cloch Rí. I shall call you Stone until you give me your true name.”

“You think I’ll ever give you that kind of power over me?” His voice wavered with humor.

“I would bet my life on it, Stone.”

“I look forward to your attempts, Sunshine.”

She hoped he smiled, although it seemed unlikely a man such as him knew how to twist his lips in happiness. There was a certain pleasure to making a man smile. She had forgotten what this was like. The courtship, the laughter, the teasing, everything that made butterflies take flight in her belly.

He started up the hill that led to his castle. The moon rose behind the imperious structure, silhouetting the jagged spires and crumbling peaks. It was a ruin, a relic of a time long ago when this isle might have been a sight to behold.

There was something hauntingly beautiful about this place. The emerald hills glimmered with dew in the silver moonlight. Fireflies danced above the wheat fields looking like magic kissing the land. And its king, the disfigured monster of a man, outlined as a shadow striding across his domain.

“You’re being fanciful,” she said. “Stop it, Sorcha. Go to bed.”

She couldn’t. She stayed where she was, pressed against the doorframe, watching him walk away from her.