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Beneath my touch, he shivers. His wings stretch in response, the fine veins of them clearly visible even here in the dim lighting.

“I always assumed fairies had butterfly wings,” I admit.

“You’re not wrong,” Des says, his back still to me. “Mine are particularly rare.”

He turns long enough to wrap his arms around my waist and pull me back to the soft pallet, his hands then drifting down to cup my ass. This, naturally, makes my skin come to life as the siren wakes up.

Des’s expression, of course, is one of complete innocence.

I give him a look that says,I’m onto you.

His eyes crinkle, and he laughs. “So suspicious of my motives. It’s like you think I’m just trying to get into your pants.”

As if he’s not. He’s a slippery fucker. “You say that as though you didn’t literally strip me of my pants five minutes ago,” I say.

“I think it was alittlemore than five minutes ago.”

I barely manage not to roll my eyes. Apparently, human or fairy, men’s egos are still very much the same.

Des spreads his body out next to mine, his hand lingering on the dip where my waist is. The warm, humid air of the place caresses my skin and curls my hair.

Propping myself up, I reach out and continue to trace what I can of Des’s wings.

“So all fairies have insect wings but you?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Most do, but not all,” he says, running his hand up my waist and over my rib cage. “There are other wing types too. Some fairies have avian wings like yours.”

“Why are yours different?” I ask.

He stares off into the distance, his thumb absently stroking my skin, drawing out goose bumps. “Some say my line’s descended from dragons,” he murmurs, the candlelight dancing over his body. “Others say we come from demons.”

Dragons? Demons?Damn.

I’m not going to pretend I understand how fairy lineages work.

“I always thought they looked like bat wings,” I admit.

“Batwings?” Des raises his eyebrows, his gaze refocusing on me.

I’m pretty sure I’ve offended him once again, but then he throws his head back and lets out a laugh.

“My family history is long and lurid, but I can safely say it did not involve bats.”

I think about Des’s mother, the scribe, telling a small boy with white hair all sorts of stories—and among them, tales of his heritage.

I smile a little at the thought. I can’t imagine being told dragons existed…and that I might be descended from one of them.

“What is it?” Des asks, touching a finger to my lower lip like he wants to steal my smile for himself.

I shake my head. “I’m just imagining you as a boy listening to stories from your mother about your ancestors.”

Immediately, Des’s expression loses its lighthearted playfulness.

I’ve said the wrong thing, I know it. I expect him to pull away and run like all those times he used to. I’m steeling my heart against the possibility.

But he doesn’t run, he doesn’t leave.

He simply says, “The stories are from my father’s side of the family.”