Wicked Lovely (Wicked Lovely 1)

The cub bowed—his mane bristling when another faery tried to step closer—and went in search of her drink, not slowing for the fey clustered around him, becoming lost in the throng of dancing faeries.

From the edge of the dance floor, Tavish and Niall watched openly, using the guards to form a barricade of sorts to keep the girls farther away. They rarely had sense about what should and shouldn’t be said. Tonight they were almost impossible to deal with, believing their queen was finally among them.

“I’m done staring,” he murmured, but he wasn’t. He didn’t think he ever would be if she dressed like that very often. She had on some sort of vinyl pants and a very old-fashioned blouse that laced up with a red velvet ribbon. If he tugged that ribbon, he was fairly certain the whole thing would come undone.

“Do you want to dance before we talk?” His arms almost ached to hold her, to dance as they had at the faire, to swirl in the fey—our fey.

“With you? Not likely.” She sounded like she was laughing at him, but her bravado was forced.

“Everyone is staring.” Staring at both of us. He needed to assert himself or the fey would think him weak, subservient to her. “Everyone but you.”

So he dropped his glamour, letting all the sunlight he carried

illuminate him, making himself shine like a beacon in the dim light of the club. It was one thing for a mortal to see a faery; it was another to sit before a fey monarch.

Aislinn’s eyes widened; her breath caught on a gasp.

Leaning forward across the table, Keenan darted a hand out to grab one of her tightly clenched hands.

In a move too fast for mortal eyes to see, Aislinn yanked away—then scowled down at her hand, as if she could quell the reminder of how changed she already was.

Then the cub Aislinn had sent for refreshments was back, holding a tray of drinks; three of his pride followed him, each carrying a tray of the sugary mortal snacks the fey preferred.

With a friendliness she denied feeling for the fey, Aislinn smiled at them. “That was quick.”

They stood straighter, tawny manes puffed in pleasure.

“For you we’ll do anything, my lady,” the eldest one answered in that gravel voice the cubs all had.

“Thank”—she caught herself before she said those uncomfortable mortal words—“I mean, it’s kind of you.”

Keenan smiled as he watched her. Maybe her changing attitude was a result of her own changing body; maybe it was a product of her inevitable acceptance of the fey. He didn’t care, though, as long as she was smiling at their faeries.

But when she glanced away from the cubs—compelled to look at his glowing face—she stopped smiling. Her pulse beat in her throat like a trapped thing. Her gaze skittered away from him; she swallowed several times.

It isn’t the cubs that make her blood race, that make her face flush. It’s me. Us.

The cubs sat their trays on the table: ice cream, cakes, and coffees; desserts from local bakeries and sweet drinks with no alcohol in them. They snarled at each other as they pointed out delicacies.

“Try this.”

“No, this.”

“She’ll like this better.”

Finally Tavish came over to the table with one of the guards to remove them. “Go away.”

Aislinn watched silently. Then, with visible decisiveness, she turned back to Keenan. “So let’s talk about your little game. Maybe there’s an answer we can find that’ll let us both get back to our lives.”

“You are my life now. This”—he waved a hand dismissively around him at the club—“the fey, everything, it all falls into place once you accept me.”

None of it mattered without her beside him. If she says no, they all die.

He whispered, “I need you.”

Aislinn clenched her fists. This wasn’t working. How was she to reason with him when he sat there shining like a celestial object? He wasn’t threatening her, wasn’t doing anything but tell her things that should sound sweet.

Is it so awful? She wavered as he looked at her so intently—seeming for all the world like he was a good person.