Excerpt

At that, Irial slid the pocket doors open and returned to Thelma. He took off his vest and unfastened the top half of his shirt buttons.

Thelma sat upright, gaze immediately going to the expanse of bare skin he'd just revealed. It wasn't unexpected, but it still made him preen. He was a little vain after all.

"Are we still pretending?" Irial asked.

The lovely mortal girl blinked up at him. "What? Pretending?"

He smiled. "I see how you watch me, Thelma."

"You're different," she hedged.

He crouched on the edge of the chair where she was curled as if it were a nest she needed to guard. "I'm going to have to handle a bit of business."

Thelma tensed at his words and stared again at his bared skin. "Business that requires fewer articles of clothing?"

"Jealous, poppet?"

"I am not your pop—"

"Of course, you aren't." Irial sighed. "But I need to appear a certain way to send that other faery away."

"He found me?"

"No. He's here to harass me." Irial traced her jawline. "If he thinks I am anything but a debauched sop, he'll be suspicious. It would be best if he has no reason to be suspicious. It would create problems for us, if I had to answer his questions. Do you understand?"

"You're lying?" Thelma asked, gaze again falling to his bare skin.

"I can't lie," he reminded her. "But I can distract or dissemble, can't I?"

"Yes . . ."

With a grin, he pulled at his shirt so it gaped wider. "Do I seem distracting?"

Thelma glanced away with a gasp.

"I like that you look at me, Thelma." He caught her chin and turned her back to face him. "And I like that you think wicked thoughts when you look at me."

"You're a faery. It's just because of that. Surely." She folded her arms over her chest. "I've always thought the fey attractive."

He'd certainly seen mortals become faery-struck. Some of his kind were made for it, in fact. He had been a gancanagh—more addictive than any mortal drug—before he'd become the Dark King. "Do you stare at all of us like this?"

"Maybe." This time Thelma didn't glance away, but the smile she offered up belied the claim.

"Oh?"

Thelma sighed. "I suppose I shouldn't lie to you if you can't lie to me. I think your kind beautiful often, but I feel like . . . you are impossible to ignore. I risked my life coming here, knowing what I know of your kind, but . . . you feel different to me."

"I believe we have important matters to discuss, lovely Thelma," he said, leaning closer in awareness that the movement put his bared skin directly in her view again. "Yes?"

Her breathing grew heavier. "I'm not quite sure what I'd be agreeing to if I repeat that word, so . . . no."

"No for now?"

"No for now," Thelma echoed.

"But I need to make a statement, pretty. I need only a kiss." He stood and pulled her to her feet. "One kiss, and then you shall vanish through the doors there"—he nodded toward the doors on the far side of the room—"swept away to safety. Someone will see you to your room while I tend to business."

He could hear her pulse racing faster now, and it made his body sing. Mortals were so much more fun, more intensely so, than most fey. A touch, an offer, and they positively vibrated with need.

"I gave you a vow to protect you," he reminded her. "And there are dangers in the city for you. Dangers worse than any horrible thing you've heard of our kind."

"Me specifically?"

"You will stay the night, and after that we will discuss." Irial wanted to have her look at him in longing, and telling her about her fate would make that impossible. "Now, however, I need that kiss."

Her lips parted.

"Nothing that will compromise your virtue," he whispered as he guided one arm to his neck. "Yet."

As her arms twined around his neck, Irial slipped one arm around her low back.

"Irial . . ."

Encouraged by the longing in her voice, he kissed her throat.

Her jaw. Her already eager lips.

When he pulled back, he was rewarded by the undisguised desire in Thelma's expression.

"Was that the kiss you needed?"

"If I say yes, you might stop," he teased.

She slid one hand upward from where it had rested on the back of his neck, pulled him to her, and clumsily kissed him.

There was no doubt that this was new to her, no way to call her affection practiced, but it was still intoxicating. After a moment, he kissed her back, careful not to discourage her exploration but taking control and then relinquishing it. Several minutes passed, and Irial rejoiced at the way Thelma wrapped her arms tighter around him, pressing her body tighter to his so they were sealed together from hip to chest. His hand twisted into her hair as they kissed, and for a moment, he couldn't recall why he needed to do anything other than carry her to his room.

"Consequences be damned," he swore when she finally pulled back.

Her hair was mussed, and the shadows in the room surged toward them both.

"Give me your vow that you won't turn me over to those other faeries," Thelma asked.

Irial grinned. "If there ever was a mortal not meant for any other faery court, I think it would be you." He stroked her hair. "I will amend my vow to say that I will do all I can to keep you safe, Thelma, as long as it doesn't overly endanger my subjects."

She blinked at him. "Your . . ."

"Subjects, love. I'm the king of this court," he clarified as gently as he could.

Her eyes widened.

"You're mine," he said.

And of course, that's when Gabriel slid the doors open. Irial glanced over his shoulder at the intrusion. Behind the Hound was Niall, who in his usual way was surely misinterpreting what was happening here. It was a gift of sorts, the way Niall could misread everything to make Irial seem worse than he was.