His curious glance steals the rest of the words from me. The corner of his mouth quirks. “What?”
You’re such a coward.
“Nothing,” I mumble.
“Then try again.”
Much later, while I’m lying in bed, he continues the conversation as if it were never interrupted.
“I could join you, if you want.”
He says it so quietly I wonder if he waited until this moment, when I’m caught between the haze of dreams and wakefulness, to offer.
I lift my head from the pillow to watch as he skims off his wool slacks. There was another meeting of the Unseelie tonight, something official that required him to write a speech and make a bunch of calls to his mother. He didn’t volunteer what it was about and I didn’t ask. But I guess that even though he was busy today, he was still thinking about my problem.
“You’ve got responsibilities,” I say, collecting my scattered thoughts. “You can’t afford to take time off.”
He loosens his tie and his long fingers pop the buttons of his shirt. “I’m offering, Smith.”
This feels like more than something a friend would do. Roark’s help would require him to meet my parents. It would require us to put a name to whatever the hell we are now. He’s not impulsive, so I’m sure he’s thought about the magnitude of his offer, but...
But since our first night together, we’ve been careful to never discuss the what-ifs. Our history—let alone any future we might cautiously and privately consider—is too complicated.
I want to accept and thank him. Explain how much this means to me, how it makes the hard-edged worry that bites into my ribs when I think about home too much seem smaller. “You don’t need to do that,” I say instead.
He gives a low grunt and finishes stripping, dropping the rest of his clothes to the floor. I pull my cheap comforter back so he can crawl into my narrow bed.
“It’s important, right?”
I shift, making room for him to tuck his head under my chin. “Yeah,” I admit. I trust him with that. I’m not quite willing to hand over all the details yet, but sharing this much is...safe. Strange how that’s changed.
“Then I’ll be there. I promise.”
His statement buzzes over my skin and I wonder if there’s some hint of magick in those two words. He falls asleep before I can ask what prompted the offer. I lie there, watching the stars blink through my window, until sleep pulls me under into familiar, distorted dreams.
* * *
It’s only a matter of time until the shit hits the fan. In the back of my mind, I know that. The relative peace had to end sometime.
Still, walking into the apartment to discover Robin Goodfellow hovering over our table, eating microwave popcorn, is unnerving.
“Prince Lyne,” he says, spewing tiny chunks of food all over, “your mother sent me.”
Roark’s immediate reaction pushes the situation from unnerving to treacherous. His eyes never leave Goodfellow, even when he takes a step away from me and forces physical distance between us. The past few days when we’ve walked together on campus, even when we’re around other fae, he doesn’t seem to care that we stay so close we sometimes bump into each other by accident. Goodfellow’s appearance makes Roark wary, which makes me wonder if it would be easier to kill the intruder right now.
“Ah, the messenger,” Roark drawls. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Queen Mab requests your presence in the sídhe,” Goodfellow says.
He’s skinny, all gangly limbs and long, knobby fingers. His dark hair is long, tousled, and curls over his forehead and the tops of his ears. His most striking feature is the shadowed stubble over his jaw. I’ve never seen a faerie with it before.
Roark is the picture of royal indifference. “I assume your visit here means that I’m expected sooner rather than later.”
; “Yes, Your Highness.”
Roark nods and heads toward his room. His exit leaves me standing awkwardly in the living room with the still-floating interloper. The faerie examines me with an aseptic gaze and the ley line snarls at his perusal.