Touch (Touched by the Fae 3)

He steps back.

Come on, Nine.

I know exactly what this is, too. My poor Nine. It’s like when he had to use touch magic to reverse the effects of eating the faerie fruit while erasing Rys’s brand from my skin. It felt so good, I begged him to do it again, and he told me that it was simply the touch talking. That, in my right mind, I would never want to feel his skin on mine.

He’s doubting himself. He doesn’t think that I really want him.

And maybe that’s my fault, too. I certainly haven’t been giving him any “go” signs since he’s been back.

That changes now.

“I’ve got a question.” I inch closer to him. I smile, part seductive, part reassuring—and, won’t you know, this time, Nine stays put. “That alright?”

He gulps, his voice gone unusually hoarse as he rasps out, “Ask it.”

“Is there any way for you to touch me without you stealing part of my soul or you burning yourself? A way we can both feel good?”

He shudders out a breath. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

Yes. I do.

Because, thanks to Callie—my matchmaking mother—I kind of already know the answer.

“Answer me. Please.”

“Once there’s nothing left to take. Once I own every part of you. Once I claim you for my own, and you take me in return. Once I brand you as mine and you just say yes.”

That’s… what I thought.

It’s like that fateful day in Faerie. When he stood up and told Melisandre’s entire throne room full of fae that I was meant to be his. He took my hand, then took my kiss, and it was different than any other fae-touch I’d ever experienced.

He hasn’t touched me since. Is it because he’s waiting for that last touch?

Only one way to find out.

He might be good with waiting. Not me.

I’ve waited long enough.

I snag Nine by the hand. It feels… natural, almost. Like we fit.

Sure, there’s that heartbeat where I ask myself what the hell do you think you’re doing, but I’ll probably always have that immediate reaction. If six years of therapy at Black Pine didn’t help me when it came to my haphephobia, I’m probably a lost cause. That’s okay, though. I don’t want to touch anyone but my Shadow Man.

His fingers curve around mine. He strokes the side of my glove as if getting a feel for the leather.

And that’s when I realize that he’s probably never seen me without the protective layer since the fire.

Rys did. In the dream that wasn’t a dream, the Light Fae used his charm and his magic to remove my gloves. It was one more reason why I’d believed that none of that strange dance was real—I’m never without my gloves. Of course, it was a trick. Just another way to steal a touch. Still, he saw them.

Suddenly, I have the urge to share them with Nine.

He claimed me. Verbally, at least. In front of the whole Seelie Court, he told the Fae Queen that we were meant to be. Well, if I’m going to give him everything—my heart, my soul, my touch—I want to make sure he knows exactly what he’s getting.

Slowly, as if I’m performing the most seductive striptease (and, for me, it is), I loosen the leather that wraps my thumb before tugging on the other four fingers. Once it’s free enough, I shimmy off the glove, then toss it to the floor. With Nine’s attention firmly on what I’m doing, I do the same for the second hand.

They’re not as bad as they were six years ago before all of the skin grafts, the autografts, the surgeries. Raw skin, new skin and molded into something that’s uniquely mine, with scars and patches and ruined fingers that remind me just how dangerous the fae can be.

But not Nine. Never Nine.