Freed (Imprisoned by the Fae 3)

It’s obvious. He expects me to choose Jim. Hell, he made the choice for me.

Only I’m not so sure that I would. I mean, I should… but if it comes down to Jim and Rys—

I think I would choose Rys. And what does that say about me?

“But Siúcra—” I try.

“Siúcra took your home. It took Rysdan’s ffrindau. The sacrifice is complete. But…” He looks around the room before his golden gaze lands on me again. “You’re still here, Elle.”

I am, aren’t I?

But for how much longer?

2

I lose myself in my art.

It’s all I can do. I finally convince Saxon that he can leave, though I know he only left because he decided that he wanted to go. I doubted that he actually left Rys’s house—if he said he would stay, his word would hold him to it—but I’m alone. That’s good enough for now.

At least, I thought so. Within a few minutes, I realize that I might be the only person in this room, but Saxon left me behind with my racing thoughts. There’s so much that I didn’t know about Rys that I know now, and I can’t help but wonder why Saxon shared all of that with me. Did Rys tell him to? Or did Saxon decide to interfere?

I don’t know.

Does it matter?

Probably.

Oh, well.

Because I need something to focus on that isn’t the shitshow my life has suddenly become, I prep my easel. It’s a work of art in and of itself. Handmade, carved and shaped and built into the familiar shape, it’s the perfect height for me. I take one of the empty canvases that Rys gave me, set out my paints, and just create.

Painting has always been one of the only things that keeps me grounded. Back home, I worked the same retail job that I’ve had since I was in high school. I had the same boyfriend for just as long. Both of them were comfortable, and I guess I stuck with the “same”-ness because there wasn’t any reason to chang

e it. Only in my art—and my other creative outlets, like the way I decorate my nails and color my hair—do I ever really experiment and try anything new.

While I look at the blank canvas, imagining what I want to paint, I have this urge to work with something familiar. Though it doesn’t take a shrink to figure out why, I start sketching out my memory of home. Specifically, the view from my apartment’s balcony.

The line of taxis filling the street. Faceless people filing down the stretch of blocks. My favorite deli. The corner store where I would buy a scratchie every now and then, my impulsive nature insisting that, this time, maybe it’ll be a big winner. Of course, Jim always sighed and told me I’d be better off flushing money down the toilet…

I shake my head, and reach for the next jar of paint I want to add to my palette.

I don’t know how long I’m standing in front of the easel. Hours? Probably. That’s how I get when I’m starting a new project. The rest of the world just melts away, which is probably why I reached for a blank canvas instead of one of my WIPs. I needed the distraction.

Yeah. Distraction’s definitely the word for it. So consumed by the scene taking shape in front of me, I don’t even notice that Rys has slipped into my room, taking up position a few steps behind me until he finally clears his throat.

Good thing he waited until I’d moved back from the canvas otherwise I might’ve left a streak of white paint across the painting. That’s how high I jumped when I realized that he’d snuck in and had been watching me.

Because he had been.

I whirl on him. He looks cozy. Content. The way he’s changed back into the sort of clothes he wears when he doesn’t plan on leaving the manor again is a clear sign that he’s letting down as much of his guard as possible. Though his jaw is pretty tight, his scar stretched more than usual, his body is relaxed as he leans up against one corner of my bed. Like me, his feet are bare. He has one crossed over the other, his arms folded loosely over his chest.

I don’t say anything right off. Not while my heart is beating a mile a minute, and I’m kind of dazzled at him appearing right behind me without me catching on. Rys can do that to me. He’s so fucking gorgeous that, when I’m not expecting him, he just about takes my breath away.

Finally, when I’m sure that I’ll be able to speak without it coming out like a croak, I manage a quick, “Hey.”

His eyes flicker toward the easel. “Do you miss it, Leannán?”

I know he doesn’t mean painting. I confided in him once that, of everything I left behind me, it was my art supplies I missed the most. At the time, I wasn’t being completely honest. There were so many things I missed. Jim was one of them. Our apartment. Our life in the city. My parents in Florida. Even my nagging co-workers who couldn’t understand why, after ten years, I still wasn’t engaged yet.