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I reach out and run a hand down his sleeve of tattoos, my finger lingering over the tears inked onto his skin. “I do too.”

For several seconds, the only sound is the spray of water filling the tub we stand in. Then, out of the near silence, Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” comes on, the song flooding the room.

As I look around for the phantom speakers that must be playing the music, I catch sight of a polished wood tray resting to the side of the tub. On it sits a steaming mug of coffee, an espresso (in an impossibly small cup), and a plate of macarons. It’s our usual order from Douglas Café.

And for whatever reason, that does me in.

I take a shaky breath and laugh, though it comes out more like a sob. “Stop it,” I say, my voice soft and rough all at the same time.

But rather than stopping, Des pulls me in close, his pretty, pretty muscles pressed against my soft curves.

He leans in, his lips a hairbreadth from mine. “Never.”

Chapter 5

Des is a romantic.

Ugh.

That’s so not what my heart needed. It’s not like there’s any turning back at this point, but still. It wounds my ego a little to know how easily I can be done in by a few thoughtful gestures.

Close to an hour after the two of us get in the tub, I step out of it, my stomach full of macarons and coffee as I dry myself. I watch Des—wings and all—as he saunters out of the room, a towel wrapped low around his waist.

Once he gets to the far side of the bed, his towel drops to the ground, and holy virgins and saints, that backside iseverything.

I wrap my own towel the best I can around myself, accidently plucking a few of my feathers in the process, my eyes fixed on the Bargainer. I am absolutely creeping on this man right now, and I have zero regrets.

He glances over his shoulder at me, his pale hair slicked back. I should be embarrassed that he caught me blatantly ogling him, but his own expression heats at whatever he sees in mine.

We still haven’t done anything together—naked espresso drinking and macaron eating aside—and the need to rectify that situation is growing.

I wring out my hair as I pad into his bedroom, the hanging lanterns above us glowing softly.

I’m about to head to the fancy armoire already stocked with a million fae outfits for me when Des reaches into a dresser drawer near the bed and tosses me a piece of black clothing. I catch it, the material soft beneath my fingertips.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“A consolation prize. It’s the next best thing to earth I can give you.”

I furrow my brows.

He nods to the garment in my hand, and reluctantly I tear my gaze from his to shake the faded material open.

A huge grin spreads across my face when I see the giant lips and tongue printed across the faded T-shirt. It’s one of Des’s vintage Rolling Stones shirts.

“That’s on loan to you,” he says.

“Onloan?” I say, raising my eyebrows.

Des steps into a loose pair of pants. “Just because I love you doesn’t mean I’m going to give you one of my most prized possessions.”

He just made it official: I now fully intend to keep this shirt.

Taking my cue from Des, I let my towel drop to the ground and drag the shirt over my shoulders. My light mood wipes away the moment the hem of the shirt grazes my wings.

I forgot all about them. Now that I have wings, I can’t just pull clothing over my shoulders.

Before I can consider throwing myself a pity party, the T-shirt’s soft material, which was bunched above my wing joints, now slips down my back as if there were no obstacle in the way, the hem of the shirt falling to midthigh.