He rolled her back over so she was being held in his arms again. “It. Will. Fade.”
She whispered, “I don’t believe you.”
“We were starved. It’s—”
“Starved? We?” she asked.
He told her what he was, what Niall was, what Aislinn and Keenan were. He told her they weren’t human, not any of them.
Seth was telling the truth. She’d known somehow, somewhere, but hearing it said again, hearing it confirmed was horrible. I am angry. I am afraid. I am… She wasn’t, though, not any of those things.
Irial kept talking. He told her that there were courts and that his—the Dark Court—lived on emotions. He told her that through her he would nourish them, that she was their salvation, that she was his salvation. He told her things that should terrify her, and every time she felt close to afraid or angry he drank it away.
“So you’re what in this faery court?”
“In charge. Just as Aislinn and Keenan are for the Summer Court.” There was no arrogance in his statement. In fact, he sounded weary.
“Am I”—she felt foolish, but she wanted to know, had to ask—“human still?”
He nodded.
“So, what does this mean? What am I then?”
“Mine.” He kissed her to emphasize his point and then repeated, “Mine. You are mine.”
“Which means what?”
He looked perplexed by that one. “That whatever you want is yours?”
“What if I want to leave? To see Niall?”
“I doubt that he’ll be coming to see us, but you can go to him if you want.” Irial rolled on top of her again as he said it. “As soon as you’re able, you can walk out the door anytime you please. We’ll look after you, keep you protected, but you can always leave when you want to and are able to.”
But she didn’t. She didn’t want to, and she wasn’t able. He wasn’t lying: she believed that, tasted it, felt it in his words, but she also knew that whatever he’d done to her made her not want to be anywhere other than with him. For a brief moment, she felt terror at that realization, but it fled, replaced by a craving that made her sink her fingernails into Irial’s skin and pull him closer—again and again, and still she was nearly shaking with need.
When Gabriel walked in, Leslie was dressed. She wasn’t sure how the clothes had ended up on her, but it didn’t matter. She was sitting up and covered. There was an apple in her hand.
“Remember to eat now.” Irial stroked her hair back from her face, gentle like his voice.
She nodded. There were words she was to say, but they were gone before she could remember what they were.
“Troubles?” Irial asked Gabriel. Somehow Irial was at a desk far away from her.
She searched for the apple she’d been holding. It was gone. She looked down: her clothes were different. She had on a robe; red flowers and swirling blue lines covered it. She tried to follow them with her finger, tracing the pattern.
“The car’s here.” Gabriel had her hand and was helping her to her feet.
Her skirt became tangled around her ankles.
She stumbled forward and was folded into Irial’s arms as they went into the club. The glare of lights made her hide her face against his shirt.
“You’re doing fine,” he told her as he combed out her hair, stroking his fingers through it, untangling it.
“It’s been a long day,” she murmured as she swayed under his caresses. She closed her eyes and asked, “The second day will be better, right?”
“It’s been a week, love.” He pulled the covers up over her. “You’re doing much better already.”
She listened to them laugh, the strange people—faeries—with Gabriel. They told her stories, amused her while Irial talked to a faery with raven feathers for hair. She was lovely, the raven-woman, Bananach. They all were. Leslie stopped staring at Bananach, trying to focus instead on the Vilas that danced with whichever of the Hounds beckoned, swaying through the shadows in the rooms like they felt the touch of shadows as Leslie did—like teasing hands, promising bliss that was too intense to allow for speech.